She bristled and I thought she was going to make him stay in after school
at the very least. “Colonel Manning, do you realize the importance of
artificial radioactives to modern medicine?”
“Why, I believe I do. Nevertheless, doctor, our primary mission is to
perfect a weapon which will serve as a safe-guard to the whole country in
time of war—”
She sniffed and went into action. “Weapons—fiddle-sticks! Isn’t there a
medical corps in the Army? Isn’t it more important to know how to heal men
than to know how to blow them to bits? Colonel Manning, you’re not a fit
man to have charge of this project! You’re a . . . you’re a, a warmonger,
that’s what you are!”
I felt my ears turning red, but Manning never budged. He could have raised
Cain with her, confined her to her quarters, maybe even have
court-martialed her, but Manning isn’t like that. He told me once that
every time a man is court-martialed, it is a sure sign that some senior
officer hasn’t measured up to his job.
“I am sorry you feel that way, Doctor,” he said mildly, “and I agree that
my technical knowledge isn’t what it might be. And, believe me, I do wish
that healing were all we had to worry about. In any case, I have not
refused your request. Let’s walk over to your laboratory and see what the
problem is. Likely there is some arrangement that can be made which will
satisfy everybody.”
He was already up and getting out his greatcoat. Her set mouth relaxed a
trifle and she answered, “Very well. I’m sorry I spoke as I did.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “These are worrying times. Come along, John.”
I trailed after them, stopping in the outer office to get my own coat and
to stuff my notebook in a pocket.
By the time we had trudged through mushy snow the eighth of a mile to her
lab they were talking about gardening!
Manning acknowledged the sentry’s challenge with a wave of his hand and we
entered the building. He started casually on into the inner lab, but Karst
stopped him. “Armor first, Colonel.”
We had trouble finding overshoes that would fit over Manning’s boots, which
he persisted in wearing, despite the new uniform regulations, and he wanted
to omit the foot protection, but Karst would not hear of it. She called in
a couple of her assistants who made jury-rigged moccasins out of some
soft-lead sheeting.
The helmets were different from those used in the explosives lab, being
fitted with inhalers. “What’s this?” inquired Manning.
“Radioactive dust guard,” she said. “It’s absolutely essential.”
We threaded a lead-lined meander and arrived at the workroom door which she
opened by combination. I blinked at the sudden bright illumination and
noticed the air was filled with little shiny motes.
“Hm-m-m—it is dusty,” agreed Manning. “Isn’t there some way of controlling
that?” His voice sounded muffled from behind the dust mask.
“The last stage has to be exposed to air,” explained Karst. “The hood gets
most of it. We could control it, but it would mean a quite expensive new
installation.”
“No trouble about that. We’re not on a budget, you know. It must be very
annoying to have to work in a mask like this.”
“It is,” acknowledged Karst. “The kind of gear it would take would enable
us to work without body armor, too. That would be a comfort.”
I suddenly had a picture of the kind of thing these researchers put up
with. I am a fair-sized man, yet I found that armor heavy to carry around.
Estelle Karst was a small woman, yet she was willing to work maybe fourteen
hours, day after day, in an outfit which was about as comfortable as a
diving suit. But she had not complained.
Not all the heroes are in the headlines. These radiation experts not only
ran the chance of cancer and nasty radio-action burns, but the men stood a
chance of damaging their germ plasm and then having their wives present
them with something horrid in the way of offspring—no chin, for example,
and long hairy ears. Nevertheless, they went right ahead and never seemed