The Mouse That Roared (8 page)

As chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission, he called a Press conference and gave the details of the bomb to the reporters who crowded into the Senate committee room.

“The Q-bomb, which has been perfected by Dr. Kokintz,” he said, “gives us the ability, as it were, to summon the naming sun down upon our enemies. It will, in its present size, devastate an area of two million square miles. There is no limit to the power of destruction which is now in our hands.

“Needless to say,” he added, “we will never use the Q-bomb unless we are compelled to do so.”

“What would compel us to use it?” a reporter asked.

“I can conceive of no circumstance other than its use first by some other nation,” the Senator replied. And immediately he realized he was guilty of a gross error.

“Does that mean that other nations have the Q-bomb?” the reporter asked.

“Not to our knowledge,” the Senator parried, and he had hardly uttered the reply than he realized that he had now sown the suspicion that other nations might have this weapon. He hurriedly closed the Press conference before any more damage was done. He did so with the reiteration that with the Q-bomb in its possession, no one would dare attack the

United States. But he was uncomfortably conscious that the point had not gone over and the Press conference had been a failure. His suspicions proved correct.

In the midst of the reports, printed over the nation’s front pages, that the United States was the possessor of the frightful weapon, was the hint that others either had the same weapon or were likely to develop it shortly. And hardly had this news been absorbed by the public, than the great alert was sounded.

It commenced at six in the morning of May 13 with a wail from a thousand sirens in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and Washington. The wail rose to such a crescendo that it seemed all the potentialities of mere sound had been exhausted and some new kind of sensation, a combination of sound, pain, and physical pressure, had been developed. Then the sirens slipped dolefully from their peak down and down and then up again, and then down again. And when they were quiet, they left behind such a silence that it seemed as if there were not in the whole of America as much noise as would be caused by the snapping of a twig. It was as if the sirens themselves had slain all living matter.

In every part of the east coast, those in the streets, at the first moan of the alert, had stood paralysed by fright, and then flung themselves into doorways and into houses, down cellar steps and into subways and air-raid shelters; some sobbing, some laughing, some with their breath coming in hard little gasps, and others quite incapable of breathing for the while.

On the New York waterfront, there was a scurrying from ships as longshoremen, stevedores, and crews deserted vessels which had no steam up, and scampered to safety. One ship alone cleared the docks and that under her own power. The R.M.S.
Queen Mary
swung slowly out to midstream, turned around and headed down the Hudson.

The captain, after describing the time of the air-raid alarm and the sailing of his vessel, made the following notation in his log:

Sighted 300-ton brig
Endeavour
ten miles off Ambrose light. Called her on loud hailer and told her to put about as vessels were forbidden to enter Port of New York. No reply to first message. On repeating warning second time was met with flight of arrows from brig. Vessel undamaged. Continued on course.

The brig
Endeavour,
the double-headed eagle banner of the Duchy of Grand Fenwick broken out at her main peak, swept up the deserted Hudson before a brisk easterly. Tully Bascomb and the captain were the only men aboard who knew precisely where they were and both were puzzled that they had not, since firing upon the
Queen Mary
and hoisting their colours, sighted as much as a tug or a coast-guard cutter. It was a dancing May morning, the sun sparkling on the greenish water, glanced off the skyscrapers that stood like the spears of a vast host gathered on the island of Manhattan. The air was so clear that Tully felt it might be drunk as well as breathed. And yet over all there lay an appalling and ghostly silence, as though this were not a real city but only a painting of one, done upon a vast canvas and representing some metropolis, deserted by its inhabitants centuries before.

“This is New York,” Tully said to Will Tatum, his lieutenant. “But I don’t understand why there is not an enemy in sight. We have the whole river and harbour to ourselves. Usually it is as thick with craft as a flypaper with flies.”

“They have realized at last that we were in earnest,” said Will glumly, “and have probably set an ambush for us. We must go carefully. Those buildings are the biggest I’ve ever seen and will take a lot of storming. I wonder why the Americans build such big castles. I had not heard that they were often attacked.”

Will, a man built on the proportions of an ox, was noted rather for his physical than mental strength. He pulled a one hundred and twenty-pound bow, stood six feet three inches and had never been out of Grand Fenwick in his life. A man of more imagination would have been awed by the size of the city that lay before him to be taken. Indeed, the rest of the expeditionary force, lined along the bulwarks of the
Endeavour,
were looking at the Manhattan skyline in grim and desperate silence. But Will saw in the task merely a job which was to be done, in which blows would be given and taken, but which, none the less, would be successfully completed in the end.

The expeditionary force, which on the voyage over had worn civilian dress, was now uniformed in all the equipage of war. The twenty bowmen had their pot helmets upon their heads. Their hauberks of chain mail, worn over leather shirts, covered neck, chest, and back. Each had six bowstrings of deer sinew tied around his waist and each a small shield on his left arm, a short sword slung beside it, and a longbow across his back. Tully looked them over, and told himself that they would do well for him and their nation. The three men-at-arms--Will being among them--wore white surcoats over their armour, blazoned with the eagle crest. They carried besides longbows, maces with wicked spiked heads.

“Pedro”--Tully called to the captain of the brig, who had come to the conclusion since the chartering of his vessel in Marseilles that this was all something connected with the movies and maybe he ought to treble the price--“Pedro, bring me into the Cunard dock at the bottom of Forty-fourth Street. We will make our assault there.”

“They’ll make the devil of a fuss if I do,” said Pedro. “The first thing you know, there’ll be customs officials, harbourmaster’s men, policemen, and shipping clerks all waving me away and they’ll probably levy a fine more than the brig is worth. I don’t know why nobody has come to give me permission to dock. The health department should have met us off the harbour. Maybe they all had a big week-end and they’re sleeping late. It’s Monday morning.”

“This,” said Tully, “is war.”

“Okay. It’s war,” said Pedro, like someone humouring a child. “But I don’t see any cameramen about to take publicity shots. Maybe we ought to hang around a bit until they turn up.”

“Dock,” roared Tully. “Dock, before I have off your ears.”

“Aye, Aye,” said Pedro. “Stand by the main braces there.” His crew of five scrambled aft. Pedro put his helm over, the main yards swung round until the sails were backed and the
Endeavour
slipped prettily under her own way into the Cunard dock, where the crew made her fast fore and aft to bollards.

“Men of Grand Fenwick,” cried Tully, as soon as the ship was secured. “I have led you to the heart-land of the enemy. Follow to victory.” He threw a rope with a grappling hook at the end of it, on to the dock overhead. Three other ropes followed and the men swarmed up them to form ranks on the quay.

“Hey,” called Pedro, from down below. “What about me? What do you want me to do?”

“Stand by to make sail on our return,” said Tully.

“Do you expect to be long?”

Tully looked up the street and around at the vast, but deserted city that seemed to be waiting for him and his little army like some trap of steel and concrete, which at any moment would be sprung to destroy them.

“I cannot say,” he said. And then to his men, “Banners advance in the cause of Grand Fenwick.”

Now that he was in New York City, Tully had no very clear idea of what to do next, though he was careful to hide his lack of plan from his men. He had intended a landing on the coast with his force in civilian clothing, then marching upon Washington, or perhaps taking a train, and storming the White House. A quick and determined blow, struck with surprise, he felt would give him as a hostage for terms of peace, the President of the United States himself. But the plan had met with surprising opposition from among his own lieutenants, and Will Tatum, who before their departure had had a private interview with Gloriana, would not be moved to agree with it.

“We must wage honourable war,” Will had said, “under arms and meeting the enemy in the open. If we fight by guile we will be more footpads than soldiers.”

Tully, thinking the thing over, had had to agree, and since it was he who in the first instance had insisted upon honour in the matter, was a little ashamed of having deviated from his principles. The trouble was that here he was in New York with his army, but there wasn’t anyone to fight. He had expected to have to exchange some hard knocks even to gain a landing. He had expected that they might be set upon at sea, which was the reason he had ordered the volley of arrows loosed at the
Queen Mary.
But there was not as much as a corporal’s guard to oppose him. He decided to march down Forty-fourth Street to Times Square, in the hope of meeting the enemy.

The deserted street, the mute buildings, the silent air, the empty doorways, the corners and ledges and chinks and buttresses of the city resounded strangely to the sound of the marching of the army of Grand Fenwick, as it strode towards the centre of New York City. It was a sound never before heard in the New World--a sound so strange to the Old that the very leaves of the forest would have turned to listen to it--the sound of mailed feet clinking upon the road. The lone banner of the double-headed eagle fluttered in the breeze, the white surcoats of the men-at-arms made brave splashes in the sunlight, the helmets of the bowmen gleamed, but only birds witnessed the pageant.

One or two of the men coughed in the silence and then, feeling that this cough had been heard for at least a mile, eyed each other uneasily. A cat came from around a corner, mewed loudly and fled. Those who saw it laughed nervously; those who didn’t, but heard only the mewing, started. A flock of pigeons wheeled suddenly down upon the band out of the sunlight, and only the iron discipline of their training prevented the men from breaking ranks. A sheet of newspaper, caught by a gust of wind, followed them up the street like some mischievous urchin, now coming abreast of the marching ranks, now dropping mockingly behind, only to dart ahead again. Eventually, it wrapped itself around Tully’s legs and would not be shaken off, making him feel ridiculous. He stooped and picked it up and thrust it into his sword belt angrily. But beyond these little noises and movements, normally lost in the city’s roar, there was no sound or stirring other than that which they themselves made.

So they went, still without meeting a soul, until they had arrived at Times Square. The old
New York Times
building stood alone and quite deserted in the empty cross-roads of the world, and catching sight of it, Tully decided that it should be taken. It would provide in the first instance a temporary fortress. Its capture, he hoped, would get the war started on some more tangible basis. And it would be a good place to hold a council of war and seek for some reason why, while New York was where it had always been, none of the New Yorkers were.

On the ground floor was a drug-store, whose windows, bright with a thousand attractive geegaws, fascinated the men of Grand Fenwick.

“Will,” said Tully, to his lieutenant, “take half the men over to the other side of the building. You will find a door there. When I cry ‘Charge,’ break it down and kill any who offer resistance. We will breach the door on this side at the same moment.”

Will saluted and trooped off with his men, who, despite their discipline, could not resist dawdling as they passed the drugstore windows, with their display of mechanical pencils and pens, wallets, handbags, cigarettes, pipes, and cigarette lighters. In the centre was a big sign which said, STOCK MUST BE MOVED. “Come on,” said Will, to his lagging warriors, “we will attend to that later.”

On the other side they found a brass double door and gathered around to burst this open at the word of command from Tully. When it came, six muscular shoulders crashed into the doors, which, since they were not locked, spilled the company into the lobby of the building. At the same moment the remainder of the force under Tully’s command charged the door on their side. This also was unsecured, so they tumbled into the drug-store, and plunging through, piled into their comrades in the lobby.

A few blows were exchanged and a sword or two brought ringing down upon helmets before it was discovered that the lobby of the building was deserted except for themselves. Again there was an anti-climax. Again, what had been anticipated would prove a dour assault at arms had turned out to be an unnecessarily forceful entry. Again, all had been prepared to meet the enemy face to face, only to be confronted by a complete absence of the enemy. The men stood in little clumps, bewildered, looking nervously around and muttering to each other.

“Will,” said Tully, drawing his lieutenant aside, “to be plain about it, I don’t like this at all. I don’t understand why there is nobody in the city.”

“You don’t think it is because they knew we were coming?” asked Will, who was beginning to doubt such a reason himself.

“No. I don’t. It’s more like as if there had been a plague.”

Will blanched. He was a brave man; none braver. But he had a mortal fear of germs, which it had been explained to him in his youth would certainly devour him if he did not wash behind his ears. “The air smells bad here,” he said.