Sixth Column — Robert A. Heinlein — (1949)
Sixth Column — Robert A. Heinlein — (1949)
For John S. Arvvine
CHAPTER ONE
“What the hell goes on here?” Whitey Ardmore demanded.
They ignored his remark as they had ignored his arrival. The man at the television receiver said, “Shut up. We’re listening,” and turned up the volume. The announcer’s voice blared out: ” — Washington destroyed completely before the government could escape. With Manhattan in ruins, that leaves no — ”
There was a click as the receiver was turned off. “That’s that,” said the man near it. “The United States is washed up.” Then he added,
“Anybody got a cigarette?”
Getting no answer, he pushed his way out of the small circle gathered around the receiver and felt through the pockets of a dozen figures collapsed by a table. It was not too easy, as rigor mortis had set in, but he finally located a half-empty pack, from which he removed a cigarette and lighted it.
“Somebody answer me!” commanded Ardmore. “What’s happened here?”
The man with the cigarette looked him over for the first time. “Who are you?”
“Ardmore, major, intelligence. Who are you?”
“Calhoun, colonel in research.”
“Very well, Colonel — I have an urgent message for your commanding officer. Will you please have someone tell him that I am here and see to it that I am taken to him?” He spoke with poorly controlled exasperation.
Calhoun shook his head. “Can’t do it. He’s dead.” He seemed to derive some sort of twisted pleasure from the announcement.
“Huh?”
“That’s right — dead. They’re all dead, all the rest. You see before you, my dear Major, all that are left of the personnel of the Citadel — perhaps I should say of the emergency research laboratory, department of defense, this being in the nature of an official report.” He smiled with half his face, while his eye took in the handful of living men in the room.
Ardmore took a moment to comprehend the statement, then inquired, “The PanAsians?”
“No. No, not the PanAsians. So far as I know, the enemy does not suspect the existence of the Citadel. No, we did it ourselves — an experiment that worked too well. Dr. Ledbetter was engaged in research in an attempt to discover a means of — ”
“Never mind that, Colonel. Whom does command revert to? I’ve got to carry out my orders. ”
“Command? Military command? Good Lord, man, we haven’t had time to think about that yet. Wait a moment.”
His eye roved around the room, counting noses. “Hm-m-m — I’m senior to everyone here-and they are all here. I suppose that makes me commanding officer.”
“No line officers present?”
“No. All special commissions. That leaves me it. Go ahead with your report.”
Ardmore looked about at the faces of the half a dozen men in the room.
They were following the conversation with apathetic interest. Ardmore worried to himself before replying over how to phrase the message. The situation had changed; perhaps he should not deliver it at all.
“I was ordered,” he said, picking his words, “to inform your general that he was released from superior command. He was to operate independently and prosecute the war against the invader according to his own judgment. You see,” he went on, “when I left Washington twelve hours ago we knew they had us. This concentration of brain power in the Citadel was about the only remaining possible military asset.”
Calhoun nodded. “I see. A defunct government sends orders to a defunct laboratory. Zero plus zero equals zero. It’s all very funny if one only knew when to laugh.”
“Colonel!”
“Yes?”
“They are your orders now. What do you propose to do with them?”
“Do with them? What the hell is there to do? Six men against four hundred million. I suppose,” he added “to make everything nice and tidy for the military mind I should write out a discharge from the United States army for everybody left and kiss ’em good-by. I don’t know where that leaves me — harakiri, perhaps. Maybe you don’t get it. This is all the United States there is left. And it’s left because the PanAsians haven’t found it.”