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have it ironed out in jig time. Something was completely wrong with this
picture. Man and man s science had brought water to Mars; but it was never
planned, never intended, never computed to deliver water anywhere in
quantities approaching this deluge. It was more than blown fuses or a dead
vacuum tube or even a ruined servo-amplifier. This was a major
catastrophe, and Phil Watson was trapped away from the scene of
activities.
And then eventually the doorbell rang, and they went to answer it. It
was Tommy Regan who came in like a ghost, cowering beneath a white
rubber poncho that swirled around him like a wet tent with the tentpoles
removed. He stumbled into the living room and threw the fore edge of the
rubber sheet back and over, flinging a spray of water.
 God! he gritted.  Phil come on!
 How d y get here?
 Covered jeep-wagon. I Come on! Tommy Regan tossed a small
folded package at Phil and it opened partly on its flight. It was another
poncho. Or, more properly, it was a rubber sheet from the station s
dispensary.  The process is involved but interesting, said Regan grimly.
 You lift the front and aim, then you plunge it blind until you have to take aim
again. Ready?
 Not without me! wailed Louise.
 You ll drown, said Regan flatly.
 Wait  Louise went into the bathroom, and came out wrapped in the
shower curtain.  Let s go, she said.
 But 
She shook her head.  I m frightened bright purple, she said shakily.
 But I m with a couple of people who might be able to help; I m not going to
stay in this mess of an apartment alone while they go out to stop this thing.
I m going along.
 It s rough, said Regan.
 Staying here alone would be rougher.
 But 
 Come on, then, Phil broke in.  There s been too much time wasted
already.
* * * *
They stood downstairs in the lobby while Regan explained.  The crate s out
there, he said, pointing through the glass doors.  You can t see it, but it s
there. You ve got to cover your face and plunge. I ll go first. I ll open the
door and get in. Miss Hannon comes second, and I ll swing the door open
for her. You come last, Phil. Each of you count twenty seconds so I ll be
able to time your arrivals. Got it?
They nodded, and Tommy Regan left.
Twenty seconds later, Phil held the lobby door for Louise; she
flopped the edge of the shower curtain over her face, put her head down,
and disappeared into the wall of downpour. And twenty seconds later Phil
covered his own head and went out into it himself.
It was like trying to run in a swimming pool; it was like trying to make
time through a haymow. The rain hammered at his head through the rubber
sheet. The air he took in was heavy with water, and the wind whipped the
edge of the sheet around his legs, and the swirling sheet carried wetness
up into his face. Water tore at his ankles and made him stumble, and the
lashing sheet turned him this way and that so that he lost his direction.
He lifted the fore edge for a brief second.
The car was there before him, seen briefly before the water pasted
his eyes closed and the wind beat down the uplifted edge of his poncho.
He lurched forward and stumbled into the car. Louise slammed the door
shut as he fell into the seat.
Regan drove slowly, peering through the rain-pelted windshield. The
wipers cut brief arches on the glass and left a bit of transparency just
behind them through which the eye could see if it were fast enough. There
was, of course, no traffic to contend with, which was a good thing, because
Regan swerved from one side of the road to the other. It was only about
twenty miles from Louise s apartment to the weather control station, but
they took a full two hours to fumble their way along the water-strewn road.
Going in was no problem. The station was equipped with a garage.
They were inside with the big door closed against the rain before they
opened the door of the car.
Upstairs in the station was the mess.
* * * *
The acrid smell of burned-out electrical components floated in the air like
cigar smoke in a night club. Hogarth was wrist-deep in a panel-assembly,
Forsyth was changing relays as fast as he could unsolder and replace
them, Jones was checking blackish-looking cables with an ohmmeter,
Robinson was making a run-down on the terminal strips, Merrivale was
probing deep into me guts of a meter with a slender pair of watchmaker s
forceps, and Wadsworth was chopping the ruined leads from transformers
and dropping the things on the floor behind him. Hansen, the janitor, was
stolidly pulling burned-out vacuum tubes from their sockets and replacing
them from the large sack he had slung over his shoulder. Two of the
station s stenographers were there; elderly Miss Morgan, whose only
familiarity with machinery was her knowledge of how to run a typewriter, was
trekking back and forth from the stockroom to the operations department
bringing replacement parts; and Miss Larrabee, the station s glamor-girl,
whose highest asset was her ability to take dictation and keep her stocking
seams straight at the same time, was delivering pliers, cutters,
screwdrivers, and wrenches from one man to the other as they were
needed.
 What happened? demanded Phil.
Regan threw out his hands.  Who knows? he said plaintively.  All at
once everything went to hell. There was a sizzle and then a f-f-f-t! and the
whole goddam shooting match went to hell in a five-gallon bucket.
Overload, I think 
 Tried the radio? said Phil.
 I tried the telephone. No dice.
 Radio s worse, Regan broke in.  It s 
 Mercury, said Phil flatly.  Something s wrong there.
Regan said,  But how  [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]