His boyish face brightened.
"Besides, sir, I think these new mechanicals might turn out to be very useful.
For all White told us, I still can't see any real reason to hate or fear them.
If they can actually abolish war, we need them now.
Don't you think so, sir?"
Forester didn't, but the quiet protest recalled that bleak doubt in Armstrong's eyes. Reflecting that the members of the Defense Authority might prove equally incredulous, he decided to wait for better evidence.
It was twilight when the car labored up the narrow road from the desert, to the guarded fences and flood-lit buildings of Starmont.
Groggy with fatigue, Forester felt a pang of envy when Ironsmith swung easily out as they stopped at the inner gate, to step easily on his bicycle and pedal briskly off toward the computing section, whistling as he went.
The Red Alert came at midnight, on the tight-beam teleprinter.
That warning signal meant that hostile action from the Triplanet Powers had been detected.
It called for the staff of Project Thunderbolt to arm two missiles against each of the enemy planets, and stand by for the final order to end three worlds.
A second message, five minutes later, called Forester himself to the capital for an emergency meeting of the Defense Authority.
He took off at once, with no time even for a word to Ruth.
His official aircraft landed in cold rain at dawn on a military field, and a waiting staff car took him into a guarded tunnel in the face of a hill.
Deep in the underground sites which men had dug in their frantic search for vanished safety, he came at last into a narrow room of gray concrete, and took his place at the foot of a green- covered table to wait for the meeting.
He hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, tossed with nocturnal thunderstorms along an occluded front.
The flight lunch he had shared with the crew felt heavy on his stomach, and he needed a dose of bicarbonate.
Clammy in his travel-wrinkled clothing, he sat longing for the dry warmth of Starmont and trying not to think of anything else.
He blinked and started when he saw Mason Horn.
The secret agent came in through another guarded door, walking between two armed lieutenants of the Security Police.
Forester rose eagerly to call out his greeting, but Horn answered with only a stiff little nod, and one of the lieutenants beckoned Forester back.
They waited, watchfully apart at the end of that long gray room.
Horn carried a small brown leather case, chained to his left wrist.
Sinking back into his chair, Forester felt a new chill in the damp blast from a fan somewhere behind him.
He knew what that case must contain, and the knowledge was monstrous.
The nearer lieutenant saw his eyes on the case, and frowned at him sharply.
Starting again, he shifted his gaze and tried to wipe the stickiness out of his palms.
The silent weight of rock above began to give him a smothered feeling, and a faint reek of drying paint sharpened his physical unease.
He slumped in his chair, and straightened again when the high military and political officials who formed the Defense Authority began to arrive, surrounded by hushed and nervous satellites.
The aged world president entered at last, leaning on the arm of his solicitous military aide, one Major Steel.
Calling out quavering greetings to a few of his cronies, he shuffled to his big chair at the end of the table.
Steel helped him to sit, and he waited for the dapper little officer to prompt him before he spoke to the hushed meeting.
"Gentlemen, I've bad news for you." His voice faltered thinly.
"Mr. Mason Horn will tell you what it is."
The special agent left the two lieutenants, at the president's feeble nod, and stepped up briskly to the table.
With his thinning yellowish hair and fat red face, he looked more like a show salesman than an interplanetary spy.
Unlocking the chain, he opened the brown leather case to display a polished metal object the size of an egg.
"This is the bad news." His voice was as blandly casual as if he had been offering a chic new number in brown suede for the spring market.
"I brought it back from a Triplanet arsenal in Sector Vermilion. The president has instructed me not to reveal the technical specifications. I'm only to tell you what it can do."
The men around that long, bright-lit table, most of them withered with years and all tight-faced with anxiety, leaned silently to watch as Horn's plump, careful fingers unscrewed the flat-ended metal egg into two parts and set them on the table.
Cold light glittered on small knurled metal knobs and graduated scales.
"Huh!" The chief of staff sniffed scornfully.
"Is that all?"
"It's enough, sir." Horn gave him a brief, amiable smile, as if about to explain the irresistible sales appeal of a plastic evening sandal.
"Actually, the device itself is only a sort of fuse.
The explosive charge is formed by any matter which happens to be near.
The atoms aren't just fissioned, but converted entirely to free energy.
This little knob sets the radius of detonation - anywhere from zero to twelve yards."
When his smooth voice stopped, an appalled silence filled that buried room.
Men leaned to stare with a sick, slack-jawed fascination at the tiny machine on the table.