He turned. Tanner was on the small pedestal that held the hoop, standing nonchalantly in front of the circle of whirling black.
"You'll be sorry you woke up, Martin. Frankly, I should think you would be wishing you were dead." He half smiled to himself. "There's knives in the kitchen, incidentally, in case you should want to do something about it. I imagine you have quite a guilt complex."
Stan whipped his head around to look at the small box-like machine that kept score of the fusion packages. Only one light was still lit.
The light for Chicago.
Tanner smiled lightly. "Don't think you've won just because there's only one light left. Fifty fusion packages was our safety factor. We actually only needed one."
Stan's face mirrored what he thought and Tanner read the look.
"That's right," he nodded. "Only one. We wanted to create panic and one will do that. When it goes off, that's all we need. The rest of the world will hear about it seconds later. And then the flight will be on." He paused. "You don't think that people—anywhere—are going to remain in their cities, do you? All the police, all the commissars in existence, couldn't make them do that. And then the air fleets will spring into action. One fleet because it demands vengeance, and the other because the only defense is a good offense, as the ape politicians are so fond of saying."
He shrugged. "You see? It really only takes one for disaster."
Stan gathered his muscles for one last lunge....
Tanner caught the movement and raised his eyebrows.