"American, right now," said Dugan flatly.
Swanson persisted, embarrassed but dogged, "No, I mean racially."
"American," Dugan repeated. "Call me a Cherokee, if you want to explain my looks. Sorry I can't tell you the truth; but I'm a secret." Dugan grinned at Sarah, and went on, "The captain has been trying to figure me out for days. I wish I could help her. The Army won't let me. Anyhow, we're talking too much. Let's get down to Atomsk."
"Right," said Swanson in a disciplined but friendly way. "I'll get the pictures."
He went to one of the safes and twirled the knob, standing so that they could not see the position of the dial. The safe door swung open. Swanson went to his desk, picked up an intercommunication microphone, and said, "Swanson. Safe three. Handsome and ready. Ready?"
A tinny remote voice answered, "Ready, doctor," from the box. Swanson went back to the safe and opened it.
Dugan asked, "Just what would have happened if you hadn't put that call through?"
Swanson jerked his head upward to the nozzles of the fire-extinguisher system. "Gas. We would have all gone out like lamps. Sirens would have gone off. Two armored cars would have come up here lickety-split. Not to mention a radio alarm." He grinned proudly. "Atomsk is just one of the things that we have pictures of. You have no idea what a plane can do with the new infra-red flares."
He spread a thick sheaf of photographs on one of the drafting tables, pushing the table over to Sarah and Dugan with the heel of his palm. It rolled easily on rubber-tired casters. Dugan caught the edge of the table, stopping it. With a pleasant nod, he dragged Sarah's chair closer to his own and held the pictures so that she could see them, too.
They seemed to show the same thing — a series of views of a forested hill country. Two low ranges ran parallel. There was a streak of light which could be water, between them. The pictures showed no sign of human habitation.