The Smuggled Atom Bomb

“Then,” said Duff, “what’s to hinder a nation from mining our cities?”

“Unpleasant notion,” the professor smiled. “Mr. Bogan, you have always inclined toward the fantastic.”

“What’s fantastic about it? If you were a nation with only a few dozen atom bombs, and if you intended to attack, wouldn’t you be smart to plant all the bombs you could exactly where they’d wreck the most vital industries or kill the most people, rather than risk them in bombers that might be shot down or might miss the targets?”

“There, gentlemen, we have an example of the very sort of pseudo-logic I discussed a week ago yesterday!” Professor Slocum’s delight brought chagrin to Duff even before he went on, “Any nation with a few atomic bombs, only a few, would like to plant them in any enemy nation. True, gentlemen. Such bombs could be fabricated in sections, assembled later, armed and made ready for firing. They could be rigged for detonation by radio. The borders of the United States are comparatively unguarded; large objects and quantities of objects have been smuggled into this nation. So far, we see nothing to limit or to prevent the reality of Mr. Bogan’s shocking implication that one cold winter night or one day — one busy working day — atomic bombs might be exploded without warning in a dozen cities or more. It is logical — to a point. To what point, gentlemen?”

Duff’s three seminar mates contemplated the problem. They seemed unable to find in it any major syllogistic flaw.

Professor Slocum chuckled. “What defenses have we?”

“Well,” said Iron-Brain, “there’s the FBI—”

“Correct! The Federal Bureau of Investigation! Also an active body known as Central Intelligence. Also the various branches of Military Intelligence. The Immigration men. The Treasury men. Finally, an alert police force, sheriffs and the like. In other words, an invisible net protects our people. Many nets, I ought to say. A hole in one layer is matched by a fresh fine mesh behind the hole. In addition, in the camp of any enemy, in their secret societies, their so-called underground their cells and so on, this nation has undercover agents.

Malevolent plotters are marked men. It would be impossible to set up an organization large enough to bring in, assemble, rig and conceal atomic bombs.”

Down the hall a bell rang.

Two of the four students looked gratefully at Duff. He had succeeded in side-tracking old Slocum on his favorite theme for long enough to use up the period. Professor Slocum hastily assigned a double day’s work for the next seminar and, smiling and nodding, skittered down the rather dim hall.

Duff walked into the sunshine feeling neither warmed nor illuminated. Logic was well enough. There was also such a thing as complacency. The world had been complacent about the Kaiser, about Hitler, Mussolini and Hirohito. A lot of the world had been wrecked owing to such complacency. Possibly old bald-headed Slocum was on the beam. But possibly there was a radioactive beam in the making, right in Miami.

As Duff walked toward his next class he gazed rather doubtfully down the palm-lined, flower-bright streets of Coral Gables. Far in the distance he could see the tops of buildings in the center of Miami — white towers above the flat green land. He tried to imagine a sudden and unexpected brilliance flaring down there, hurting the eyes, setting ten thousand fires, launching a terrible spray of gamma rays and sending forth a steely wall of blast across the city.

Somebody clapped his back. “Shut your mouth, Bogan! Flies’ll enter!”

He grinned weakly. “Hi, Scotty.”

“Must have been some dream!”

Duff nodded and walked along with young Smythe, who continued, “What dazed you, baby?”

“Just — fantasy. I’ve been to a seminar in quantum math. Old Slocum got talking about atom bombs. I was imagining one going off in Miami.” He expected Scotty to laugh.

But the somewhat younger man merely shook his head. “That old goat will never forget his dear old Manhattan District days!”

“You know him?”

“Slightly — in a painful way. He’s head of the department where I keep flunking. Trig this year. Duff,” it was said earnestly, “do you think there is any way for the feeble-minded — meaning me— to ever catch onto the mere meaning of trigonometry?”

“Why you studying it?”

“Had to have the credit. In science. To graduate.”

“Why don’t you come and talk about it to me? I bet I could straighten you out. Trig’s a cinch. Trouble is, they teach it hard.”

“Brother! You have poured the tea! Would you run over the topic with me some night? I’d appreciate it!”

“Glad to.”

“What about day after tomorrow? It’s one of Eleanor’s working nights, so I won’t be distracted. Be able to concentrate. At least till she comes home.”

“Okay,” Duff said.

He continued toward his class alone, watching the retreat of the elegantly dressed Mr.

Smythe. Duff didn’t need to glance down at his own faded jeans and frayed shirt cuffs to visualize the comparison or to think how odious it would seem to a young lady soon to serve as Orange Bowl Queen.