"Spectroscope," Ellenby explained. "Early morning spectra of the sun are fascinating."
Madson huffed. "There you go. Analyzing. Tearing beauty apart. It's a disease." He paused. "Say, won't you hurt your eyes?"
Turning back, Ellenby shook his head. "I keep a smoked glass on it," he said. "I'm always hoping that some day I'll get a glimpse of an atomic bomb explosion."
"You mean to say you've missed all the dozens they dropped on this country? That's too bad."
"The ball of fire's quite fleeting. The opportunities haven't been as good as you think."
"But you're a physicist, aren't you? Don't you people have all sorts of lovely photographs to gloat over in your laboratories?"
"Atomic bomb spectra were never declassified," Ellenby told him wistfully. "At least not in my part of the project. I've never seen one."
"Well, you'll probably get your chance," Madson told him harshly. "If you've been reading your dirty telefax, you'll know the Hot Truce is coming to a boil. And the Angeles area will be a prime target." Ellenby nodded mutely.
They trudged on. The sun began to beat on their backs like an open fire. Ellenby turned up his collar. He watched his companion thoughtfully. Finally he said, "So you're the Madson who wrote those Enemies of Science stories about a world ruled by poets. It never occurred to me back at Ozona. And that non-fiction book about us—what was it called?"
"Murderers of Imagination," Madson growled. "And it would have been a good thing if you'd listened to my warnings instead of going on building machines and dissecting Nature and destroying all the lovely myths that make life worthwhile."