John Christopher - Weapon

The professor paused and let his gaze roam round our little gathering.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “today is the day of our success. We are so confident of it that we have invited you all here to see it with us. An hour ago the boy, Rudolf Leyton, was left in the adjoining room under the hypnotic instruction that he was to draw in full detail the weapon that will dominate the world in 2064. We shall now go in and inspect the result.”

Someone muttered something about “Security”. The professor held his hand up.

“You need not worry about security. Remember what we are seeking. It will take trained minds possibly months to comprehend fully what you are going to see now. You might call this a ceremonial occasion. Are we all prepared?”

There was a general murmur of agreement. Professor Norwood came down from his dais and moved through us towards the door at the end of the room. He nodded amiably as he came abreast of me.

“I hope this is going to put you and your colleagues finally out of business, General. You don’t mind my saying that, do you?”

I said: “That’s perfectly all right, Professor. Sometimes I wish something might happen to put you and your colleagues out of business. I don’t think either of us can be very hopeful, though.”

“Oh, I am!” he replied. “I really am, you know. Generals need a state of affairs where the two sides are fairly equally matched. With this, you will all have to resign and join the police force.”

I followed him to the door, turning over in my mind visions of an old age spent in directing traffic. I got edged out in the genteel rush for the door and was last in to the adjoining room. There was a large table, well supplied with sheets of drawing-paper; on the other side a boy of about ten—it had not occurred to me before that he would be so young—was slumped forward, asleep.

Professor Norwood went forward and stood beside him. “Wake up,” he said. “Wake up, Rudolf.” The boy woke up, raising his head and looking with be-wilderment at the press of people on the other side of the table. But they were not interested in him. They crushed for-ward to the table and the white sheets of paper. The boy got up and walked away from the table unregarded. He came past me, and I felt in my pocket and found some sweets for him. Then I went forward to join the others.

There was a drawing there, all right. A good clear drawing. They were all looking at it, and not one of them had the faintest idea what it was.

Professor Norwood bent over the drawing for perhaps half a minute. He straightened up again.

“It will have to be worked on,” he said. “Of course, as I said, we could not expect to grasp the principle on sight. We’ll get our best people on it.”

The politician who had interrupted him in the other room said: “I wonder… It seems to me that this whole business may have been a waste of money. I’m not a scientist, but that drawing doesn’t look to me like the best weapon of 2064.” The professor began to protest. I said: “To me it does.”

They turned round to look at me. Even the sceptical politician smiled.

The professor said: “Surely, General, you don’t mean to tell us that you know what it is?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s the greatest weapon of the world of a hundred years from now.”

I began to draw on my gloves, because there was no point in remaining.

“It’s a very good drawing—of a crossbow.”