Гарри Гаррисон - 50 in 50

"Colonel, this is Mr. Cruncher who has volunteered—"

"A civilian! Will you get him the hell out of here and blindfold him first, you unutterable fool! This headquarters is double-red-zed top security. .!"

"Sir, the security doesn't matter anymore. All of our communications are shut down, we're sealed off from the troops."

"Quiet, you fool!" The Colonel raised his clenched fists, his skin flushing, a wild light in his eyes. He still did not want to believe what had happened, possibly could not believe. The lieutenant was younger, a reserve officer; as much as he disliked it he could face the facts.

"Colonel, you must believe me. The situation is desperate, and desperate times call for desperate solutions…"

"Sergeant! Take this lieutenant and this civilian to the target range and shoot them for violating security during an emergency."

"Colonel, please—"

"Sergeant, that is an order!"

The Sergeant who was only four months short of retirement and had a potbelly to prove it, looked from one officer to the other. He was reluctant to make a decision but he had to. He finally rose and went to the toilet, locking the door behind him. The Colonel, who had been following his movements in eye-bulging silence, gasped, his face a bright scarlet, and groped for his sidearm. Even as he drew it from the holster he gurgled and fell face-first upon the desk, then slid slowly to the floor.

"Medic!" the Lieutenant shouted and ran and opened the Colonel's collar. The medic took one look and shook his head gloomily. "The big one. He's had it. Always had a dicey ticker."

The Sergeant came out of the toilet and helped the Lieutenant to pull a gas cape over the corpse. Jerry Cruncher stood to one side and looked on in silence, sucking on his pipe.

"Please, Mr. Cruncher," the Lieutenant said pleadingly, "you must help us. You're our last hope now."

Now when we look back at Black Sunday when the Disaster began, we can marvel at the simplicity of the Betelgeusean plan and understand why it came within a hair's breadth of succeeding. Our armies and space-borne tanks were poised and waiting, all instruments and attention firmly fixed on the massive bulk of the "so-called" trade station which was, indeed, just a trade station. On Earth a complex spiderweb of communication networks linked together the host of defenders, a multilevel net of radio and laser links, buried coaxial cables and land lines, microwave and heliograph connections.

It was foolproof and unjammable and perfect in every way except for the fact tb^j» all global communications were channeled through the two substations and ComCent in Global City. These three stations, wonderfully efficient, handled all the communications with the armed forces on Earth, below the ground, on the moon and in space.

They were knocked out. Betelgeusean commando squads in field armor dropped one null-G onto each center and the battle could not have lasted more than half an hour. When it was over the three communications centers had been taken and the war was lost before it began. Headquarters were cut off from units, individual units from each other tanks from tank commanders, spaceships from their bases. Radar central on the far side of the moon very quickly discovered the blips of the invasion fleet swooping in from beyond Saturn. But there was no way they could tell anyone about it.

"I have to ask my supervisor about it," Jerry Cruncher said, nodding solemnly at the thought. "This being my day off and all. And taking of unauthorized people into the tunnels. Can't say he's going to like it much."

"Mr. Cruncher," the Lieutenant said through tight-clamped teeth. "In case you have not heard, there is a war on. You have just seen a man die because of this war. You cannot call your supervisor because the military override has rendered the civilian visiphone network inoperable."

"Can't say I like that."

"None of us do. That is why we need your help. The enemy aliens have taken our communication centers and they must be recaptured. We have contacted the nearest combat unit by messenger and they are attempting to retake the centers, but they are virtually impregnable."

"They are? How did those Beetlejuicians get in then?"

"Well, yes, it is Sunday, you know, minimum personnel, at 0800 hours the church coaches were leaving, the gates were open…"

"Caught you with your pants down, hey?" A wet suck on his pipe told the world what Jerry Cruncher felt about that kind of efficiency. "So your lot is out and you want back in. So why bother a working-man at home on a Sunday?"

"Because, Mr. Cruncher, war does not recognize days of the week. And you are the oldest employee of CitSubMaint and probably the only man who can answer this question. Our communication centers have their own standby power sources, but they normally use city power. And the land lines and cables go out underground. Now, think carefully before you answer. Can we get into these centers from underground? Particularly into ComCent?"

"Where is it?" He tamped down the glowing tobacco with a cal-lused thumb, then sucked in the gray smoke happily.

"At the junction of 18th Way and Wiggan Road."

"So that's why there are so many cables in 104-BpL."

"Can we get into it?"

In the hushed silence that followed the burble of Jerry Cruncher's pipe could be clearly heard. The Lieutenant stood, fists clenched tightly, and beside him the Sergeant and the Corpsman, as well as the operators who had left their silent communication equipment. All of them waited and listened in strained silence as Jerry Cruncher narrowed his eyes in thought, took the pipe from his mouth and exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke, then turned to face them.

"Yep.” he said.

They weren't the best troops — but they were troops. Technicians and operators, MPs and cooks, clerks, and motor pool mechanics. But they were armed with the best weapons the armories could provide— and armored as well with a sense of purpose. If they stood a little straighter, or held their guns a little more firmly, it was because they knew that the future of the world was in their hands. They marched with grim precision to the road junction where they had been instructed to wait. They had been there no more than a few minutes when Jerry Cruncher showed up. He wore waterproofs and a hardhat, heavy gumboots that came to his waist, while a worn and ancient toolbox was slung by a strap over one shoulder. His pipe was out, but still clamped in his jaw, as he moved his shrewd eyes over the waiting troops.

"Not dressed right," he said.

"Everyone is in combat uniform," the Lieutenant answered.

"Not right for the tunnels. Gets mighty damp—"

"Mr. Cruncher, these are volunteer soldiers. They may die for their world so they do not mind getting wet for it. May we go now?"

Shaking his head in solemn disapproval, Jerry Cruncher led the way to a manhole in the road, into the socket of which he inserted a shining tool with which, in a practiced movement, he flipped the heavy manhole lid aside.

"Follow me then, single-file. Last two men in slide that lid back on and watch out for your fingers. Here we go."

Automatic lights sprang on as they climbed down the ladder to the cool, green tunnel below. Wires, cables and pipes lined the walls and ceiling in a maze that only a Jerry Cruncher could make head or tail of. He slapped them affectionately as they passed.

"Water main, steam main, 50,000 volt line, 220 local feeder, telephone, teletype, co-ax, ice water, pneumo-delivery, food dispenser supply, oxygen, sewer feeder." He chuckled happily. "Yep, we've got a little bit of everything down here."

"Medic!"

"They've found us!" a Permanent KP wailed and there was a rattle of weapons readied.

"Put those away!" the Lieutenant shouted. "Before you kill each other. Get me a report, Sergeant, snap to it."