“No. Got to be a vortex. We promised ’em an atomic flare, so that’s what it’s got to be. It doesn’t have to be 92, though. We can get away easy enough with killing a few people, so I’d say somebody in the outskirts—53 would be as good as any. So tell 53 his place gets it at midnight tomorrow night, and the fewer people in it the more will stay alive.”
“Check. And I’ll take care of 92?”
“Of course. You don’t have to be told every move to make.”
“Just wanted to make sure, is all. What do I do in the big fireworks?” It was clear that the underling was intensely curious about the phenomenon, but his curiosity was not to be satisfied.
“Nothing,” his chief informed him flatly. “That isn’t your dish. Now we’ll eat.”
Number One stopped talking, but he did not stop thinking; and Nadine could read, and Vesta could transcribe, thoughts as well as words.
“Besides, it’s about time for 31 to earn some of the credits we’re paying him,” was the grimly savage thought.
This thought was accompanied by a picture, which Nadine spread in full in Cloud’s mind. A tall, lean, gray Tellurian was aiming a mechanism—the details of which were so vague that it could have been anything from a vest-pocket flash-pencil up to a half-track mobile projector—at a power-plant, which immediately and enthusiastically went out of control in a blindingly incandescent flare of raw energy.
Fairchild!
Cloud’s mind raced. That vortex on Deka hadn’t been accidental, then, even though there had been no evidence—no suspicion—even the Lensmen hadn’t guessed that the radiationist had been anything other than a very minor cog in Graves’ thionite-producing machine! Nobody except Fairchild knew what he did or how he did it—the mob must have tried to find out, too, but he wouldn’t give—but this stuff was very definitely for the future; not for now.