Short Fiction by Fritz Leiber (top romance novels .TXT) 📕

the type and I detest it.” (“You are sort of intellectual, aren’t you?” Pop told her, which fortunately didn’t start a riot.)

Still, I guess all three of us found it fun to chew over a bit the new slant we’d gotten on two (in a way, three) of the great “countries” of the modern world. (And as long as we thought of it as fun, we didn’t have to admit the envy and wistfulness that was behind our wisecracks.)

I said, “We’ve always figured in a general way that Alamos was the remains of a community of scientists and technicians. Now we know the same’s true of the Atla-Hi group. They’re the Brookhaven survivors.”

“Manhattan Project, don’t you mean?” Alice corrected.

“Nope, that was in Colorado Springs,” Pop said with finality.

I also pointed out that a community of scientists would educate for technical intelligence, maybe breed for it too. And being a group picked for high I.Q. to begin with, they might make startlingly fast progress. You could easily imagine such folk, unimpeded by the boobs, creating a wonder world in a couple of generations.

“They got their troubles though,” Pop reminded me and that led us to speculating about the war we’d dipped into. Savannah Fortress, we knew, was supposed to be based on some big atomic plants on the river down that way, but its culture seemed to have a fiercer ingredient than Atla-Alamos. Before we knew it we were, musing almost romantically about the plight of Atla-Hi, besieged by superior and (it was easy to suppose) barbaric forces, and maybe distant Los Alamos in a similar predicament⁠—Alice reminded me how the voice had asked if they were still dying out there. For a moment I found myself fiercely proud that I had been able to strike a blow against evil aggressors. At once, of course, then, the revulsion came.

“This is a hell of a way,” I said, “for three so-called realists to be mooning about things.”

“Yes, especially when your heroes kicked us out,” Alice agreed.

Pop chuckled. “Yep,” he said, “they even took Ray’s artillery away from him.”

“You’re wrong there, Pop,” I said, sitting up. “I still got one of the grenades⁠—the one the pilot had in his fist.” To tell the truth I’d forgotten all about it and it bothered me a little now to feel it snugged up in my pocket against my hip bone where the skin is thin.

“You believe what that old Dutchman said about the steel cubes being atomic grenades?” Pop asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said, “He sure didn’t sound enthusiastic about telling us the truth about anything. But for that matter he sounded mean enough to tell the truth figuring we’d think it was a lie. Maybe this is some sort of baby A-bomb with a fuse timed like a grenade.” I got it out and hefted it. “How about I press the button and drop it out the door? Then we’ll know.” I really felt like doing it⁠—restless, I guess.

“Don’t be a fool, Ray,” Alice said.

“Don’t tense up, I won’t,” I told her. At the same time I made myself the little promise that if I ever got to feeling restless, that is, restless and bad, I’d just go ahead and punch the button and see what happened⁠—sort of leave my future up to the gods of the Deathlands, you might say.

“What makes you so sure it’s a weapon?” Pop asked.

“What else would it be,” I asked him, “that they’d be so hot on getting them in the middle of a war?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Pop said. “I’ve made a guess, but I don’t want to tell it now. What I’m getting at, Ray, is that your first thought about anything you find⁠—in the world outside or in your own mind⁠—is that it’s a weapon.”

“Anything worthwhile in your mind is a weapon!” Alice interjected with surprising intensity.

“You see?” Pop said. “That’s what I mean about the both of you. That sort of thinking’s been going on a long time. Cave man picks up a rock and right away asks himself, ‘Who can I brain with this?’ Doesn’t occur to him for several hundred thousand years to use it to start building a hospital.”

“You know, Pop,” I said, carefully tucking the cube back in my pocket, “you are sort of preachy at times.”

“Guess I am,” he said. “How about some grub?”

It was a good idea. Another few minutes and we wouldn’t have been able to see to eat, though with the cans shaped to tell their contents I guess we’d have managed. It was a funny circumstance that in this wonder plane we didn’t even know how to turn on the light⁠—and a good measure of our general helplessness.

We had our little feed and lit up again and settled ourselves. I judged it would be an overnight trip, at least to the cracking plant⁠—we weren’t making anything like the speed we had been going east. Pop was sitting in back again and Alice and I lay half hitched around on the kneeling seats, which allowed us to watch each other. Pretty soon it got so dark we couldn’t see anything of each other but the glowing tips of the cigarettes and a bit of face around the mouth when the person took a deep drag. They were a good idea, those cigarettes⁠—kept us from having ideas about the other person starting to creep around with a knife in his hand.

The North America screen still glowed dimly and we could watch our green dot trying to make progress. The viewport was dead black at first, then there came the faintest sort of bronze blotch that very slowly shifted forward and down. The Old Moon, of course, going west ahead of us.

After a while I realized what it was like⁠—an old Pullman car (I’d traveled in one once as a kid) or especially the smoker of an old Pullman, very late at night. Our crippled antigravity, working on the irregularities of the ground as they