"Alf," I said, suddenly weak, guessing what was coming.

"And he said they know they must be stopped before they control more territory and the only way to do it is an H-bomb right on top of Millville." He stopped, half out of breath.

I didn't say a thing. I couldn't say a word, I was too paralysed. I was remembering how the general had looked when I'd talked with him that morning and the senator saying, "We have to trust you, boy. You hold us in your hands."

"Brad," Alf asked, anxiously, "are you there? Did you hear me?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm here."

"Davenport told me he was afraid this new development of the nuclear pinpointing might push the military into action without due consideration — knowing that they had to act or they'd not have anything to use. Like a man with a gun, he said, facing a wild beast. He doesn't want to kill the beast unless he has to and there is always the chance the beast will slink away and he won't have to fire. But suppose he knows that in the next two minutes his gun will disappear into thin air well, then he has to take a chance and shoot before the gun can disappear. He has to kill the beast while he still has a gun."

"And now," I said, speaking more levelly than I would have thought possible, "Millville is the beast."

"Not Millville, Brad. Just…"

"Yes," I said, "most certainly not Millville. Tell that to the people when the bomb explodes."

"This Davenport was beside himself. He had no business talking to me…"

"You think he knows what he is talking about? He had a row with the general this morning."

"I think he knows more than he told me, Brad. He talked for a couple of minutes and then he buttoned up. As though he knew he had no business talking. But he's obsessed with one idea. He thinks the only thing that can stop the military is the force of public opinion. He thinks that if what they plan is known, there'll be such an uproar they'd be afraid to move. Not only, he pointed out, would the public be outraged at such cold-bloodedness, but the public wants these aliens in; they're for anyone who can break the bomb. And this biologist of yours is going to plant this story. He didn't say he would, but that's what he was working up to. He'll tip off some newspaperman, I'm sure of that." I felt my guts turn over and my knees were weak. I pressed my legs hard against the desk to keep from keeling over.

"This village will go howling mad," I said. "I asked the general this morning…"

"You asked the general! For Christ sake, did you know?"

"Of course I knew. Not that they would do it. Just that, they were thinking of it."

"And you didn't say a word?"

"Who could I tell? What good would it have done? And it wasn't certain. It was just an alternative — a last alternative. Three hundred lives against three billion…"

"But you, yourself! All your friends…"

"Alf," I pleaded, "there was nothing I could do. What would you have done? Told the village and driven everyone stark mad?"

"I don't know," said Alf, "I don't know what I'd have done."

"Alf, is the senator at the hotel? I mean, is he there right now?"

"I think he is. You mean to call him, Brad?"

"I don't know what good it'll do," I said, "but perhaps I should."

"I'll get off the line," said Alf. "And Brad…"

"Yes."

"Brad, the best of luck. I mean — oh, hell, just the best of luck."

"Thanks, Alf." I heard the click of the receiver as he hung up and the line droned empty in my ear. My hand began to shake and I laid the receiver carefully on the desk, not trying to put it back into the cradle.

Joe Evans was looking at me hard. "You knew," he said. "You knew all the time."

I shook my head. "Not that they meant to do it. The general mentioned it as a last resort. Davenport jumped on him…" I didn't finish what I meant to say. The words just dwindled off. Joe kept on staring at me.

I exploded at him. "Damn it, man," I shouted, "I couldn't tell anyone. I asked the general, if he had to do it, to do it without notice. Not to let us know. That way there'd be a flash we'd probably never see. We'd die, of course, but only once. Not a thousand deaths…"

Joe picked up the phone. "I'll try to raise the senator," he said.

I sat down in a chair.

I felt empty. There was nothing in me. I heard Joe talking into the telephone, but I didn't really hear his words, for it seemed that I had, for the moment, created a small world all of my own (as though there were no longer room for me in the normal world) and had drawn it about me as one would draw a blanket.

I was miserable and at the same time angry, and perhaps considerably confused.

Joe was saying something to me and I became aware of it only after he had almost finished speaking.

"What was that?" I asked.

"The call is in," said Joe. "They'll call us back." I nodded.

"I told them it was important."

"I wonder if it is," I said.

"What do you mean? Of course it…"

"I wonder what the senator can do. I wonder what difference it will make if I, or you, or anyone, talks to him about it."

"The senator has a lot of weight," said Joe. "He likes to throw it around." We sat in silence for a moment, waiting for the call, waiting for the senator and what he knew about it.

"If no one will stand up for us," asked Joe, "if no one will fight for us, what are we to do?"

"What can we do?" I asked. "We can't even run. We can't get away. We're sitting ducks."

"When the village knows…"

"They'll know," I said, "as soon as the news leaks out. If it does leak out. It'll be bulletined on TV and radio and everyone in this village is plastered to a set."

"Maybe someone will get hold of Davenport and hush him up."

I shook my head. "He was pretty sore this morning. Right down the general's throat." And who was right? I asked myself. How could one tell in this short space of time who was right or wrong?

For years man had fought insects and blights and noxious weeds. He'd fought them any way he could. He'd killed them any way he could. Let one's guard down for a moment and the weeds would have taken over. They crowded every fence corner, every hedgerow, sprang up in every vacant lot. They'd grow anywhere. When drought killed the grain and sickened the corn, the weeds would keep on growing, green and tough and wiry.

And now came another noxious weed, out of another time, a weed that very possibly could destroy not only corn and grain but the human race. If this should be the case, the only thing to do was to fight it as one fought any weed, with everything one had.

But suppose that this was a different sort of weed, no ordinary weed, but a highly adaptive weed that had studied the ways of man and weed, and out of its vast knowledge and adaptability could manage to survive anything that man might throw at it. Anything, that is, except massive radiation.

For that had been the answer when the problem had been posed in that strange project down in Mississippi.

And the Flowers' reaction to that answer would be a simple one. Get rid of radiation. And while you were getting rid of it, win the affection of the world. If that should be the situation, then the Pentagon was right.

The phone buzzed from the desk.

Joe picked up the receiver and handed it to me.

My lips seemed to be stiff. The words I spoke came out hard and dry.

"Hello," I said. "Hello. Is this the senator?

"Yes."

"This is Bradshaw Carter. Millville. Met you this morning. At the barrier."

"Certainly, Mr Carter. What can I do for you?"

"There is a rumour…"

"There are many rumours, Carter. I've heard a dozen of them."

"About a bomb on Millville. The general said this morning…"

"Yes," said the senator, far too calmly. "I have heard that rumour, too, and am quite disturbed by it. But there is no confirmation. It is nothing but a rumour."