Short Fiction Poul Anderson (reading a book .TXT) 📖

“The idea is this. We want to make really enormous quantities of such weapons. By various means⁠—through underground channels, by air if necessary⁠—we want to distribute them to all the Iron Curtain countries. The people will be armed, and hell is going to break loose!

“We want you in on it as design and production consultants. Leave tomorrow, be gone for several months probably. It’s going to have to be highly organized, so it can be sprung as a surprise; otherwise the Soviet bosses, who are no fools, will hit. But your part will be in production. Are you game?”

“It’s⁠—astonishing,” said Elizabeth. “Frankly, I didn’t think the government had that much imagination.”

“We’re probably exceeding our authority,” admitted Brackney. “By rights, of course, Congress should be consulted, but this is like the Louisiana Purchase: there’s no time to do so.”

It was the historical note which decided Arch. Grade-school history, yes⁠—but it didn’t fit in with his preconceptions of the red-necked militarist. Suddenly, almost hysterically, he was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” asked Horrisford sharply.

“The idea⁠—what old Clausewitz would say⁠—winning wars by arming the enemy! Sure⁠—sure, I’m in. Gladly!”

Six months on a secret reservation in Colorado which nobody but the top brass left, six months of the hardest, most concentrated work a man could endure, got Arch out of touch with the world. He saw an occasional newspaper, was vaguely aware of trouble on the outside, but there was too much immediately at hand for him to consider the reality. Everything outside the barbed-wire borders of his universe grew vague.

Designing and testing capacitite weapons was harder than he had expected, and took longer: though experienced engineers assured him the project was moving with unprecedented speed and ease. Production details were out of his department, but the process of tooling up and getting mass output going was not one for overnight solution.

The magnetic rifle; the arc gun; the electric bomb and grenade; the capacitite land mine, set to fry the crew of any tank which passed over⁠—he knew their hideous uses, but there was a cool ecstasy in working with them which made him forget, most of the time. And after all, the idea was to arm men who would be free.

In March, General Brackney entered the Quonset hut which Arch and Elizabeth had been inhabiting and sat down with a weary smile. “I guess you’re all through now,” he said.

“About time,” grumbled the girl. “We’ve been sitting on our hands here for a month, just puttering.”

“The stuff had to be shipped out,” said the general mildly. “We didn’t dare risk having the secret revealed. But we’re rolling overseas, it’s too late to stop anything.” He shrugged. “Naturally, the government isn’t admitting its part in this. Officially, the weapons were manufactured by independent operators in Europe and Asia, and you’ll have to keep quiet about the truth for a long time⁠—not that the comrades won’t be pretty sure, but it just can’t be openly admitted. However, there are no security restrictions on the gadgets themselves, as of today.”

“That surprises me,” said Arch.

“It’s simple enough. Everything is so obvious, really⁠—any handyman can make the same things for himself. A lot have been doing it, too. No secrets exist to be given away, that’s all.” Brackney hesitated. “We’ll fly you back home anytime you wish. But if you want to stay on a more permanent basis, we’ll be glad to have you.”

“No, thanks!” Elizabeth’s eyes went distastefully around the sleazy interior of the shack.

“This has all been temporary,” said the general. “We were in such a hell of a hurry. Better housing will be built now.”

“Nevertheless, no,” said Arch.

Brackney frowned. “I can’t stop you, of course. But I don’t think you realize how tough it’s getting outside, and how much worse it’s going to get. A revolution is starting, in more senses than one, and you’ll be safer here.”

“I heard something about that,” agreed Arch. “Discontented elements making their own weapons, similar to ours⁠—what of it?”

“Plenty,” said the officer with a note of grimness. “It’s an ugly situation. A lot of people are out of work, and even those who still have jobs don’t feel secure in them. There are a dozen crank solutions floating around, everything from new political theories to new religious sects, and each one is finding wider acceptance than I’d have believed possible.”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” said Arch. “There’s a queer strain of the True Believer in American culture. You know how many utopian colonies we’ve had throughout our history? And the single tax party, and prohibition, and communism in the thirties. People in this country want something concrete to believe in, and all but a few of the churches have long ago degenerated into social clubs.”

“Whatever the cause,” said Brackney, “there are all these new groups, clashing with the old authorities and with each other. And the underworld is gleefully pitching in, and getting a lot of recruits from the ranks of hungry, frightened, embittered people.

“The regular armed forces have to be mobilized to stop anything the Soviets may try. The police and the National Guard have their hands full in the big cities. The result is, that authority is breaking down everywhere else. There’s real trouble ahead, I tell you.”

“All right,” said Arch. “That’s as may be. But our town is a collection of pretty solid folk⁠—and we want to go home.”

“On your heads be it. There’ll be a plane at six tomorrow.”

—The fact did not strike home till they were stopping over at Idlewild and saw uniformed men and machine-gun emplacements. In the coffee shop, Arch asked the counterman just how bad things really were.

“Rough,” he answered. “See this?” He flipped back his jacket, showing a homemade capacitite pistol in a holster.

“Oh, look now⁠—”

“Mister, I live in Brooklyn. I don’t get home till after dark, and the police cordons don’t go closer than six blocks to my place. I’ve had to shoot twice already in the past couple months.”

“Bandits?”

“In gangs, mister. If