J. Wheeler - The Krone Experiment

“Yes, but there’s a good chance they could knock them off as they’re brought down. Besides, if they go for a first strike, they could pull it off before we could adjust for our losses.”

“Would they go for a first strike, risk retaliation?” Danielson asked, her eyes searching Isaacs.’ “Maybe they just want to assert their authority to have the laser up there.”

“Maybe. But now they have every reason to think we deliberately manufactured and released a black hole and then lied to them about it. A whole new level of escalation.”

“Escalation of what?” Runyan demanded. “Surely they know we’re as imperiled as they are.”

“The cool heads, yes. It’s the hot ones I’m worried about,” Isaacs replied. “Theirs and ours!”

“In any case we have no choice but to push on,” Danielson said. “If they pause now to assess our reaction, we can get to the lab and back to the President so he has all the facts to negotiate with. If they choose the insane path, well, those mountains will be as good a place as any to be.” She gestured to the slopes rising to the east.

Isaacs was pleased that her common sense, though grim, was asserting itself again.

“Okay, let’s go.” He gave her upper arm a squeeze as he guided her toward the waiting helicopter. Runyan hurried forward to help her climb in. Danielson noticed him and paused. With her mind freshly cleared by the heightened air of crisis, she decided a show of independence would be healthy for both of them. She turned to the lieutenant who had delivered the message, smiled at him and offered her arm. The young man leapt quickly to her side and helped her to clamber in, leaving Runyan standing nonplussed on the tarmac. Isaacs watched this quick tableau and then climbed in himself, jaw muscles knotting as he clenched his teeth.

The flight up to the research complex headed by Paul Krone took only fifteen minutes. As they approached they could tell that Krone commanded a huge authority. There were six or seven large buildings linked by a maze of roadways. They landed on a pad in front of one of the buildings and were met by a small, jaunty man of about sixty. He wore a plain white shirt, green and white checked pants, and white patent leather shoes. The shirt was anchored at the neck with a large silver and turquoise string tie that clashed with his nineteenth hole outfit.

“Hello,” he bubbled. “I’m Ralph Floyd, executive site manager here. We’re so pleased to have you. We don’t get attention from the top levels here very often.” Behind his facade he was troubled, sensing a threat to his conspiracy of silence over Paul Krone’s attempted suicide. Who were these people with their peremptory visit, vague credentials?

Isaacs recognized the type. Quintessential bureaucrat, delighted with the sudden interest that this delegation purported to represent, but fearful because he didn’t know exactly who they were or what they wanted. Isaacs eyed the man impatiently. An ominous image formed in his mind—the Russian laser gathering power for an imminent onslaught. He gritted his teeth and determined to play out the cover story until he could get a firmer feel of the situation. Where in the hell was Krone? Isaacs introduced the members of his party, and they followed Floyd into the nearby administration building. Floyd led them to his office and seated them. Just the right number of chairs had been brought in.

“Now, what can I do for you gentlemen—and lady,” Floyd corrected himself. Danielson returned his smile with a blank stare. The smile faded and he turned to Isaacs.

“This is very short notice, but of course, we are all at your disposal.”

“The President keeps tabs on all the crucial components in our research and development program,” Isaacs began, bluffing his way. “He has heard good things about the work Dr. Krone and all of you are doing here, and he wants to be brought more directly up to date.”

Floyd beamed possessively, but there was a wariness behind his smile.

“We understand this complex is autonomous,” Isaacs continued.

“Oh, yes,” said Floyd, “our mandate comes from Los Alamos, and our budget from there and from Krone Industries, but we are self-contained and Dr. Krone has a free hand to do as he wishes.” He leaned forward and assumed a frank look. “Dr. Krone is an authentic Genius, you know.”

Isaacs could hear the capital G, but something in Floyd’s tone suggested that being a genius was not something proper folk did.

“He does need some help in practical matters,” Floyd continued with a self-effacing smile. “I do what I can to make his job easier.”

“I’m sure,” replied Isaacs with an answering smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

“We were hoping to see Dr. Krone.”

“Ah,” said Floyd, his face drooping mournfully, “Dr. Krone has not been well for some time. We have not seen him at all for a few months. But,” he brightened, “all our programs are proceeding actively.”

Isaacs divined that Floyd was in manager’s heaven—all programs routinely active and no boss to foul things up with new ideas, directions, and suggestions. Managing the affairs of a genius would be trying. He fixed on the time Floyd mentioned. A few months. What did Krone’s absence imply? That was about as long as they had been tracking the black hole. Could that be coincidence?

“Is Krone available if necessary?” Isaacs persisted.

“Well, that would be difficult,” answered Floyd. “He has a house up off the road a few miles back. A quite nice one actually, built with money from his patents, a product of his mind, he likes to say. He has always demanded his privacy there and has no phone. I’m afraid he’s not in a condition to accept visitors personally.”

“May I ask what the problem is?”

Floyd was silent for a moment, then made a futile gesture with his hands.

“I’ve been led to understand it’s nothing serious, that is to say, nothing organic. The stress, though—Dr. Krone carries many responsibilities.”

Isaacs caught the implication—cracked up, occupational hazard for geniuses, not the kind of thing that happens to proper folk. Isaacs fought down a wave of despair. He could feel the mission slipping away, sabotaged, inconclusive, leaving them at the mercy of the deadly laser, on the precipice of war. There were still the facilities to check out. Maybe they would learn something of interest. They had to move on.

“Well,” he said, with forced conviviality, “perhaps you would care to give us a look around.”

“Certainly, certainly,” agreed Floyd, anxious to prove that all was in working order and, despite a suicidal boss, fit for presidential approval.

Floyd led them to a waiting van and played tour guide as the driver steered around the maze. There was a small section of simple tract homes and apartments for the personnel. A powerful nuclear reactor supplied the prodigious energy needs of the various experiments. They stopped at several buildings with Isaacs fuming inwardly with each passing minute. They were treated to a zoo of fantastic devices that shot, banged, sizzled, lased, fused, fried, evaporated, imploded, and exploded. Despite his growing frustration, Isaacs was impressed with Floyd’s acumen in his own area. While no expert on the basic scientific and engineering principles, Floyd knew the origin and use of every nut and bolt and their price to the penny. Apparently Krone was good at picking people, as well as at creating new inventions.

At last, Runyan drew Isaacs aside.

“This is a waste of time. What the hell are we doing on this two-bit tour?”

“Goddamnit, we had to start somewhere!” Isaacs replied just as hotly, in a fierce whisper. He was not sure what they were looking for, but he was sure they hadn’t seen it. He had been ticking off the various buildings mentally. As they climbed into the van once more and Floyd began to make noises about the end of the tour, Isaacs stopped him.