die?”
“I started to say that you must know his work in symbology — theory of
abstraction and calculus of statement, all that sort of thing — because of
its applications to engineering and mathematical physics.”
“That Lentz — yes, of course. But I had never thought of him as a
psychiatrist.”
“No, you wouldn’t, in your field. Nevertheless, we are inclined to credit
him with having done as much to check and reduce the pandemic neuroses of
the Crazy Years as any other man, and more than any man left alive.”
“Where is he?”
“Why, Chicago, I suppose. At the Institute.”
“Get him here.”
“Eh?”
“Get him down here. Get on that visiphone and locate him. Then have Steinke
call the Port of Chicago, and hire a stratocar to stand by for him. I want
to see him as soon as possible — before the day is out.” King sat up in his
chair with the air of a man who is once more master of himself and the
situation. His spirit knew that warming replenishment that comes only with
reaching a decision. The harassed expression was gone.
Silard looked dumfounded. “But, Superintendent,” he expostulated, “you
can’t ring for Dr. Lentz as if he were a junior clerk. He’s . . . he’s
Lentz.”
“Certainly — that’s why I want him. But I’m not a neurotic club-woman
looking for sympathy, either. He’ll come. If necessary, turn on the heat
from Washington. Have the White House call him. But get him here at once.
Move!” King strode out of the office.
When Erickson came off watch he inquired around and found that Harper had
left for town. Accordingly, he dispensed with dinner at the base, shifted
into “drinkin’ clothes,” and allowed himself to be dispatched via tube to
Paradise.
Paradise, Arizona, was a hard little boom town, which owed its existence to
the power plant. It was dedicated exclusively to the serious business of
detaching the personnel of the plant from their inordinate salaries. In
this worthy project they received much cooperation from the plant personnel
themselves, each of whom was receiving from twice to ten times as much
money each pay day as he had ever received in any other job, and none of
whom was certain of living long enough to justify saving for old age.
Besides, the company carried a sinking fund in Manhattan for their
dependents; why be stingy?
It was said, with some truth, that any entertainment or luxury obtainable
in New York City could be purchased in Paradise. The local chamber of
commerce had appropriated the slogan of Reno, Nevada, “Biggest Little City
in the World.” The Reno boosters retaliated by claiming that, while any
town that close to the atomic power plant undeniably brought thoughts of
death and the hereafter, Hell’s Gates would be a more appropriate name than
Paradise.
Erickson started making the rounds. There were twenty-seven places licensed
to sell liquor in the six blocks of the main street of Paradise. He
expected to find Harper in one of them, and, knowing the man’s habits and
tastes, he expected to find him in the first two or three he tried.
He was not mistaken. He found Harper sitting alone at a table in the rear
of DeLancey’s Sans Souci Bar. DeLancey’s was a favorite of both of them.
There was an old-fashioned comfort about its chrome-plated bar and red
leather furniture that appealed to them more than did the spectacular
fittings of the up-to-the minute places. DeLancey was conservative; he
stuck to indirect lighting and soft music; his hostesses were required to
be fully clothed, even in the evening.
The fifth of Scotch in front of Harper was about two thirds full. Erickson
shoved three fingers in front of Harper’s face and demanded, “Count!”
“Three,” announced Harper. “Sit down, Gus.”
“That’s correct,” Erickson agreed, sliding his big frame into a low-slung
chair. “You’ll do — for now. What was the outcome?”
“Have a drink. Not,” he went on, “that this Scotch is any good. I think
Lance has taken to watering it. I surrendered, horse and foot.”
“Lance wouldn’t do that — stick to that theory and you’ll sink in the
sidewalk up to your knees. How come you capitulated? I thought you planned