Stalemate. But there was no such thing as stalemate up here. Defeat was the word.
The tape traveled. I did not know what to do. The last bomb problem CIG had tackled had been one we had set up ourselves; we had arranged for a dud to be dropped in New York harbor, to test our own facilities for speed in determining the nature of the missile. The situation on board SV-1 was completely different—
Whoa. Was it? Maybe I'd hit something there.
"Col. Gascoigne," I said slowly, "you might as well know now that it isn't going to work. Not even if you do get that bomb off."
"Yes, I can. What's to stop me?" He hooked one thumb in his belt, just above the holster, so that his fingertips rested on the breech of the automatic.
"Your bombs. They aren't alive."
Gascoigne laughed harshly and waved at the controls. "Tell that to the counter in the bomb hold. Go ahead. There's a meter you can read, right there on the bombardier board."
"Sure," I said. "The bombs are radioactive, all right. Have you ever checked their half-life?"
It was a long shot. Gascoigne was a weapons man; if it were possible to check half-life on board the SV-1, he would have checked it. But I didn't think it was possible.