The Answer

by H. Beam Piper

Public Domain

Science Fiction Story: Lee Richardson and Alexis Pitov, two nuclear scientists, are participating in a thermonuclear test involving a rocket and negamatter. The test is decidedly not a test to develop into weapons-grade materials. However, Pitov and Richardson cannot help but consider the fate of Auburn, NY fifteen years ago when the nuclear event shocked the world. It had to be the Soviets. But the Soviets thought it was the Americans. Maybe it was the Australians? This new experimental test provides the answer.

Tags: Science Fiction   Novel-Classic  

For a moment, after the screen door snapped and wakened him, Lee Richardson sat breathless and motionless, his eyes still closed, trying desperately to cling to the dream and print it upon his conscious memory before it faded.

“Are you there, Lee?” he heard Alexis Pitov’s voice.

“Yes, I’m here. What time is it?” he asked, and then added, “I fell asleep. I was dreaming.”

It was all right; he was going to be able to remember. He could still see the slim woman with the graying blonde hair, playing with the little dachshund among the new-fallen leaves on the lawn. He was glad they’d both been in this dream together; these dream-glimpses were all he’d had for the last fifteen years, and they were too precious to lose. He opened his eyes. The Russian was sitting just outside the light from the open door of the bungalow, lighting a cigarette. For a moment, he could see the blocky, high-cheeked face, now pouched and wrinkled, and then the flame went out and there was only the red coal glowing in the darkness. He closed his eyes again, and the dream picture came back to him, the woman catching the little dog and raising her head as though to speak to him.

“Plenty of time, yet.” Pitov was speaking German instead of Spanish, as they always did between themselves. “They’re still counting down from minus three hours. I just phoned the launching site for a jeep. Eugenio’s been there ever since dinner; they say he’s running around like a cat looking for a place to have her first litter of kittens.”

He chuckled. This would be something new for Eugenio Galvez--for which he could be thankful.

“I hope the generators don’t develop any last-second bugs,” he said. “We’ll only be a mile and a half away, and that’ll be too close to fifty kilos of negamatter if the field collapses.”

“It’ll be all right,” Pitov assured him. “The bugs have all been chased out years ago.”

“Not out of those generators in the rocket. They’re new.” He fumbled in his coat pocket for his pipe and tobacco. “I never thought I’d run another nuclear-bomb test, as long as I lived.”

“Lee!” Pitov was shocked. “You mustn’t call it that. It isn’t that, at all. It’s purely a scientific experiment.”

“Wasn’t that all any of them were? We made lots of experiments like this, back before 1969.” The memories of all those other tests, each ending in an Everest-high mushroom column, rose in his mind. And the end result--the United States and the Soviet Union blasted to rubble, a whole hemisphere pushed back into the Dark Ages, a quarter of a billion dead. Including a slim woman with graying blonde hair, and a little red dog, and a girl from Odessa whom Alexis Pitov had been going to marry. “Forgive me, Alexis. I just couldn’t help remembering. I suppose it’s this shot we’re going to make, tonight. It’s so much like the other ones, before--” He hesitated slightly. “Before the Auburn Bomb.”

There; he’d come out and said it. In all the years they’d worked together at the Instituto Argentino de Ciencia Fisica, that had been unmentioned between them. The families of hanged cutthroats avoid mention of ropes and knives. He thumbed the old-fashioned American lighter and held it to his pipe. Across the veranda, in the darkness, he knew that Pitov was looking intently at him.

“You’ve been thinking about that, lately, haven’t you?” the Russian asked, and then, timidly: “Was that what you were dreaming of?”

“Oh, no, thank heaven!”

“I think about it, too, always. I suppose--” He seemed relieved, now that it had been brought out into the open and could be discussed. “You saw it fall, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. From about thirty miles away. A little closer than we’ll be to this shot, tonight. I was in charge of the investigation at Auburn, until we had New York and Washington and Detroit and Mobile and San Francisco to worry about. Then what had happened to Auburn wasn’t important, any more. We were trying to get evidence to lay before the United Nations. We kept at it for about twelve hours after the United Nations had ceased to exist.”

“I could never understand about that, Lee. I don’t know what the truth is; I probably never shall. But I know that my government did not launch that missile. During the first days after yours began coming in, I talked to people who had been in the Kremlin at the time. One had been in the presence of Klyzenko himself when the news of your bombardment arrived. He said that Klyzenko was absolutely stunned. We always believed that your government decided upon a preventive surprise attack, and picked out a town, Auburn, New York, that had been hit by one of our first retaliation missiles, and claimed that it had been hit first.”

He shook his head. “Auburn was hit an hour before the first American missile was launched. I know that to be a fact. We could never understand why you launched just that one, and no more until after ours began landing on you; why you threw away the advantage of surprise and priority of attack--”

“Because we didn’t do it, Lee!” The Russian’s voice trembled with earnestness. “You believe me when I tell you that?”

“Yes, I believe you. After all that happened, and all that you, and I, and the people you worked with, and the people I worked with, and your government, and mine, have been guilty of, it would be a waste of breath for either of us to try to lie to the other about what happened fifteen years ago.” He drew slowly on his pipe. “But who launched it, then? It had to be launched by somebody.”

“Don’t you think I’ve been tormenting myself with that question for the last fifteen years?” Pitov demanded. “You know, there were people inside the Soviet Union--not many, and they kept themselves well hidden--who were dedicated to the overthrow of the Soviet regime. They, or some of them, might have thought that the devastation of both our countries, and the obliteration of civilization in the Northern Hemisphere, would be a cheap price to pay for ending the rule of the Communist Party.”

“Could they have built an ICBM with a thermonuclear warhead in secret?” he asked. “There were also fanatical nationalist groups in Europe, both sides of the Iron Curtain, who might have thought our mutual destruction would be worth the risks involved.”

“There was China, and India. If your country and mine wiped each other out, they could go back to the old ways and the old traditions. Or Japan, or the Moslem States. In the end, they all went down along with us, but what criminal ever expects to fall?”

“We have too many suspects, and the trail’s too cold, Alexis. That rocket wouldn’t have had to have been launched anywhere in the Northern Hemisphere. For instance, our friends here in the Argentine have been doing very well by themselves since El Coloso del Norte went down.”

And there were the Australians, picking themselves up bargains in real-estate in the East Indies at gun-point, and there were the Boers, trekking north again, in tanks instead of ox-wagons. And Brazil, with a not-too-implausible pretender to the Braganza throne, calling itself the Portuguese Empire and looking eastward. And, to complete the picture, here were Professor Doctor Lee Richardson and Comrade Professor Alexis Petrovitch Pitov, getting ready to test a missile with a matter-annihilation warhead.

No. This thing just wasn’t a weapon.

A jeep came around the corner, lighting the dark roadway between the bungalows, its radio on and counting down--Twenty two minutes. Twenty one fifty nine, fifty eight, fifty seven--It came to a stop in front of their bungalow, at exactly Minus Two Hours, Twenty One Minutes, Fifty Four Seconds. The driver called out in Spanish:

“Doctor Richardson; Doctor Pitov! Are you ready?”

“Yes, ready. We’re coming.”

They both got to their feet, Richardson pulling himself up reluctantly. The older you get, the harder it is to leave a comfortable chair. He settled himself beside his colleague and former enemy, and the jeep started again, rolling between the buildings of the living-quarters area and out onto the long, straight road across the pampas toward the distant blaze of electric lights.

He wondered why he had been thinking so much, lately, about the Auburn Bomb. He’d questioned, at times, indignantly, of course, whether Russia had launched it--but it wasn’t until tonight, until he had heard what Pitov had had to say, that he seriously doubted it. Pitov wouldn’t lie about it, and Pitov would have been in a position to have known the truth, if the missile had been launched from Russia. Then he stopped thinking about what was water--or blood--a long time over the dam.

The special policeman at the entrance to the launching site reminded them that they were both smoking; when they extinguished, respectively, their cigarette and pipe, he waved the jeep on and went back to his argument with a carload of tourists who wanted to get a good view of the launching.

“There, now, Lee; do you need anything else to convince you that this isn’t a weapon project?” Pitov asked.

“No, now that you mention it. I don’t. You know, I don’t believe I’ve had to show an identity card the whole time I’ve been here.”

“I don’t believe I have an identity card,” Pitov said. “Think of that.”

The lights blazed everywhere around them, but mostly about the rocket that towered above everything else, so thick that it seemed squat. The gantry-cranes had been hauled away, now, and it stood alone, but it was still wreathed in thick electric cables. They were pouring enough current into that thing to light half the street-lights in Buenos Aires; when the cables were blown free by separation charges at the blastoff, the generators powered by the rocket-engines had better be able to take over, because if the magnetic field collapsed and that fifty-kilo chunk of negative-proton matter came in contact with natural positive-proton matter, an old-fashioned H-bomb would be a firecracker to what would happen. Just one hundred kilos of pure, two-hundred proof MC2.

The driver took them around the rocket, dodging assorted trucks and mobile machinery that were being hurried out of the way. The countdown was just beyond two hours five minutes. The jeep stopped at the edge of a crowd around three more trucks, and Doctor Eugenio Galvez, the director of the Institute, left the crowd and approached at an awkward half-run as they got down.

“Is everything checked, gentlemen?” he wanted to know.

“It was this afternoon at 1730,” Pitov told him. “And nobody’s been burning my telephone to report anything different. Are the balloons and the drone planes ready?”

“The Air Force just finished checking; they’re ready. Captain Urquiola flew one of the planes over the course and made a guidance-tape; that’s been duplicated and all the planes are equipped with copies.”

“How’s the wind?” Richardson asked.

“Still steady. We won’t have any trouble about fallout or with the balloons.”

“Then we’d better go back to the bunker and make sure everybody there is on the job.”

The loudspeaker was counting down to Two Hours One Minute.

“Could you spare a few minutes to talk to the press?” Eugenio Galvez asked. “And perhaps say a few words for telecast? This last is most important; we can’t explain too many times the purpose of this experiment. There is still much hostility, arising from fear that we are testing a nuclear weapon.”

The press and telecast services were well represented; there were close to a hundred correspondents, from all over South America, from South Africa and Australia, even one from Ceylon. They had three trucks, with mobile telecast pickups, and when they saw who was approaching, they released the two rocketry experts they had been quizzing and pounced on the new victims.

Was there any possibility that negative-proton matter might be used as a weapon?

“Anything can be used as a weapon; you could stab a man to death with that lead pencil you’re using,” Pitov replied. “But I doubt if negamatter will ever be so used. We’re certainly not working on weapons design here. We started, six years ago, with the ability to produce negative protons, reverse-spin neutrons, and positrons, and the theoretical possibility of assembling them into negamatter. We have just gotten a fifty kilogramme mass of nega-iron assembled. In those six years, we had to invent all our techniques, and design all our equipment. If we’d been insane enough to want to build a nuclear weapon, after what we went through up North, we could have done so from memory, and designed a better--which is to say a worse--one from memory in a few days.”

“Yes, and building a negamatter bomb for military purposes would be like digging a fifty foot shaft to get a rock to bash somebody’s head in, when you could do the job better with the shovel you’re digging with,” Richardson added. “The time, money, energy and work we put in on this thing would be ample to construct twenty thermonuclear bombs. And that’s only a small part of it.” He went on to tell them about the magnetic bottle inside the rocket’s warhead, mentioning how much electric current was needed to keep up the magnetic field that insulated the negamatter from contact with posimatter.

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