The Old Man looked tired and I felt tired. I wondered how many ordinary people were taking it seriously, if this was what we ran into at the top.
Finally the Old Man replied, “Control the communications of a country and you control the country; that’s elementary. You had better take fast steps, Mister Secretary, or you won’t have any communications left.”
“But I was merely—”
“You root ’em out!” the Old Man said rudely. “I’ve told you they are in Iowa—and in New Orleans, and a dozen other spots. My job is finished. You are Secretary of Security; you root ’em out.” He stood up and said, “Mister President, I’ve had a long pull for a man my age; when I lose sleep I lose my temper. Could I be excused?”
“Certainly, Andrew.” He had not lost his temper and I think the President knew it. He doesn’t lose his temper; he makes other people lose theirs.
Before the Old Man could say goodnight. Secretary Martinez interrupted. “Wait a moment! You’ve made some flat-footed statements. Let’s check up on them.” He turned to the Chief of Staff. “Rexton!”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“That new post near Des Moines, Fort something-or-other, named after what’s-his-name?”
“Fort Patton.”
“That’s it, that’s it. Well, let’s not dally; get them on the command circuit—”
“With visual,” put in the Old Man.
“With visual, of course, and we’ll show this—I mean we’ll get the true situation in Iowa.”
The Air Marshal handed a by-your-leave-sir to the President, went to the stereo tank and patched in with Security General Headquarters. He asked for the officer of the watch at Fort Patton, Iowa.
Shortly thereafter the stereo tank showed the inside of a military communications center. Filling the foreground was a young officer. His rank and corps showed on his cap, but his chest was bare. Martinez turned triumphantly to the Old Man. “You see?”
“I see.”
“Now to make certain. Lieutenant!”
“Yes, sir!” The young fellow looked awestruck and kept glancing from one famous face to another. Reception and bi-angle were in synch; the eyes of the image looked where they seemed to look, as if he were actually sitting in the receiver tank.
“Stand up and turn around,” Martinez continued.
“Uh? Why, certainly, sir.” He seemed puzzled, but he did so—and it took him almost out of scan. We could see his bare back, up to about the short ribs—no higher.
“Confound it!” shouted Martinez. “Sit down and turn around.”
“Yessir!” The youth seemed flustered. He leaned over the desk and added, “Just a moment while I widen the view angle, sir.”
The picture suddenly melted and rippling rainbows chased across the tank. The young officer’s voice was still coming over the audio channel. “There—is that better, sir?”
“Damn it, we can’t see a thing!”
“You can’t? Just a moment, sir.”
We could hear him breathing heavily. Suddenly the tank came to life and I thought for a moment that we were back at Fort Patton. But it was a major on the screen this time and the place looked larger. “Supreme Headquarters,” the image announced, “Communications officer of the watch. Major Donovan.”
“Major,” Martinez said in controlled tones, “I was hooked in with Fort Patton. What happened?”
“Yes, sir; I was monitoring it. We’ve had a slight technical difficulty on that channel. We’ll put your call through again in a moment.”
“Well, hurry!”
“Yes, sir.” The tank rippled and went empty.
The Old Man stood up again. “Call me when you’ve cleared up that ‘slight technical difficulty’. Meantime, I’m going to bed.”
XV
If I have given the impression that Secretary Martinez was stupid, I am sorry. Everyone had trouble at first believing what the slugs could do. You have to see one—then you believe in the pit of your stomach.
There were no flies on Air Marshal Rexton, either. The two must have worked all night, after convincing themselves by more calls to known danger spots that “technical interruptions” do not occur so conveniently. They called the Old Man about four a.m. and he called me, using our special phones. Those flesh-embedded receptors should not be used as alarm clocks; it’s too rough a way to wake a man.