Short Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Vol 1 Part 24

Plutonium hardly affects a Geiger counter; secondary infection from plutonium does. Johnny looked at the hammer, then held it closer to the Geiger counter. The counter screamed...

Johnny tossed it hastily away and started back toward his suit.

As he pa.s.sed the counter it chattered again. He stopped short.

He pushed one hand close to the counter. Its clicking picked up to a steady roar. Without moving he reached into his pocket and took out his exposure film.

It was dead black from end to end.

3.

PLUTONIUM TAKEN into the body moves quickly to bone marrow. Nothing can be done; the victim is finished. Neutrons from it smash through the body, ionizing tissue, trans.m.u.ting atoms into radioactive isotopes, destroying and killing. The fatal dose is unbelievably small; a ma.s.s a tenth the size of a grain of table salt is more than enough-a dose small enough to enter through the tiniest scratch. During the historic "Manhattan Project" immediate high amputation was considered the only possible first-aid measure.

Johnny knew all this but it no longer disturbed him. He sat on the floor, smoking a h.o.a.rded cigarette, and thinking. The events of his long watch were running through his mind.

He blew a puff of smoke at the Geiger counter and smiled without humor to hear it chatter more loudly. By now even his breath was "hot" carbon-14, he supposed, exhaled from his blood stream as carbon dioxide. It did not matter.

There was no longer any point in surrendering, nor would he give Towers the satisfaction-he would finish out this watch right here. Besides, by keeping up the bluff that one bomb was ready to blow, he could stop them from capturing the raw material from which bombs were made. That might be important in the long run.

He accepted, without surprise, the fact that he was not unhappy. There was a sweetness about having no further worries of any sort. He did not hurt, he was not uncomfortable, he was no longer even hungry. Physically he still felt fine and his mind was at peace. He was dead - he knew that he was dead; yet for a time he was able to walk and breathe and see and feel.

He was not even lonesome. He was not alone; there were comrades with him - the boy with his finger in the dike, Colonel Bowie, too ill to move but insisting that he be carried across the line, the dying Captain of the Chesapeake still with deathless challenge on his lips, Rodger Young peering into the gloom. They gathered about him in the dusky bomb room.

And of course there was Edith. She was the only one he was aware of. Johnny wished that he could see her face more clearly. Was she angry? Or proud and happy?

Proud though unhappy - he could see her better now and even feel her hand. He held very still.

Presently his cigarette burned down to his fingers. He took a final puff, blew it at the Geiger counter, and put it out. It was his last. He gathered several b.u.t.ts and fas.h.i.+oned a roll-your-own with a bit of paper found in a pocket. He lit it carefully and settled back to wait for Edith to show up again. He was very happy.

He was still propped against the bomb case, the last of his salvaged cigarettes cold at his side, when the speaker called out again. "Johnny? Hey, Johnny! Can you hear me? This is Kelly. It's all over. The Lafayette landed and Towers blew his brains out. Johnny? Answer me."

When they opened the outer door, the first man in carried a Geiger counter in front of him on the end of a long pole. He stopped at the threshold and backed out hastily. "Hey, chief!" he called. "Better get some handling equipment - uh, and a lead coffin, too."

"Four days it took the little s.h.i.+p and her escort to reach Earth. Four days while all of Earth's people awaited her arrival. For ninety-eight hours all commercial programs were off television; instead there was an endless dirge - the Dead March from Saul, the Valhalla theme, Going Home, the Patrol's own Landing Orbit.

"The nine s.h.i.+ps landed at Chicago Port. A drone tractor removed the casket from the small s.h.i.+p; the s.h.i.+p was then refueled and blasted off in an escape trajectory, thrown away into outer s.p.a.ce, never again to be used for a lesser purpose.

"The tractor progressed to the Illinois town where Lieutenant Dahlquist had been born, while the dirge continued. There it placed the casket on a pedestal, inside a barrier marking the distance of safe approach. s.p.a.ce marines, arms reversed and heads bowed, stood guard around it; the crowds stayed outside this circle. And still the dirge continued.

"When enough time had pa.s.sed, long, long after the heaped flowers had withered, the lead casket was enclosed in marble, just as you see it today."

ALL YOU ZOMBIES.

2217 Time Zone V (EST) 7 Nov. 1970-NTC- "Pop's Place":

I was polis.h.i.+ng a brandy snifter when the Unmarried Mother came in. I noted the time-10: 17 P. M. zone five, or eastern time,

November 7th, 1970. Temporal agents always notice time and date; we must.

The Unmarried Mother was a man twenty-five years old, no taller than I am, childish features and a touchy temper. I didn't like his looks - I never had - but he was a lad I was here to recruit, he was my boy. I gave him my best barkeep's smile.

Maybe I'm too critical. He wasn't swish; his nickname came from what he always said when some nosy type asked him his line: "I'm an unmarried mother. -- If he felt less than murderous he would add: "at four cents a word. I write confession stories. --

If he felt nasty, he would wait for somebody to make something of it. He had a lethal style of infighting, like a female cop - reason I wanted him. Not the only one.

He had a load on, and his face showed that he despised people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of Old

Underwear and left the bottle. He drank it, poured another.

I wiped the bar top. -- How's the "Unmarried Mother" racket? --

His fingers tightened on the gla.s.s and he seemed about to throw it at me; I felt for the sap under the bar. In temporal manipulation you try to figure everything, but there are so many factors that you never take needless risks.

I saw him relax that tiny amount they teach you to watch for in the Bureau's training school. -- Sorry, " I said.

-- Just asking, "How's business? " Make it "How's the weather?

He looked sour. -- Business is okay. I write "em, they print "em, I eat. --

I poured myself one, leaned toward him. -- Matter of fact, " I said, "you write a nice stick - I've sampled a few.

You have an amazingly sure touch with the woman's angle. --

It was a slip I had to risk; he never admitted what pen-names he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the last: "'Woman's angle! "" he repeated with a snort. -- Yeah, I know the woman's angle. I should. --

"So? -- I said doubtfully. -- Sisters? --

"No. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. --

"Now, now, " I answered mildly, "bartenders and psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than truth. Why, son, if you heard the stories I do-well, you'd make yourself rich. Incredible. --

"You don't know what "incredible" means! "

"So? Nothing astonishes me. I've always heard worse. --

He snorted again. -- Want to bet the rest of the bottle? --

"I'll bet a full bottle. -- I placed one on the bar.

"Well-" I signaled my other bartender to handle the trade. We were at the far end, a single-stool s.p.a.ce that I kept private by loading the bar top by it with jars of pickled eggs and other clutter. A few were at the other end watching the fights and somebody was playing the juke box-private as a bed where we were.

"Okay, " he began, "to start with, I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. --

"No distinction around here, " I said.