"All right. Say that he is. But he will be really dead just the same, no?"
Ralson was unconscious again and heard nothing of this. Grant looked at
him somberly, then said, "Well, take him away, then."
Ten of the top men at the Institute watched glumly as slide after slide filled the illuminated screen. Grant faced them, expression hard and frowning.
He said, "I think the idea is simple enough. You're mathematicians and you're engineers. The scrawl may seem illegible, but it was done with meaning behind it. That meaning must somehow remain in the writing, distorted though it is. The first page is clear enough. It should be a good lead. Each one of you will look at every page over and over again. You're going to put down every possible version of each page as it seems it might be. You will work independently. I want no consultations."
One of them said, "How do you know it means anything, Grant?"
"Because those are Ralson's notes."
"Ralson! I thought he was-"
"You thought he was sick," said Grant. He had to shout over the rising hum of conversation. "I know. He is. That's the writing of a man who was nearly dead. It's all we'll ever get from Ralson, any more. Somewhere in that scrawl is the answer to the force field problem. If we can't find it, we may have to spend ten years looking for it elsewhere."
They bent to their work. The night passed. Two nights passed. Three nights-
Grant looked at the results. He shook his head. "I'll take your word for it that it is all self-consistent. I can't say I understand it."
Lowe, who, in the absence of Ralson, would readily have been rated the best nuclear engineer at the Institute, shrugged. "It's not exactly clear to me. If it works, he hasn't explained why."
"He had no time to explain. Can you build the generator as he describes it?"
"I could try."
"Would you look at all the other versions of the pages?"
"The others are definitely not self-consistent."
"Would you double-check?"
"Sure."
"And could you start construction anyway?"
"I'll get the shop started. But I tell you frankly that I'm pessimistic."
"I know. So am I."
The thing grew. Hal Ross, Senior Mechanic, was put in charge of the actual construction, and he stopped sleeping. At any hour of the day or night, he could be found at it, scratching his bald head.
He asked questions only once, "What is it, Dr. Lowe? Never saw anything like it? What's it supposed to do?"
Lowe said, "You know where you are, Ross. You know we don't ask questions here. Don't ask again."
Ross did not ask again. He was known to dislike the structure that was being built. He called it ugly and unnatural. But he stayed at it.
Blaustein called one day.
Grant said, "How's Ralson?"
"Not good. He wants to attend the testing of the Field Projector he designed."
Grant hesitated, "I suppose we should. It's his after all."
"I would have to come with him."
Grant looked unhappier. "It might be dangerous, you know. Even in a pilot test, we'd be playing with tremendous energies."
Blaustein said, "No more dangerous for us than for you."
"Very well. The list of observers will have to be cleared through the Commission and the F.B.I., but I'll put you in."
Blaustein looked about him. The field projector squatted in the very center of the huge testing laboratory, but all else had been cleared. There was no visible connection with the plutonium pile which served as energy-source, but from what the psychiatrist heard in scraps about him-he knew better than to ask Ralson-the connection was from beneath.
At first, the observers had circled the machine, talking in incomprehen-sibles, but they were drifting away now. The gallery was filling up. There were at least three men in generals' uniforms on the other side, and a real coterie of lower-scale military. Blaustein chose an unoccupied portion of the railing; for Ralson's sake, most of all.
He said, "Do you still think you would like to stay?"
It was warm enough within the laboratory, but Ralson was in his coat, with his collar turned up. It made little difference, Blaustein felt. He doubted that any of Ralson's former acquaintances would now recognize him.
Ralson said, "I'll stay."
Blaustein was pleased. He wanted to see the test. He turned again at a new voice.
"Hello, Dr. Blaustein."
For a minute, Blaustein did not place him, then he said, "Ah, Inspector Darrity. What are you doing here?"
"Just what you would suppose." He indicated the watchers. "There isn't
any way you can weed them out so that you can be sure there won't be any mistakes. I once stood as near to Klaus Fuchs as I am standing to you." He tossed his pocketknife into the air and retrieved it with a dexterous motion.
"Ah, yes. Where shall one find perfect security? What man can trust even his own unconscious? And you will now stand near to me, no?"
"Might as well." Darrity smiled. "You were very anxious to get in here, weren't you?"
"Not for myself, Inspector. And would you put away the knife, please."
Darrity turned in surprise in the direction of Blaustein's gentle head-gesture. He put his knife away and looked at Blaustein's companion for the second time. He whistled softly.
He said, "Hello, Dr. Ralson."
Ralson croaked, "Hello."
Blaustein was not surprised at Darrity's reaction. Ralson had lost twenty pounds since returning to the sanatorium. His face was yellow and wrinkled; the face of a man who had suddenly become sixty.