Chapter 5

1941

Chubby, brownette Eunice Kinnison sat in a rocker, reading the Sunday papers and listening to her radio. Her husband Ralph lay sprawled upon the davenport, smoking a cigarette and reading the current issue of EXTRAORDINARY STORIES against an unheard background of music. Mentally, he was far from Tellus, flitting in his super-dreadnaught through parsec after parsec of vacuous space.

The music broke off without warning and there blared out an announcement which yanked Ralph Kinnison back to Earth with a violence almost physical. He jumped up, jammed his hands into his pockets.

“Pearl Harbor!” he blurted. “How in ... How could they have let them get that far?”

“But Frank!” the woman gasped. She had not worried much about her husband; but Frank, her son... “He’ll have to go...” Her voice died away.

“Not a chance in the world.” Kinnison did not speak to soothe, but as though from sure knowledge. “Designing Engineer for Lockwood? He’ll want to, all right, but anyone who was ever even exposed to a course in aeronautical engineering will sit this war out.”

“But they say it can’t last very long. It can’t, can it?”

“I’ll say it can. Loose talk. Five years minimum is my guess--not that my guess is any better than anybody else’s.”

He prowled around the room. His somber expression did not lighten.

“I knew it,” the woman said at length. “You, too--even after the last one ... You haven’t said anything, so I thought, perhaps...”

“I know I didn’t. There was always the chance that we wouldn’t get drawn into it. If you say so, though, I’ll stay home.”

“Am I apt to? I let you go when you were really in danger...”

“What do you mean by that crack?” he interrupted.

“Regulations. One year too old--Thank Heaven!”

“So what? They’ll need technical experts, bad. They’ll make exceptions.”

“Possibly. Desk jobs. Desk officers don’t get killed in action--or even wounded. Why, perhaps, with the children all grown up and married, we won’t even have to be separated.”

“Another angle--financial.”

“Pooh! Who cares about that? Besides, for a man out of a job...”

“From you, I’ll let that one pass. Thanks, Eunie--you’re an ace. I’ll shoot ‘em a wire.”

The telegram was sent. The Kinnisons waited. And waited. Until, about the middle of January, beautifully-phrased and beautifully-mimeographed letters began to arrive.

“The War Department recognizes the value of your previous military experience and appreciates your willingness once again to take up arms in defense of the country ... Veteran Officer’s Questionnaire ... please fill out completely ... Form 191A ... Form 170 in duplicate ... Form 315 ... Impossible to forecast the extent to which the War Department may ultimately utilize the services which you and thousands of others have so generously offered ... Form ... Form ... Not to be construed as meaning that you have been permanently rejected ... Form ... Advise you that while at the present time the War Department is unable to use you...”

“Wouldn’t that fry you to a crisp?” Kinnison demanded. “What in hell have they got in their heads--sawdust? They think that because I’m fifty one years old I’ve got one foot in the grave--I’ll bet four dollars that I’m in better shape than that cursed Major General and his whole damned staff!”

“I don’t doubt it, dear.” Eunice’s smile was, however, mostly of relief. “But here’s an ad--it’s been running for a week.”

“CHEMICAL ENGINEERS ... shell loading plant ... within seventy-five miles of Townville ... over five years experience ... organic chemistry ... technology ... explosives...”

“They want you,” Eunice declared, soberly.

“Well, I’m a Ph.D. in Organic. I’ve had more than five years experience in both organic chemistry and technology. If I don’t know something about explosives I did a smart job of fooling Dean Montrose, back at Gosh Whatta University. I’ll write ‘em a letter.”

He wrote. He filled out a form. The telephone rang.

“Kinnison speaking ... yes ... Dr. Sumner? Oh, yes, Chief Chemist ... That’s it--one year over age, so I thought ... Oh, that’s a minor matter. We won’t starve. If you can’t pay a hundred and fifty I’ll come for a hundred, or seventy five, or fifty ... That’s all right, too. I’m well enough known in my own field so that a title of Junior Chemical Engineer wouldn’t hurt me a bit ... O.K., I’ll see you about one o’clock ... Stoner and Black, Inc., Operators, Entwhistle Ordnance Plant, Entwhistle, Missikota ... What! Well, maybe I could, at that ... Goodbye.”

He turned to his wife. “You know what? They want me to come down right away and go to work. Hot Dog! Am I glad that I told that louse Hendricks exactly where he could stick that job of mine!”

“He must have known that you wouldn’t sign a straight-salary contract after getting a share of the profits so long. Maybe he believed what you always say just before or just after kicking somebody’s teeth down their throats; that you’re so meek and mild--a regular Milquetoast. Do you really think that they’ll want you back, after the war?” It was clear that Eunice was somewhat concerned concerning Kinnison’s joblessness; but Kinnison was not.

“Probably. That’s the gossip. And I’ll come back--when hell freezes over.” His square jaw tightened. “I’ve heard of outfits stupid enough to let their technical brains go because they could sell--for a while--anything they produced, but I didn’t know that I was working for one. Maybe I’m not exactly a Timid Soul, but you’ll have to admit that I never kicked anybody’s teeth out unless they tried to kick mine out first.”

Entwhistle Ordnance Plant covered twenty-odd square miles of more or less level land. Ninety-nine percent of its area was “Inside the fence.” Most of the buildings within that restricted area, while in reality enormous, were dwarfed by the vast spaces separating them; for safety-distances are not small when TNT and tetryl by the ton are involved. Those structures were built of concrete, steel, glass, transite, and tile.

“Outside the Fence” was different. This was the Administration Area. Its buildings were tremendous wooden barracks, relatively close together, packed with the executive, clerical, and professional personnel appropriate to an organization employing over twenty thousand men and women.

Well inside the fence, but a safety-distance short of the One Line--Loading Line Number One--was a long, low building, quite inadequately named the Chemical Laboratory. “Inadequately” in that the Chief Chemist, a highly capable--if more than a little cantankerous--Explosives Engineer, had already gathered into his Chemical Section most of Development, most of Engineering, and all of Physics, Weights and Measures, and Weather.

One room of the Chemical Laboratory--in the corner most distant from Administration--was separated from the rest of the building by a sixteen-inch wall of concrete and steel extending from foundation to roof without a door, window, or other opening. This was the laboratory of the Chemical Engineers, the boys who played with explosives high and low; any explosion occurring therein could not affect the Chemical Laboratory proper or its personnel.

Entwhistle’s main roads were paved; but in February of 1942, such minor items as sidewalks existed only on the blue-prints. Entwhistle’s soil contained much clay, and at that time the mud was approximately six inches deep. Hence, since there were neither inside doors nor sidewalks, it was only natural that the technologists did not visit at all frequently the polished-tile cleanliness of the Laboratory. It was also natural enough for the far larger group to refer to the segregated ones as exiles and outcasts; and that some witty chemist applied to that isolated place the name “Siberia.”

The name stuck. More, the Engineers seized it and acclaimed it. They were Siberians, and proud of it, and Siberians they remained; long after Entwhistle’s mud turned into dust. And within the year the Siberians were to become well and favorably known in every ordnance plant in the country, to many high executives who had no idea of how the name originated.

Kinnison became a Siberian as enthusiastically as the youngest man there. The term “youngest” is used in its exact sense, for not one of them was a recent graduate. Each had had at least five years of responsible experience, and “Cappy” Sumner kept on building. He hired extravagantly and fired ruthlessly--to the minds of some, senselessly. But he knew what he was doing. He knew explosives, and he knew men. He was not liked, but he was respected. His building was good.

Being one of the only two “old” men there--and the other did not stay long--Kinnison, as a Junior Chemical Engineer, was not at first accepted without reserve. Apparently he did not notice that fact, but went quietly about his assigned duties. He was meticulously careful with, but very evidently not in any fear of, the materials with which he worked. He pelleted and tested tracer, igniter, and incendiary compositions; he took his turn at burning out rejects. Whenever asked, he went out on the lines with any one of them.

His experimental tetryls always “miked” to size, his TNT melt-pours--introductory to loading forty-millimeter on the Three Line--came out solid, free from checks and cavitations. It became evident to those young but keen minds that he, alone of them all, was on familiar ground. They began to discuss their problems with him. Out of his years of technological experience, and by bringing everyone present into the discussion, he either helped them directly or helped them to help themselves. His stature grew.

Black-haired, black-eyed “Tug” Tugwell, two hundred pounds of ex-football-player in charge of tracer on the Seven Line, called him “Uncle” Ralph, and the habit spread. And in a couple of weeks--at about the same time that “Injun” Abernathy was slightly injured by being blown through a door by a minor explosion of his igniter on the Eight line--he was promoted to full Chemical Engineer; a promotion which went unnoticed, since it involved only changes in title and salary.

Three weeks later, however, he was made Senior Chemical Engineer, in charge of Melt-Pour. At this there was a celebration, led by “Blondie” Wanacek, a sulphuric-acid expert handling tetryl on the Two. Kinnison searched minutely for signs of jealousy or antagonism, but could find none. He went blithely to work on the Six line, where they wanted to start pouring twenty-pound fragmentation bombs, ably assisted by Tug and by two new men. One of these was “Doc” or “Bart” Barton, who, the grapevine said, had been hired by Cappy to be his Assistant. His motto, like that of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, was to run and find out, and he did so with glee and abandon. He was a good egg. So was the other newcomer, “Charley” Charlevoix, a prematurely gray paint-and-lacquer expert who had also made the Siberian grade.

A few months later, Sumner called Kinnison into the office. The latter went, wondering what the old hard-shell was going to cry about now; for to be called into that office meant only one thing--censure.

“Kinnison, I like your work,” the Chief Chemist began, gruffly, and Kinnison’s mouth almost dropped open. “Anybody who ever got a Ph.D. under Montrose would have to know explosives, and the F.B.I. report on you showed that you had brains, ability, and guts. But none of that explains how you can get along so well with those damned Siberians. I want to make you Assistant Chief and put you in charge of Siberia. Formally, I mean--actually, you have been for months.”

“Why, no ... I didn’t ... Besides, how about Barton? He’s too good a man to kick in the teeth that way.”

“Admitted.” This did surprise Kinnison. He had never thought that the irascible and tempestuous Chief would ever confess to a mistake. This was a Cappy he had never known. “I discussed it with him yesterday. He’s a damned good man--but it’s decidedly questionable whether he has got whatever it is that made Tugwell, Wanacek and Charlevoix work straight through for seventy two hours, napping now and then on benches and grabbing coffee and sandwiches when they could, until they got that frag bomb straightened out.”

Sumner did not mention the fact that Kinnison had worked straight through, too. That was taken for granted.

“Well, I don’t know.” Kinnison’s head was spinning. “I’d like to check with Barton first. O.K.?”

“I expected that. O.K.”

Kinnison found Barton and led him out behind the testing shed.

“Bart, Cappy tells me that he figures on kicking you in the face by making me Assistant and that you O.K.’d it. One word and I’ll tell the old buzzard just where to stick the job and exactly where to go to do it.”

“Reaction, perfect. Yield, one hundred percent.” Barton stuck out his hand. “Otherwise, I would tell him all that myself and more. As it is, Uncle Ralph, smooth out the ruffled plumage. They’d go to hell for you, wading in standing straight up--they might do the same with me in the driver’s seat, and they might not. Why take a chance? You’re IT. Some things about the deal I don’t like, of course--but at that, it makes me about the only man working for Stoner and Black who can get a release any time a good permanent job breaks. I’ll stick until then. O.K.?” It was unnecessary for Barton to add that as long as he was there he would really work.

“I’ll say it’s O.K.!” and Kinnison reported to Sumner.

“All right, Chief, I’ll try it--if you can square it with the Siberians.”

“That will not be too difficult.”

Nor was it. The Siberians’ reaction brought a lump to Kinnison’s throat.

“Ralph the First, Czar of Siberia!” they yelled. “Long live the Czar! Kowtow, serfs and vassals, to Czar Ralph the First!”

Kinnison was still glowing when he got home that night, to the Government Housing Project and to the three-room “mansionette” in which he and Eunice lived. He would never forget the events of that day.

“What a gang! What a gang! But listen, ace--they work under their own power--you couldn’t keep those kids from working. Why should I get the credit for what they do?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Eunice wrinkled her forehead--and her nose--but the corners of her mouth quirked up. “Are you quite sure that you haven’t had anything to do with it? But supper is ready--let’s eat.”

More months passed. Work went on. Absorbing work, and highly varied; the details of which are of no importance here. Paul Jones, a big, hard, top-drawer chicle technologist, set up the Four line to pour demolition blocks. Frederick Hinton came in, qualified as a Siberian, and went to work on Anti-Personnel mines.

Kinnison was promoted again: to Chief Chemist. He and Sumner had never been friendly; he made no effort to find out why Cappy had quit, or had been terminated, whichever it was. This promotion made no difference. Barton, now Assistant, ran the whole Chemical Section save for one unit--Siberia--and did a superlative job. The Chief Chemist’s secretary worked for Barton, not for Kinnison. Kinnison was the Czar of Siberia.

The Anti-Personnel mines had been giving trouble. Too many men were being killed by prematures, and nobody could find out why. The problem was handed to Siberia. Hinton tackled it, missed, and called for help. The Siberians rallied round. Kinnison loaded and tested mines. So did Paul and Tug and Blondie. Kinnison was testing, out in the Firing Area, when he was called to Administration to attend a Staff Meeting. Hinton relieved him. He had not reached the gate, however, when a guard car flagged him down.

“Sorry, sir, but there has been an accident at Pit Five and you are needed out there.”

“Accident! Fred Hinton! Is he... ?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

It is a harrowing thing to have to help gather up what fragments can be found of one of your best friends. Kinnison was white and sick as he got back to the firing station, just in time to hear the Chief Safety Officer say:

“Must have been carelessness--rank carelessness. I warned this man Hinton myself, on one occasion.”

“Carelessness, hell!” Kinnison blazed. “You had the guts to warn me once, too, and I’ve forgotten more about safety in explosives than you ever will know. Fred Hinton was not careless--if I hadn’t been called in, that would have been me.”

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t know--yet. I tell you now, though, Major Moulton, that I will know, and the minute I find out I’ll talk to you again.”

He went back to Siberia, where he found Tug and Paul, faces still tear-streaked, staring at something that looked like a small piece of wire.

“This is it, Uncle Ralph,” Tug said, brokenly. “Don’t see how it could be, but it is.”

“What is what?” Kinnison demanded.

“Firing pin. Brittle. When you pull the safety, the force of the spring must break it off at this constricted section here.”

“But damn it, Tug, it doesn’t make sense. It’s tension ... but wait--there’d be some horizontal component, at that. But they’d have to be brittle as glass.”

“I know it. It doesn’t seem to make much sense. But we were there, you know--and I assembled every one of those God damned mines myself. Nothing else could possibly have made that mine go off just when it did.”

“O.K., Tug. We’ll test ‘em. Call Bart in--he can have the scale-lab boys rig us up a gadget by the time we can get some more of those pins in off the line.”

They tested a hundred, under the normal tension of the spring, and three of them broke. They tested another hundred. Five broke. They stared at each other.

“That’s it.” Kinnison declared. “But this will stink to high Heaven--have Inspection break out a new lot and we’ll test a thousand.”

Of that thousand pins, thirty two broke.

“Bart, will you dictate a one-page preliminary report to Vera and rush it over to Building One as fast as you can? I’ll go over and tell Moulton a few things.”

Major Moulton was, as usual, “in conference,” but Kinnison was in no mood to wait.

“Tell him,” he instructed the Major’s private secretary, who had barred his way, “that either he will talk to me right now or I will call District Safety over his head. I’ll give him sixty seconds to decide which.”

Moulton decided to see him. “I’m very busy, Doctor Kinnison, but...”

“I don’t give a swivel-eyed tinker’s damn how busy you are. I told you that the minute I found out what was the matter with the M2 mine I’d talk to you again. Here I am. Brittle firing pins. Three and two-tenths percent defective. So I’m...”

“Very irregular, Doctor. The matter will have to go through channels...”

“Not this one. The formal report is going through channels, but as I started to tell you, this is an emergency report to you as Chief of Safety. Since the defect is not covered by specs, neither Process nor Ordnance can reject except by test, and whoever does the testing will very probably be killed. Therefore, as every employee of Stoner and Black is not only authorized but positively instructed to do upon discovering an unsafe condition, I am reporting it direct to Safety. Since my whiskers are a trifle longer than an operator’s, I am reporting it direct to the Head of the Safety Division; and I am telling you that if you don’t do something about it damned quick--stop production and slap a HOLD order on all the M2AP’s you can reach--I’ll call District and make you personally responsible for every premature that occurs from now on.”