that had helped for a week or more, a week in which they were all given a spiritual
lift-by the knowledge, as he had been. Then it had worn off, the reaction had set
in, and the psychological observers had started disqualifying engineers for duty
almost daily. They were even reporting each other as mentally unstable with great
frequency; he might even be faced with a shortage of psychiatrists if that kept up,
he thought to himself with bitter amusement. His engineers were already standing
four-hours in every sixteen. If one more dropped out, he’d put himself on watch.
That would be a relief, to tell himself the truth.
Somehow some of the civilians around about and the non-technical employees
were catching on to the secret.
That mustn’t go on-if it spread any further there might be a nationwide
panic. But how the hell could he stop it? He couldn’t.
He turned over in bed, rearranged his pillow, and tried once more to get to
sleep. No good. His head ached, his eyes were balls of pain, and his brain was a
ceaseless grind of useless, repetitive activity, like a disc recording stuck in one
groove.
God! This was unbearable! He wondered if he were cracking up if he already
had cracked up. This was worse, many times worse, than the old routine when he had
simply acknowledged the danger and tried to forget it as much as possible. Not that
the pile was any different-it was this five-minutes-to-armistice feeling, this
waiting for the curtain to go up, this race against time with nothing to do to help.
He sat up, switched on his bed lamp, and looked at the clock. Three-thirty. Not so
good. He got up, went into his bathroom, and dissolved a sleeping powder in a glass
of whisky and water, half and half. He gulped it down and went back to bed.
Presently he dozed off.
He was running, fleeing down a long corridor. At the end lay safety he knew
that, but he was so utterly exhausted that he doubted his ability to finish the
race. The thing pursuing him was catching up; he forced his leaden, aching legs into
greater activity. The thing behind him increased its pace, and actually touched him.
His heart stopped, then pounded again. He became aware that he was screaming,
shrieking in mortal terror. But he had to reach the end of that corridor, more
depended on it than just himself. He had to. He had to- He had to! Then the flash
came and he realized that he had lost, realized it with utter despair and utter,
bitter defeat. He had failed; the pile had blown up.
The flash was his bed lamp coming on automatically; it was seven o’clock.
His pajamas were soaked, chipping with sweat, and his heart still pounded. Every
ragged nerve throughout his body screamed for release. It would take more than a
cold shower to cure this case of the shakes.
He got to the office before the janitor was out of it. He sat there, doing
nothing, until Lentz walked in on him, two hours later. The psychiatrist came in
just as he was taking two small tablets from a box in his desk.
“Easy … easy, old man,” Lentz said in a slow voice. “What have you there?”
He came around and gently took possession of the box.
“Just a sedative.”
Lentz studied the inscription on the cover. “How many have you had today?”
“Just two, so far.”
“You don’t need barbiturates; you need a walk in the fresh air. Come take
one with me.”
“You’re a fine one to talk you’re smoking a cigarette that isn’t lighted!”
“Me? Why, so I am! We both need that walk. Come.”
Harper arrived less than ten minutes after they had left the office. Steinke
was not in the outer office. He walked on through and pounded on the door of King’s
private office, then waited with the man who accompanied him a hard young chap with
an easy confidence to his bearing. Steinke let them in.
Harper brushed on past him with a casual greeting, then checked himself when
he saw that there was no one else inside.