Robert Heinlein: Sixth Column

Ardmore mentally dubbed Robert Wilkie a "punk kid." He was young and looked younger, having an overgrown collie-dog clumsiness, and hair that would not stay in place. His field, it developed, was radiation, and the attendant branches of physics too esoteric for a layman to understand. Ardmore had not the slightest way of judging whether or not he was any good in his specialty. He might be a genius, but his appearance did not encourage the idea.

No other scientist remained. There were three enlisted men: Herman Scheer, technical sergeant. He had been a mechanic, a die maker, a tool maker. When the army picked him up he had been making precision instruments for the laboratories of the Edison Trust. His brown, square hands and lean fingers backed up his account of himself. His lined, set face and heavy jaw muscles made Ardmore judge him to be a good man to have at his back in a tight place. He would do.

There remained Edward Graham, private first-class, specialist rating officers' cook. Total war had turned him from his profession as an artist and interior decorator to his one other talent, cooking. Ardmore was unable to see how he could fit into the job, except, of course, that somebody had to cook.

The last man was Graham's helper, Jeff Thomas, private -- background: none. "He wandered in here one day," explained Calhoun. "We had to enlist him and keep him here to protect the secret of the place."

Acquainting Ardmore with the individuals of his "command" had used up several minutes during which he had thought furiously with half his mind about what he should say next. He knew what he had to accomplish, some sort of a shot in the arm that would restore the morale of this badly demoralized group, some of the old hokum that men live by. He believed in hokum, being a publicity man by trade and an army man only by necessity. That brought to mind another worry -- should he let them know that he was no more a professional than they, even though he happened to hold a line commission? No, that would not be very bright; they needed just now to regard him with the faith that the layman usually holds for the professional.

Thomas was the end of the list: Calhoun had stopped talking. Here's your chance, son, better not muff it!

Then he had it fortunately it would take only a short build-up. "It will be necessary for us to continue our task

assignment independently for an indefinite period. I want to remind you that we derive our obligations not from

our superior officers who were killed in Washington, but from the people of the United States, through their

Constitution. That Constitution is neither captured nor destroyed -- it cannot, for it is not a piece of paper, but the

joint contract of the American people. Only the American people can release us from it."

Was he right? He was no lawyer, and he didn't know -- but he did know that they needed to believe it. He turned to Calhoun. "Colonel Calhoun, will you now swear me in as commanding officer of this detachment of the United States army?" Then he added, as an apparent afterthought, "I think it would be well for us all to renew our oaths at the same time. "

It was a chanted chorus that echoed through the nearly empty room. " 'I do solemnly swear -- to carry out the duties of my office -- and to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States -- against all of its enemies, domestic and foreign!'

"So help me God."

"'So help me God!"'

Ardmore was surprised to discover that the show he had staged brought tears to his own cheeks. Then he noticed them in Calhoun's eyes. Maybe there was more to it than he had thought.

"Colonel Calhoun, you, of course, become director of research. You are second in command, but I will carry out the duties of executive officer myself in order to leave you free to pursue your scientific inquiries. Major Brooks and Captain Wilkie are assigned to you. Scheer!"

"Yes, sir!"

"You work for Colonel Calhoun. If he does not need all of your service, I will assign additional duties later. Graham!"

"Yes, sir."

"You will continue your present duties. You are also mess sergeant, mess officer, supply officer -- in fact, you are the whole commissary department. Bring me a report later today estimating the number of rations available and the condition of perishables. Thomas works for you, but is subject to call by any member of the scientific staff any time they want him. That may delay meals, but it can't be helped."

"Yes, sir."

"You and I and Thomas will perform all duties among us that do not directly apply to research, and will assist the scientists in any way and at any time that they need us. That specifically includes myself, Colonel," he emphasized, turning to Calhoun, "if another pair of untrained hands is useful at any point, you are directed to call on me."

"Very well, Major."

"Graham, you and Thomas will have to clear out the bodies around the place before they get too high -- say by tomorrow night. Put them in an unused room and hermetically seal it. Scheer will show you how." He glanced at his wrist. "Two o'clock. When did you have lunch?"

"There ... uh ... was none today."

"Very well. Graham, serve coffee and sandwiches here in twenty minutes."

"Very good, sir. Come along, Jeff."

"Coming. "

As they left, Ardmore turned back to Calhoun. "In the meantime, Colonel, let's go to the laboratory where the catastrophe originated. I still want to find out what happened here!"

The other two scientists and Scheer hesitated; he picked them up with a nod, and the little party filed out.

"You say nothing in particular happened, no explosion, no gas -- yet they died?" They were standing around Dr. Ledbetter's last set-up. The martyred scientist's body still lay where it had fallen, a helpless, disorganized heap. Ardmore took his eyes from it and tried to make out the meaning of the set-up apparatus. It looked simple, but called no familiar picture to mind.

"No, nothing but a little blue flame that persisted momentarily. Ledbetter had just closed this switch." Calhoun pointed to it without touching it. It was open now, a self-opening, spring-loaded type. "I felt suddenly dizzy. When my head cleared, I saw that Ledbetter had fallen and went to him, but there was nothing that I could do for him. He was dead -- without a mark on him."

"It knocked me out," offered Wilkie. "I might not have made it if Scheer hadn't given me artificial respiration. "

"You were here?" Ardmore asked.

"No, I was in the radiation laboratory over at the other end of the plant. It killed my chief."

Ardmore frowned and pulled a chair out from the wall. As he started to sit down there was a scurrying sound, a small gray shape flashed across the floor and out the open door. A rat, he thought, and dismissed the matter. But Dr. Brooks stared at it in amazement, and ran out the door himself, calling out behind him: "Wait a minute -- right back!"

"I wonder what's gotten into him?" Ardmore inquired of no one in particular. The thought flashed through his mind that the strain of events had finally been too much for the mild little biologist.

They had less than a minute to wait in order to find out. Brooks returned as precipitately as he had left. The exertion caused him to pant and interfered with articulation. "Major Ardmore! Dr. Calhoun! Gentlemen!" He paused and caught his breath. "My white mice are alive!"

"Huh? What of it?"

"Don't you see? It's an important datum, perhaps a crucially important datum. None of the animals in the biological laboratory was hurt! Don't you see?"

"Yes, but -- Oh! Perhaps I do -- the rat was alive and your mice weren't killed, yet men were killed all around them."

"Of course! Of course!" Brooks beamed at Ardmore.

"Hm-m-m. An action that kills a couple of hundred men through rock walls and metal, with no fuss and no excitement, yet passes by mice and the like. I've never before heard of anything that would kill a man but not a mouse." He nodded toward the apparatus. "It looks as if we had big medicine in that little gadget, Calhoun."