For a number of fairly technical reasons, I don’t think we ever will, at
least not this century.”
“Why not?”
“Because there is no way to counteract radioactivity short of putting a
lead shield between yourself and it, an airtight lead shield. People might
survive by living in sealed underground cities, but our characteristic
American culture could not be maintained.”
“Colonel Manning,” suggested the Secretary of State, “I think you have
overlooked the obvious alternative.”
“Have I?”
“Yes—to keep the dust as our own secret, go our own way, and let the rest
of the world look out for itself. That is the only program that fits our
traditions.” The Secretary of State was really a fine old gentleman, and
not stupid, but he was slow to assimilate new ideas.
“Mr. Secretary,” said Manning respectfully, “I wish we could afford to mind
our own business. I do wish we could. But it is the best opinion of all the
experts that we can’t maintain control of this secret except by rigid
policing. The Germans were close on our heels in nuclear research; it was
sheer luck that we got there first. I ask you to imagine Germany a year
hence—with a supply of dust.”
The Secretary did not answer, but I saw his lips form the word Berlin.
They came around. The President had deliberately let Manning bear the brunt
of the argument, concerning his own stock of goodwill to coax the obdurate.
He decided against putting it up to Congress; the dusters would have been
overhead before each senator had finished his say. What he intended to do
might be unconstitutional, but if he failed to act there might not be any
Constitution shortly. There was precedent—the Emancipation Proclamation,
the Monroe Doctrine, the Louisiana Purchase, suspension of habeas corpus in
the War between the States, the Destroyer Deal.
On February 22nd the President declared a state of full emergency
internally and sent his Peace Proclamation to the head of every sovereign
state. Divested of its diplomatic surplusage, it said: The United States is
prepared to defeat any power, or combination of powers, in jig time.
Accordingly, we are outlawing war and are calling on every nation to disarm
completely at once. In other words, “Throw down your guns, boys; we’ve got
the drop on you!”
A supplement set forth the procedure: All aircraft capable of flying the
Atlantic were to be delivered in one week’s time to a field, or rather a
great stretch of prairie, just west of Fort Riley, Kansas. For lesser
aircraft, a spot near Shanghai and a rendezvous in Wales were designated.
Memoranda would be issued with respect to other war equipment. Uranium and
its ores were not mentioned; that would come later.
No excuses. Failure to disarm would be construed as an act of war against
the United States.
There were no cases of apoplexy in the Senate; why not, I don’t know.
There were only three powers to be seriously worried about, England, Japan,
and the Eurasian Union. England had been forewarned, we had pulled her out
of a war she was losing, and she—or rather her men in power—knew accurately
what we could and would do.
Japan was another matter. They had not seen Berlin and they did not really
believe it. Besides, they had been telling each other for so many years
that they were unbeatable, they believed it. It does not do to get too
tough with a Japanese too quickly, for they will die rather than lose face.
The negotiations were conducted very quietly indeed, but our fleet was
halfway from Pearl Harbor to Kobe, loaded with enough dust to sterilize
their six biggest cities, before they were concluded. Do you know what did
it? This never hit the newspapers but it was the wording of the pamphlets
we proposed to scatter before dusting.
The Emperor was pleased to declare a New Order of Peace. The official
version, built up for home consumption, made the whole matter one of
collaboration between two great and friendly powers, with Japan taking the
initiative.
The Eurasian Union was a puzzle. After Stalin’s unexpected death in 1941,
no western nation knew very much about what went on in there. Our own