The muted drone of the ventilator fan became an unpleasant roaring, and the reek of paint seemed stronger.
Forester sat shivering, trying not to be ill.
"One of these could finish us."
"If you want to estimate its effectiveness for yourselves, convert the cubic yards of soil and rock to tons, and then multiply the answer by one thousand.
That will give you the approximate equivalent in plutonium."
With a fumbling care, Mason Horn began screwing the two small sections back together. He paused, carefully locking the chain again.
"The Triplanet Powers have now had more than two years to plant these where they want them," he added quietly.
"They may have been dropped into our seas, or sowed across the polar caps, or perhaps even smuggled into this very site.
Placed in advance, they can be detonated by remote control, by a time mechanism, or even by the penetrating radiation from a mass-explosion on another planet.
No defense is possible, and we cannot attack, not even with similar weapons, without destroying ourselves."
"I don't see that." The chief of staff cleared his throat, with a stern authority. "When they discover that you have escaped with this device, they will assume that we have also duplicated it successfully.
Perhaps we should plant the information with one of our double agents - to create the fear of retaliation, and so make it impossible for them to strike."
"I'm afraid it wouldn't work out that way, sir." Horn frowned, as if in regretful disapproval of the shoddy workmanship of some competing line.
"Because such absolute weapons create their own explosive psychology.
I think it would be foolish to reveal that we have successfully stolen this weapon, because I saw symptoms enough of official hysteria in the enemy governments to convince me that we should be prepared to die on the instant they discover the loss.
That delicate situation makes me doubt the wisdom of my whole mission, sir."
And Horn stepped respectfully back, mopping at his plump red face and waiting as if to write up an order for shoes.
The chief of staff scowled at him, and abruptly sat down, seeming to say with his indignant shrug that such unmilitary men, with their unbelievable new weapons and their shocking ignorance of discipline, had ruined all his old pleasure in the ancient calling of war.
Wiping his palms again, Forester shook his head at the mute query on the bleak gray face of the minister of defense.
Project Thunderbolt was ready.
The war heads of his own long self-guided missiles, not far different from Mason Horn's prize, had a detonation radius of forty yards.
Once the launching order was given, nothing could save the hostile planets.
But it was too late to launch them now, if their blasts would also trigger enemy detonators planted here.
The old president was turning anxiously to his aide, with some question in his watery eyes.
Nodding briskly, little Major Steel helped him to his feet.
Forester tried to conceal a sharp disapproval, recalling the legends of Steel's phenomenal memory and efficiency, and mistrusting his undue influence.
"An unpleasant situation, gentlemen." Clutching the edge of the table with trembling yellow hands, the president cleared his throat uncertainly.
"It first appeared to offer us only the hard choice of war without hope, or peace without freedom.
However-" Gasping breathlessly, he gulped water the little officer held to his lips. "However, Major Steel has revealed a third alternative."
Chapter NINE
THAT QUAVERED phrase took Forester's breath.
He remembered a pale tattered man, squatting by a smoky fire and peering as if at distant things with a strange alertness.
Something drummed in his ears, and the old leader's faltering voice seemed far away.
"-quite a shock to me, as you will soon understand."
The president nodded his cadaverous head at the trim little officer, who stood motionless at attention, peering fixedly down the table. "But the alternative he offers has ended a nightmare for me, and I urge you to accept his advice without question."
He coughed, leaning weakly on the table, and waited for the brisk little aide to hold the glass for him to drink again.
"Gentlemen, I believe in Major Steel." He turned to smile at the officer with a vague gratitude.
"He has been my efficient right hand for the past ten years, and I feel that we can trust him now.
He has brought us an amazing escape from both death and slavery.
But I'm going to let him state the facts, with only this one word of warning - he is not a human being."
Forester knew that he shouldn't have been surprised.
Mark White had tried to prepare him for this moment, and he had always mistrusted the superhuman energy and competence of the president's aide.
Yet, as he watched the human-seeming thing at the other end of the long green table now, something made him shudder.
Something cold brushed up his spine, and something took his breath.
"At your service, gentlemen." The human vocal quality was suddenly gone from Steel's voice, so that it became a mellow silver drone.
"But just a moment, if you please. Because you should see us as we are, and now the need for this disguise has ended."
And the thing slipped out of the crisp uniform.
It snapped contact lenses out of its eyes. It ripped at what had seemed its skin, and began peeling flesh-colored plastic from its limbs and its body in long spiral strips.
Forester watched helplessly.
He saw the faces around the table turning stiff and gray, and heard men gasping with something close to horror.