Bagombo Snuff Box Read Free Page B

electronic brains, swifter than his own. He had controls in
his ship, but only for gliding down through the atmosphere, when and if they
brought him back from space. He was equipped to stay for several years.
    Even the man was as much like a machine as possible, Dr.
Groszinger thought with satisfaction. He was quick, strong, unemotional. Psychiatrists
had picked Major Rice from a hundred volunteers, and predicted that he would
function as perfectly as the rocket motors, the metal hull, and the electronic
controls. His specifications: Husky, twenty-nine years of age, fifty-five
missions over Europe during the Second World War without a sign of fatigue, a
childless widower, melancholy and solitary, a career soldier, a demon for
work.
    The Major’s mission? Simple: To report weather conditions
over enemy territory, and to observe the accuracy of guided atomic missiles in
the event of war.
    Major Rice was fixed in the solar system, two thousand miles
above the earth now—close by, really—the distance from New York to Salt Lake
City, not far enough away to see much of the polar icecaps, even. With a telescope,
Rice could pick out small towns and the wakes of ships without green ball, to
see night creeping around it, and clouds and storms growing and swirling over
its face.
    Dr. Groszinger tamped out his cigarette, absently lit
another almost at once, and strode down the corridor to the small laboratory
where the radio equipment had been set up.
    Lieutenant General Franklin Dane, head of Project Cyclops,
sat next to the radio operator, his uniform rumpled, his collar open. The
General stared expectantly at the loudspeaker before him. The floor was
littered with sandwich wrappings and cigarette butts. Coffee-filled paper cups
stood before the General and the radio operator, and beside the canvas chair
where Groszinger had spent the night waiting.
    General Dane nodded to Groszinger and motioned with his hand
for silence.
    “Able Baker Fox, this is Dog Easy Charley. Able Baker Fox,
this is Dog Easy Charley . . .” droned the radio operator wearily, using the
code names. “Can you hear me. Able Baker Fox? Can you—”
    The loudspeaker crackled, then, tuned to its peak volume,
boomed: “This is Able Baker Fox. Come in, Dog Easy Charley. Over.”
    General Dane jumped to his feet and embraced Groszinger.
They laughed idiotically and pounded each other on the back. The General
snatched the microphone from the radio operator. “You made it. Able Baker Fox!
Right on course! What’s it like, boy? What’s it feel like? Over.” Groszinger,
his arm draped around the General’s shoulders, leaned forward eagerly, his ear
a few inches from the speaker. The radio operator turned the volume down, so
that they could hear something of the quality of Major Rice’s voice.
    The voice came through again, soft, hesitant. The tone disturbed
Groszinger—he had wanted it to be crisp, sharp, efficient.
    “This side of the earth’s dark, very dark just now. And I
feel like I’m falling—the way you said I would. Over.”
    “Is anything the matter?” asked the General anxiously. “You
sound as though something—”
    The Major cut in before he could finish: “There! Did you hear
that?”
    “Able Baker Fox, we can’t hear anything,” said the General,
looking perplexed at Groszinger. “What is it—some kind of noise in your
receiver? Over”
    “A child,” said the Major. “I hear a child crying. Don’t you
hear it? And now—listen!—now an old man is trying to comfort it.” His voice
seemed farther away, as though he were no longer speaking directly into his
microphone.
    “That’s impossible, ridiculous!” said Groszinger. “Check
your set, Able Baker Fox, check your set. Over.”
    “They’re getting louder now. The voices are louder. I can’t
hear you very well above them. It’s like standing in the middle of a crowd,
with everybody trying to get my attention at once. It’s like . . .” The message
trailed off. They