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.
“Where’s the chief?” he demanded.
“Out. He’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll wait. Oh-Steinke, this is Greene. Greene Steinke.”
The two shook hands. “What brings you back, Cal?” Steinke asked, turning back to Harper.
‘Well.. . I guess it’s all right to tell you-”
The communicator screen flashed into sudden activity, and cut him short. A face filled most of the frame. It was apparently too close to the pickup, as it was badly out of focus. “Superintendent!” it yelled in an agonized voice. “The pile-!”
A shadow flashed across the screen, they heard a dull “Smack!”, and the face slid out of the screen. As it fell it revealed the control room behind it. Someone was down on the floor plates, a nameless heap. Another figure ran across the field of pickup and disappeared.
Harper snapped into action first. “That was Silard!” he shouted, “-in the control room! Come on, Steinke!” He was already in motion himself.
Steinke went dead white, but hesitated only an unmeasurable instant. He pounded sharp on Harper’s heels. Greene followed without invitation, in a steady run that kept easy pace with them.
They had to wait for a capsule to unload at the tube station. Then all three of them tried to crowd into a two passenger capsule. It refused to start and moments were lost before Greene piled out and claimed another car.
The four minute trip at heavy acceleration seemed an interminable crawl. Harper was convinced that the system had broken down, when the familiar click and sigh announced their arrival at the station under the plant. They jammed each other trying to get out at the same time.
The lift was up; they did not wait for it. That was unwise; they gained no time by it, and arrived at the control level out of breath. Nevertheless, they speeded up when they reached the top, zigzagged frantically around the outer shield, and burst into the control room.