"Start packing some things. I'll arrange for you to fly to the atomic labs and take up Chetzisky's trail from there. You'll have the entire weekend to dig up something." He took me by the arm and hustled me out of the office.
While I rummaged in my rooms for a luggage case and packed some clothes, the energetic Armstrong sat on my bed smoking a cigarette and filled me in on the details he had rounded up in the past twenty-four hours. The man was a wonder the way he had gone to work unofficially on the Chetzisky case while still handling a regular official assignment on the leakage of troop movements.
"Doctor Chetzisky got a year's leave of absence from the atomic labs; that was eight months ago. A month ago he dropped out of sight altogether."
"Did he tell anyone where he was going?"
"No, he didn't. But he did have an interesting chat with a visiting English chemist, Doctor Chaslington, the Nobel prize winner. Told Chaslington that our fission methods are as out of date and wasteful as the first automobile. Chaslington didn't press him for further information. Matter of good taste and manners with the Englishman. Besides, he probably figured Chetzisky was simply projecting his fancy into the future."
I grunted as I snapped the suitcase lock shut. "By the way, Jim, have you traced any of the letters yet?"
"No." Armstrong paused to light a fresh cigarette. "That's what I'll be doing while you're away. Ready?" He dropped the burnt-out match in an ash tray and swung my bag off the bed.
Five hours later I was air-bound out of Washington for the atomic labs. As the lights of cities and towns flashed below me, a panicking sense of responsibility seized me. Two of us alone were trying to save two billion people from a deadline of annihilation; forced to do it in our spare time as if the rescue of a planet was a casual hobby for leisure hours. I struck an angry fist into the palm of my hand; a sickening feeling of hopelessness took me by the pit of the stomach.
My glance fell on the newspaper open on my lap. A lovely debutante stared up at me, smiling. "Wedding Set For Next Month," the caption under the picture announced. If there is a next month, I thought. Millions like the debutante were thinking of some bliss next month would bring—the young mother-to-be; the old couple approaching a golden anniversary celebration; the prisoner awaiting release; the author looking forward to his first published book. If Armstrong and I failed—I shook off the thought of it and turned to the sport page. The print grew dim behind a procession of images of happy brides, bright-eyed old couples, beaming, confident young men, and I fell off into an uneasy sleep.