to beat ’em about the head and shoulders, at least.”
“I did,” mourned Harper, “but, cripes, Gus, the chief is right. If a brain
mechanic says you’re punchy, he has got to back him up and take you off the
bomb. The chief can’t afford to take a chance.”
“Yeah, the chief’s all right, but I can’t learn to love our dear
psychiatrists. Tell you what — let’s find us one, and see if he can feel
pain. I’ll hold him while you slug ‘im.”
“Oh, forget it, Gus. Have a drink.”
“A pious thought — but not Scotch. I’m going to have a martini; we ought to
eat pretty soon.”
“I’ll have one, too.”
“Do you good.” Erickson lifted his blond head and bellowed, “Israfell”
A large, black person appeared at his elbow. “Mistuh Erickson! Yes, suh!”
“Izzy, fetch two martinis. Make mine with Italian.” He turned back to
Harper. “What are you going to do now, Cal?”
“Radiation laboratory.”
“Well, that’s not so bad. I’d like to have a go at the matter or rocket
fuels myself. I’ve got some ideas.”
Harper looked mildly amused. “You mean atomic fuel for interplanetary
flight? The problem’s pretty well exhausted. No, son, the stratosphere is
the ceiling until we think up something better than rockets. Of course, you
could mount the bomb in a ship, and figure out some jury rig to convert its
radiant output into push, but where does that get you? One bomb, one ship —
and twenty years of mining in Little America has only produced enough
pitchblende to make one bomb. That’s disregarding the question of getting
the company to lend you their one bomb for anything that doesn’t pay
dividends.”
Erickson looked balky. “I don’t concede that you’ve covered all the
alternatives. What have we got? The early rocket boys went right ahead
trying to build better rockets, serene in the belief that, by the time they
could build rockets good enough to fly to the Moon, a fuel would be
perfected that would do the trick. And they did build ships that were good
enough — you could take any ship that makes the antipodes run, and refit it
for the Moon — if you had a fuel that was sufficiently concentrated to
maintain the necessary push for the whole run. But they haven’t got it.
“And why not? Because we let ’em down, that’s why. Because they’re still
depending on molecular energy, on chemical reactions, with atomic power
sitting right here in our laps. It’s not their fault — old D. D. Harriman
had Rockets Consolidated underwrite the whole first issue of Antarctic
Pitchblende, and took a big slice of it himself, in the expectation that we
would produce something usable in the way of a concentrated rocket fuel.
Did we do it? Like hell! The company went hog-wild for immediate commercial
exploitation, and there’s no fuel yet.”
“But you haven’t stated it properly,” Harper objected. “There are just two
forms of atomic power available — radioactivity and atomic disintegration.
The first is too slow; the energy is there, but you can’t wait years for it
to come out — not in a rocketship. The second we can only manage in a large
mass of uranium. There has only been enough uranium mined for one bomb.
There you are — stymied.”
Erickson’s Scandinavian stubbornness was just gathering for another try at
the argument when the waiter arrived with the drinks. He set them down with
a triumphant flourish. “There you are, suh!”
“Want to roll for them, Izzy?” Harper inquired.
“Don’ mind if I do.”
The Negro produced a leather dice cup, and Harper rolled. He selected his
combinations with care and managed to get four aces and jack in three
rolls. Israfel took the cup. He rolled in the grand manner with a backward
twist to his wrist. His score finished at five kings, and he courteously
accepted the price of six drinks. Harper stirred the engraved cubes with
his forefinger.
“Izzy,” he asked, “are these the same dice I rolled with?”
“Why, Mistuh Harper!” The Negro’s expression was pained.
“Skip it,” Harper conceded. “I should know better than to gamble with you.