pack of cigarettes from a pocket and greedily lighted up.
Farr watched him, almost without awareness. Looked at his cigar. "Funny. I smoke a dozen of these a day, or even more. And hadn't thought to--till just now."
Ben explained that everybody else had assumed smoking was "out."
Farr's head shook. "Lord, no! The air's filtered constantly. We clean it, dry it, take out the carbon dioxide, add oxygen as required, and reuse it. Like a submarine."
Ben smiled. "About everybody will sure be glad to know that! But how come, with a cigar habit, you didn't smoke all these hours?"
Farr's smile was wide and yet his eyes were unamused. "Dunno. Just didn't notice the urge. What were the readings?" Ben hesitated. "It must have been sodium," he said.
"Not serious for us--short half--life-but--"
Farr clamped down on the cigar. "You're not making sense."
Ben still hesitated. "First gauge I read made me think--one George says came up on signal from behind a cave door, at the far rim of the quarry."
"I know. Go on!"
"I thought the system had blown! Reading was so high. Second one, in your north property, in a special well, confirmed the first. I still can hardly believe it! But all the gauges radioing us any information--half of those you fixed up--agree, more or less."
"Man, out with it! High, I take it?" "The level outside, around your property--or what used to be yours--seems close to one million roentgens."
"A million! No!" Farr blanched, sagged, muttered. "A million! Impossible!"
"Not if the enemy set off enough devices rigged to spill maximum amounts of radioactive sodium over the American landscape. It's what you'd expect."
"But, a million roentgens! When six hundred is fatal, if you take it over your whole body for minutes!"
"Sure. And if you stepped into a million roentgens, you'd--I don't exactly know!
Sort of wilt, crumple, start to go black and die, standing--at a guess."
"How far inland would it--?"
"Can't say. Clear across the United States in the next few days. Some big fraction of that level anyhow, if they used enough sea mines on both coasts. We've known such things would be possible, as you said, since mid-1950. But we never officially presumed any enemy would try it."
"Crazy!"
"The whole thing is! So's this place, for that matter!"
Farr sat rooted. "Nonsense! This place is the only fragment of common sense left in--the whole world, maybe! But, a million roentgens! Even half a million! A quarter!
And even if half of the amount fades in--what?"
"Fifteen hours, if it's sodium."
"Will anybody survive it? Short of having--?" Farr looked at the vast oblong chamber carved from stone.
"I'd imagine not," Ben answered listlessly. "Unless they're airtight, like us, and heavily barricaded, like this place. Small leaks of air, that hot, would be enough to do the job. In the best of standard civilian shelters."
Farr rose like a man aged by some instant curse. "Incredible! Nevertheless, Ben, I'm going to lie down. I'm whipped. I may not sleep. I may never be able to sleep again!
But I've got to rest. And I advise you to do the same." He started to depart, raggedly.
"Yeah. I will."
On the comfortable bunk in the blank-walled room assigned to him, Ben lay quietly, trying to think. To think about what, he could not have said. So many things!
And one above all--the end of his world!--except this little pocket. Or maybe a few like it.
The end, actually, of half the world. His brain spun, blurred, and made pictures that tensed his muscles, but eventually that horrid process ceased and he dozed.
At four o'clock, which was not much after Ben drowsed off, Kit Barlow's alarm watch woke him. It took him seconds to remember where he was. Then, slowly and as if in pain, the tall, rugged, handsome playboy dressed, in the already-standard shelter outfit: coveralls, socks, shirt, and loafers. He went to the kitchen and turned on lights. Their gleam on so much stainless steel hurt his eyes for a
Farr watched him, almost without awareness. Looked at his cigar. "Funny. I smoke a dozen of these a day, or even more. And hadn't thought to--till just now."
Ben explained that everybody else had assumed smoking was "out."
Farr's head shook. "Lord, no! The air's filtered constantly. We clean it, dry it, take out the carbon dioxide, add oxygen as required, and reuse it. Like a submarine."
Ben smiled. "About everybody will sure be glad to know that! But how come, with a cigar habit, you didn't smoke all these hours?"
Farr's smile was wide and yet his eyes were unamused. "Dunno. Just didn't notice the urge. What were the readings?" Ben hesitated. "It must have been sodium," he said.
"Not serious for us--short half--life-but--"
Farr clamped down on the cigar. "You're not making sense."
Ben still hesitated. "First gauge I read made me think--one George says came up on signal from behind a cave door, at the far rim of the quarry."
"I know. Go on!"
"I thought the system had blown! Reading was so high. Second one, in your north property, in a special well, confirmed the first. I still can hardly believe it! But all the gauges radioing us any information--half of those you fixed up--agree, more or less."
"Man, out with it! High, I take it?" "The level outside, around your property--or what used to be yours--seems close to one million roentgens."
"A million! No!" Farr blanched, sagged, muttered. "A million! Impossible!"
"Not if the enemy set off enough devices rigged to spill maximum amounts of radioactive sodium over the American landscape. It's what you'd expect."
"But, a million roentgens! When six hundred is fatal, if you take it over your whole body for minutes!"
"Sure. And if you stepped into a million roentgens, you'd--I don't exactly know!
Sort of wilt, crumple, start to go black and die, standing--at a guess."
"How far inland would it--?"
"Can't say. Clear across the United States in the next few days. Some big fraction of that level anyhow, if they used enough sea mines on both coasts. We've known such things would be possible, as you said, since mid-1950. But we never officially presumed any enemy would try it."
"Crazy!"
"The whole thing is! So's this place, for that matter!"
Farr sat rooted. "Nonsense! This place is the only fragment of common sense left in--the whole world, maybe! But, a million roentgens! Even half a million! A quarter!
And even if half of the amount fades in--what?"
"Fifteen hours, if it's sodium."
"Will anybody survive it? Short of having--?" Farr looked at the vast oblong chamber carved from stone.
"I'd imagine not," Ben answered listlessly. "Unless they're airtight, like us, and heavily barricaded, like this place. Small leaks of air, that hot, would be enough to do the job. In the best of standard civilian shelters."
Farr rose like a man aged by some instant curse. "Incredible! Nevertheless, Ben, I'm going to lie down. I'm whipped. I may not sleep. I may never be able to sleep again!
But I've got to rest. And I advise you to do the same." He started to depart, raggedly.
"Yeah. I will."
On the comfortable bunk in the blank-walled room assigned to him, Ben lay quietly, trying to think. To think about what, he could not have said. So many things!
And one above all--the end of his world!--except this little pocket. Or maybe a few like it.
The end, actually, of half the world. His brain spun, blurred, and made pictures that tensed his muscles, but eventually that horrid process ceased and he dozed.
At four o'clock, which was not much after Ben drowsed off, Kit Barlow's alarm watch woke him. It took him seconds to remember where he was. Then, slowly and as if in pain, the tall, rugged, handsome playboy dressed, in the already-standard shelter outfit: coveralls, socks, shirt, and loafers. He went to the kitchen and turned on lights. Their gleam on so much stainless steel hurt his eyes for a
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