military secret of the Soviet people. I don’t have the authority—”
Rockson picked up the Red by the collar and lifted him off the floor. “So you know, little scientist. Tell me or I’ll let Archer play punching bag with you.” The Soviet scientist looked at Archer, who sat on a nearby desk, bending its legs under his weight.
“One hundred twenty,” the lab major shouted out, squirming around.
Rockson dropped the little man. “One hundred twenty kilograms! That means ten times a hundred and twenty.”
“My God,” shouted Detroit. “That’s twelve hundred times the power of the Hiroshima bomb.”
The Soviet smiled. “That is correct. Of course, that is per missile—there are five missiles.”
Detroit sat down and stared at the table. “How could anyone construct such a deadly thing? Just one of those missiles—could—could—”
Rockson finished his sentence in a soft voice. “. . . Take out a quarter of the state of Colorado!”
In a quiet mood, the men uncrated the antimatter meter. It was about four feet long. “Strange-looking thing,” Chen commented.
“And kind of heavy,” Rock added, “to drag around with us.”
“Yes, heavy,” Scheransky said, wiping his sweaty hands on his uniform pants, “but a marvel of Russian technology.”
“Damn. We have to lug that thing all the way up into snow country?” said Detroit. “Why, the thing would take a ’brid of its own just to carry it.”
“Can’t be helped,” Rock said. “It’s our only way of finding Killov.” The Freefighters gingerly set it down alongside the table. The antimatter meter was turned on by the Russian, for demonstration purposes. The long silver cylinder with rows of buttons and meters on it throbbed and pulsed, and then, to their amazement, it started moving. It was turning like a compass needle. It managed this maneuver because it had small ball bearings on its lower side.
“It keeps collecting antimatter traces—meson particles in the air. Normally they don’t even exist. If a Meson-5 missile has come by the area within twenty days, the A-M meter should start clicking like a Geiger counter does for any ordinary radiation.” The Russian made a proud smile.
“Hey,” said Detroit, “look at what was also in the package.” He held up a pair of red shiny metal boxes about six inches square and perfectly smooth, one in each hand. “There’s more little red boxes out there. Chen’s bringing—”
“Be careful,” Scheransky shouted in bad English as he stood up, apparently terrified. “Place those down carefully. They are—dangerous.”
Detroit placed them gingerly on the floor. They looked harmless enough. “What’s in them, Scheransky?”
Scheransky wet his lips and resumed his seat. “They’re antimatter drains. They have to be attached to the missiles when we find them, inserted near the warheads. They deplete the antimatter. It’s the only way to disarm the warheads. Aside from pulling a few wires in the electrical system, disarming the missiles is child’s play. But we have to be very careful placing these ‘little red boxes’ as you call them next to the warheads. They must be placed in such a way—they are polarized—to reverse the poles . . .”
“But they can’t explode by themselves, can they? You said they were ‘drains.’ How can a drain explode?” Rock asked.
Scheransky smiled. “Antimatter drains have that capability, especially if jarred. Creates the explosive force of a hand grenade. The technical explanation is quite—”
“We’ll handle them gently from now on. Detroit, why don’t you go tell Chen before he starts juggling the last red boxes.”
“Will do.” Detroit exited with all due haste.
“Now,” Scheransky said, putting his pale hands back flat on the table, “I volunteered for this mission. I hope you understand there will be—there must be no failure on your part, Rockson, to help me deactivate the missiles. They are not to be merely
Rockson picked up the Red by the collar and lifted him off the floor. “So you know, little scientist. Tell me or I’ll let Archer play punching bag with you.” The Soviet scientist looked at Archer, who sat on a nearby desk, bending its legs under his weight.
“One hundred twenty,” the lab major shouted out, squirming around.
Rockson dropped the little man. “One hundred twenty kilograms! That means ten times a hundred and twenty.”
“My God,” shouted Detroit. “That’s twelve hundred times the power of the Hiroshima bomb.”
The Soviet smiled. “That is correct. Of course, that is per missile—there are five missiles.”
Detroit sat down and stared at the table. “How could anyone construct such a deadly thing? Just one of those missiles—could—could—”
Rockson finished his sentence in a soft voice. “. . . Take out a quarter of the state of Colorado!”
In a quiet mood, the men uncrated the antimatter meter. It was about four feet long. “Strange-looking thing,” Chen commented.
“And kind of heavy,” Rock added, “to drag around with us.”
“Yes, heavy,” Scheransky said, wiping his sweaty hands on his uniform pants, “but a marvel of Russian technology.”
“Damn. We have to lug that thing all the way up into snow country?” said Detroit. “Why, the thing would take a ’brid of its own just to carry it.”
“Can’t be helped,” Rock said. “It’s our only way of finding Killov.” The Freefighters gingerly set it down alongside the table. The antimatter meter was turned on by the Russian, for demonstration purposes. The long silver cylinder with rows of buttons and meters on it throbbed and pulsed, and then, to their amazement, it started moving. It was turning like a compass needle. It managed this maneuver because it had small ball bearings on its lower side.
“It keeps collecting antimatter traces—meson particles in the air. Normally they don’t even exist. If a Meson-5 missile has come by the area within twenty days, the A-M meter should start clicking like a Geiger counter does for any ordinary radiation.” The Russian made a proud smile.
“Hey,” said Detroit, “look at what was also in the package.” He held up a pair of red shiny metal boxes about six inches square and perfectly smooth, one in each hand. “There’s more little red boxes out there. Chen’s bringing—”
“Be careful,” Scheransky shouted in bad English as he stood up, apparently terrified. “Place those down carefully. They are—dangerous.”
Detroit placed them gingerly on the floor. They looked harmless enough. “What’s in them, Scheransky?”
Scheransky wet his lips and resumed his seat. “They’re antimatter drains. They have to be attached to the missiles when we find them, inserted near the warheads. They deplete the antimatter. It’s the only way to disarm the warheads. Aside from pulling a few wires in the electrical system, disarming the missiles is child’s play. But we have to be very careful placing these ‘little red boxes’ as you call them next to the warheads. They must be placed in such a way—they are polarized—to reverse the poles . . .”
“But they can’t explode by themselves, can they? You said they were ‘drains.’ How can a drain explode?” Rock asked.
Scheransky smiled. “Antimatter drains have that capability, especially if jarred. Creates the explosive force of a hand grenade. The technical explanation is quite—”
“We’ll handle them gently from now on. Detroit, why don’t you go tell Chen before he starts juggling the last red boxes.”
“Will do.” Detroit exited with all due haste.
“Now,” Scheransky said, putting his pale hands back flat on the table, “I volunteered for this mission. I hope you understand there will be—there must be no failure on your part, Rockson, to help me deactivate the missiles. They are not to be merely
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