General French sat upright in his chair. The peaceful expression vanished from his face to be replaced by a hard, intent look, as his eyes flicked from phones to TV screen. The series of tracking stations, broadcasting over wire, sent their images in to be edited and projected on the screens in French's room. Their observations appeared at frighteningly short intervals.

  French stared at the flaring dot that swept across the screens. It could not be a missile, unless—his mind faltered at the thought— the Russians were further advanced than anyone had expected. They might be at that—after all, they had surprised the world with Sputnik not too many years ago, and the West was forced to work like fiends to catch up.

  "Target confirmed," one of the speakers announced with unearthly calm. "It's Washington!"

  The speaker to the left of the screen broke into life. "This is Conelrad," it said. "This is not a test, repeat—this is not a test!" The voice faded as another station took over. "A transpolar missile is headed south along the eastern seaboard. Target Washington. Plan One. Evacuation time thirty seconds—"

  Thirty seconds! French's mind recoiled. Washington was dead! You couldn't go anywhere in thirty seconds! His hand moved toward the red button. This was it!

  The missile on the screen was brighter now. It flamed like a miniature sun, and the sound of its passage was that of a million souls in torment! "It can't stand much more of that," French breathed. "It'll burn up!"

  "New York Sector—bogey at twelve o'clock—high! God! Look at it!"

  The glare of the thing filled the screen.

  The blue phone rang. "Center," French said. He waited and then laid the phone down. The line was dead.

  "Flash!" Conelrad said. "The enemy missile has struck south of New York. A tremendous flash was seen fifteen seconds ago by observers in civilian defense spotting nets ... no sound of the explosion as yet . . . more information—triangulation of the explosion indicates that it has struck the nation's capital! Our center of government has been destroyed!" There was a short silence broken by a faint voice. "Oh, my God!—all those poor people!"

  The red phone rang. French picked it up. "Center," he said.

  The phone squawked at him.

  "Your authority?" French queried dully. He paused and his face turned an angry red. "Just who do you think you are, Colonel? I'll take orders from the Chief—but no one else! Now get off that line! . . . Oh, I see. Then it's my responsibility? ... All right, I accept it—now leave me alone!" He put the phone gently back on the cradle. A fine beading of sweat dotted his forehead. This was the situation he had never let himself think would occur. The President was dead. The Joint Chiefs were dead. He was on his own until some sort of government could be formed. Should he wait and let Ivan exploit his advantage, or should he strike? Oddly, he wondered what his alter ego in Russia was doing at this moment. Was he proud of having struck this blow— or was he frightened? French smiled grimly. If he were in Ivan's shoes, he'd be scared to death! He shivered. For the first time in years he felt the full weight of the responsibility that was his. The red phone rang again.

  "Center—French here . . . Who's that? . .. Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Vice ... er, Mr. President! .. . Yes, sir, it's a terrible thing ... What have I done? Well, nothing yet, sir. A single bogey like that doesn't feel right. I'm waiting for the follow-up that'll confirm . . . Yes, sir I know—but do you want to take the responsibility for destroying the world? What if it wasn't Ivan's? Have you thought of that? . . . Yes, sir, it's my judgment that we wait . . . No, sir, I don't think so, if Ivan's back of this we'll have more coming, and if we do, I'll fire . . . No, sir, I will not take that responsibility . . . Yes, I know Washington's destroyed, but we still have no proof of Ivan's guilt. Long-range radar has not reported any activity in Russia . . . Sorry, sir, I can't see it that way—and you can't relieve me until 1600 hours . . . Yes, sir, I realize what I'm doing . . . Very well, sir, if that's the way you want it, I'll resign at 1600 hours. Goodbye." French dropped the phone into its cradle and wiped his forehead. He had just thrown his career out the window, but that was another thing that couldn't be helped. The President was hysterical now. Maybe he'd calm down later.

  "Flash!" the radio said. "Radio Moscow denies that the missile which destroyed Washington was one of theirs. They insist that it is a capitalist trick to make them responsible for World War III. The Premier accuses the United States . . . hey! wait a minute! . . . accuses the United States of trying to foment war, but to show the good faith of the Soviet Union, he will open the country to UN inspection to prove once and for all that the Soviet does not and has not intended nuclear aggression. He proposes that a UN team investigate the wreckage of Washington to determine whether the destruction was actually caused by a missile. Hah! Just what in hell does he think caused it?"

  French grinned thinly. Words like the last were seldom heard on the lips of commentators. The folks outside were pretty wrought up. There was hysteria in almost every word that had come into the office. But it hadn't moved him yet. His finger was still off the trigger. He picked up the white phone. "Get me DEW Line Headquarters," he said. "Hello, DEW Line, this is French at Center. Any more bogeys? . . . No? . . . That's good . . . No, we're still holding off... Why? . . . Any fool would know why if he stopped to think!" He slammed the phone back into its cradle. Damn fools howling for war! Just who did they think would win it? Sure, it would be easy to start things rolling. All he had to do/was push the button. He stared at it with fascinated eyes. Nearly three billion lives lay on that polished plastic surface, and he could snuff most of them out with one jab of a finger.

  "Sir!" a voice broke from the speaker. "What's the word— are we in it yet?"

  "Not yet, Jimmy."

  "Thank God!" the voice sounded relieved. "Just hang on, sir. We know they're pressuring you, but they'll stop screaming for blood once they have time to think."

  "I hope so," French said. He chuckled without humor. The personnel at Center knew what nuclear war would be like. Most of them had experience at Frenchman's Flat. They didn't want any part of it, if it could be avoided. And neither did he.

  The hours dragged by. The phones rang, and Conelrad kept reporting—giving advice and directions for evacuation of the cities. All the nation was stalled in the hugest traffic jam in history. Some of it couldn't help seeping in, even through the censorship. There was danger in too much of anything, and obviously the country was overmechanized. By now, French was certain that Russia was innocent. If she wasn't, Ivan would have struck in force by now. He wondered how his opposite number in Russia was taking it. Was the man crouched over his control board, waiting for the cloud of capitalist missiles to appear over the horizon? Or was he, too, fingering a red button, debating whether or not to strike before it was too late?

  "Flash!" the radio said. "Radio Moscow offers immediate entry to any UN inspection team authorized by the General Assembly. The presidium has met and announces that under no circumstances will Russia take any aggressive action. They repeat that the missile was not theirs, and suggest that it might have originated from some other nation desirous of fomenting war between the Great Powers . . . ah, nuts!"

  "That's about as close to surrender as they dare come," French murmured softly. "They're scared green—but then, who wouldn't be?" He looked at the local clock. It read 1410. Less than two hours to go before the time lock opened and unimaginative Jim Craig came through that door to take his place. If the President called with Craig in the seat, the executive orders would be obeyed. He picked up the white phone.

  "Get me the Commanding General of the Second Army," he said. He waited a moment. "Hello, George, this is Al at Center. How you doing? Bad, huh? No, we're holding off ... Now hold it, George. That's not what I called for. I don't need moral support. I want information. Have your radio crews checked the Washington area yet? . . . They haven't. Why not? Get them on the ball! Ivan keeps insisting that that bogey wasn't his and the facts seem to indicate he's telling the truth for once, but we're going to blast if he can't prove it! I want the dope on radioactivity in that area and I want it now! ... If you don't want to issue an order—call for volunteers ... So they might get a lethal dose— so what? . . . Offer them a medal. There's always someone who'd walk into hell for the chance of getting a medal. Now get cracking! . . . Yes, that's an order."

  The radio came on again. "First reports of the damage in Washington," it chattered. "A shielded Air Force reconnaissance plane has flown over the blast area, taking pictures and making an aerial survey of fallout intensity. The Capitol is a shambles. Ground Zero was approximately in the center of Pennsylvania Avenue. There is a tremendous crater over a half-mile wide, and around that for nearly two miles there is literally nothing! The Capitol is gone. Over ninety-eight percent of the city is destroyed. Huge fires are raging in Alexandria and the outskirts. The Potomac bridges are down. The destruction is inconceivable. The landmarks of our—"

  French grabbed the white phone. "Find out who the Air Force commander was who sent up that recon plane over Washington!" he barked. "I don't know who he is—but get him now!" He waited for three minutes. "So it was you, Willoughby! I thought it might be. This is French at Center. What did that recon find? ... It did, hey? . . . Well now, isn't that simply wonderful! You stupid publicity-crazy fool! What do you mean by with-holding vital information! Do you realize that I've been sitting here with my finger on the button ready to kill half the earth's population, while you've been flirting around with reporters? . . . Dammit! That's no excuse! You should be cashiered— and if I have any influence around here tomorrow, I'll see that you are. As it is, you're relieved as of now! . . . What do you mean, I can't do that? . . . Read your regulations again, and then get out of that office and place yourself under arrest in quarters! Turn over your command to your executive officer! You utter, driveling fool! . . . Aaagh!!" French snarled as he slammed the phone back.

  It began ringing again immediately. "French here . . . Yes, George . . . You have? . . . You did? ... It isn't? ... I thought so. We've been barking up the wrong tree this time. It was an act of God! . . . Yes, I said an act of God! Remember that crater out in Arizona? Well, this is the same thing—a meteor! ... Yes, Ivan's still quiet. Not a peep out of him. The DEW Line reports no activity."?

  The blue phone began to ring. French looked at it. "O.K., George—apology accepted. I know how you feel." He hung up and lifted the blue phone. "Yes, Mr. President," he said. "Yes, sir. You've heard the news, I suppose . . . You've had confirmation from Lick Observatory? . . . Yes, sir, I'll stay here if you wish . . . No, sir, I'm perfectly willing to act. It was just that this never did look right—and thank God that you understand astronomy, sir ... Of course I'll stay until the emergency is over, but you'll have to tell General Craig . . . Who's Craig? Why, he's my relief, sir." French looked at the clock. "He comes on in twenty minutes . . . Well, thank you, sir. I never thought that I'd get a commendation for not obeying orders."

  French sighed and hung up. Sense was beginning to percolate through the shock. People were beginning to think again. He sighed. This should teach a needed lesson. He made a mental note of it. If he had anything to say about the makeup of Center from now on—there'd be an astronomer on the staff, and a few more of them scattered out on the DEW Line and the outpost groups. It was virtually certain now that the Capitol was struck by a meteorite. There was no radioactivity. It had been an act of God—or at least not an act of war. The destruction was terrible, but it could have been worse if either he or his alter ego in Russia had lost control and pushed the buttons. He thought idly that he'd like to meet the Ivan who ran their Center.

  "The proposals of the Soviet government," the radio interrupted, "have been accepted by the UN. An inspection team is en route to Russia, and others will follow as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, the UN has requested a cease-fire assurance from the United States, warning that the start of a nuclear war would be the end of everything." The announcer's voice held a note of grim humor. "So far, there has been no word from Washington concerning these proposals."

  French chuckled. It might not be in the best taste, and it might be graveyard humor—but it was a healthy sign.

  THE EDGE OF THE SEA

  Algis Budrys

  The Overseas Highway, two narrow white lanes on yellowed concrete piers, lay close to the shallow water, passed over the key, and went on.

  All afternoon the sea had been rising. Long, greasy-faced green swells came in from the Atlantic Ocean and broke on the rocks with a sudden upsurge of surf. At midday, the water had been far down among the coral heads. Now it was in the tumbled limestone blocks and concrete prisms that had been dumped there to build up the key. In a little while it would be washing its spume over the highway itself, and it might well go farther, with the increasing wind.

  It was dark with twilight, and darker with clouds thick as oil smoke covering the sun over the Gulf of Mexico. The Gulf was stirring, too, and bayous were flooding in Louisiana. But it was over the Atlantic that the hurricane was spinning. It was the broad, deep, deadly ocean that the tide and wind were pushing down through the gloom on to the side of the key where Dan Henry was struggling grimly, his massive back and shoulders naked and running with spray.

  His eyes were red-rimmed with salt and his hide was slashed shallowly in a dozen places where he had lost his balance on the stones and fallen. He had been lurching through the surf all afternoon, working to save what he had seen, leaden and encrusted, rolling ponderously at the edge of the water. His shirt, the seat covers from his car - the fan-belt, too - and what few scraps of rope and wire had been in the trunk, all had gone for him to twist into an incredible rag of a hawser.

  The men who built the Overseas Highway on the old railroad right-of-way had built up the little key, but it was still no more than a hundred feet in diameter. If the thing trapped on the rocks

  The edge of the sea 53

  had chosen any other islet to wash against, there would have been a reasonable chance of saving it. But there was no one living here, and nothing to use for tools or anchors. The thing was rolling and grinding against the rocks, too heavy to float but too bulky to resist the push of storm-driven water. There were bright silver gouges on its metal flanks, and in a little while it would break up or break free, and be lost either way. The rope - the stubborn, futile rope passed around the two struts at its nose and wrapped around the great concrete block it was now butting at with brute persistence - was as much use as though Dan Henry had been a spider and tried to hold this thing in a hurriedly created web. But he had had to try, and he was trying now in another way. He jammed the soles of his feet against one concrete block and pushed his shoulders against another. With his belly ridged and his thighs bulging, his face contorted and his hands clenched, he was trying to pusn another massive piece of stone into place behind the plunging metal thing, though his blood might erupt from his veins and the muscles tear open his flesh.

  The thing was as thick through as a hogshead, and as long as two men. There was a thick-lipped, scarred opening a foot across at one end, where the body rounded sharply in a hemispherical compound curve. There were three stumpy fins rooted in the curve, their tips not extending beyond the bulge of the body, and two struts at the blunt nose like horns on a snail but bent forward so that the entire thing might have been fired out of a monstrous cannon or launched from the tubes of some unimaginable submarine. There were no visible openings, no boltheads, no seams. The entire thing might have been cast of a piece - might h'ave been solid, except for the tube in the stern - and though barnacles clung to it and moss stained it, though the rocks gouged it and other blows had left their older scars on its pitted surface, still the thing was not visibly damaged.

  Dan Henry strained at the rock, and sand grated minutely at its base. But the world turned red behind his eyes, and his muscies writhed into knots, and his breath burned his chest with the fury of fire. The sea broke against him and ran into his nose and mouth. The wind moaned, and the water hissed through the rocks, crashing as it came and gurgling as it drew back. The thing groaned and grated with each sluggish move. The day grew steadily darker.

  Dan Henry had stopped his car on the key at noon, pulling off the highway on to the one narrow space of shoulder. He had opened the glove compartment and taken out the waxed container of milk and the now stale sandwich he had bought in Hallandale, above Miami, at ten that morning. He lit a cigarette and unwrapped the sandwich, and began to eat. The milk had turned warm in the glove compartment and acquired an unpleasant taste, but Dan Henry had never cared how his food tasted. He paid no attention to it as he chewed the sandwich and drank the milk between drags on the cigarette. He had bought the food when he stopped for gas, and when he finished it he planned to go on immediately, driving until he reached Key West.

  There was nothing specific waiting for him there. Nothing in his life had ever been waiting for him anywhere. But, everywhere he went, he went as directly and as efficiently as possible because that was his nature. He was a powerful, reasonably intelligent, ugly man who drew his strength from a knowledge that nothing could quite overcome him. He asked no more of the world. He was thirty years old, and had been a construction foreman, a police officer, an M.P. sergeant in Germany and a long-haul trailer-truck driver. In addition to these things he had been born into a derrick rigger's family in Oklahoma and raised in his father's nomadic, self-sufficient tradition.

  When he first saw the dull colour of metal down among the rocks, he got out of the car to see what it was. He was already thinking in terms of its possible usefulness when he reached the thing. Once near it, the idea of salvage rights came naturally.

 

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