The Smuggled Atom Bomb

“Maybe it’s only a mock-up. A model, I mean. That’s why I took a sample. To test and see what the metal is. I could be wrong, but I think Harry, whether he knows it or not, either has a piece of the heart of an A-bomb up there or else a metal model of one.”

Eleanor began to laugh. “Harry — a spy?” When he didn’t join her laughter, she looked at him for a long moment. “You think somebody’s stealing more of our A-bomb secrets and Harry’s being used to keep the thing — until time to move it on out of the country?

Let’s ask Harry where he got the box!”

Duff wished for a moment he hadn’t told Eleanor anything. “Ye gods!” he answered.

“Not really! I just — have to know what the metal was, now that I’ve seen the gadget.

Chances are a million to one my idea is totally nuts. But if it did happen to be that millionth chance, then asking Harry anything would be a terrible blunder!”

“You’re right about that,” she said contritely. Then, hearing a car in the drive, she murmured, “There Harry is now. Go clean up, and I’ll finish supper. At the least, get that repulsive apron off. You look like a cross between Mother Hubbard and the Scarecrow in the Oz books!”

His smile was sheepish. “Okay.”

Before he left the kitchen she asked hastily and in a low tone, “Can you tell, from such a tiny sample?”

“I’m no microchemist. But I should be able to, yes.”

“I hope you’re crazy,” she said earnestly.

Duff’s room was not much different from Harry’s save that it was less neat and contained more books. In order to save time, he had availed himself of an old-fashioned pitcher and wash bowl which he’d found in the attic. He began shaving while Harry took his daily shower. Charles Yates came whizzing home, bike siren loud, his voice shrill as he shouted through his mother’s window, “I got the old paper route!”

Duff grinned, grinned again when Marian, panting after running three blocks from the bus stop, dramatically announced she would be Titania in the play. He felt at home with the Yateses; there had been a troop of young Bogans.

Gazing into the mirror, still wearing the apron over his work-stained T-shirt, Duff thought about Eleanor’s description of his looks. Mother Hubbard and the Oz-book Scarecrow. His grin faded somewhat, but a glimmer remained. He certainly was on the bean-pole side. No girl like Eleanor would ever think of any guy like himself in romantic terms.

She was already Orange Bowl Queen. Why, if she just wanted to, she could be in the movies!

Perhaps she’d do something like that when she graduated — to compensate for being so poor, for endless cooking, washing, mending, cleaning and bargain hunting. And for the constant care of her mother.

In his small and rather dappled mirror, Duff saw that his eyes were shiny. “Nuts,” he said, and attacked his face with such energy that he cut himself.

Dinner was early. Eleanor had to leave at seven. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, from eight to eleven, she did filing in the offices of the Florida Electric Company.

It was a job she’d got through a friend of her mother’s, which netted a welcome eighteen dollars and ten cents a week.

Duff wheeled Mrs. Yates up to the table. The Yates youngsters, both dark-haired and dark-eyed, like their father, were so excited over their respective successes that Harry Ellings didn’t notice the special looks directed toward him by Eleanor and Duff.

After dinner, after Eleanor had driven away in a station wagon as weatherbeaten as the house, Duff went to his room and made plans. He’d want one of the chemistry labs on a day when it wasn’t full of freshmen doing Chemistry 101-A. He could do the physics all right — that was in his de-department. He’d need advice about the microanalysis…

It took a week. But one week later — with shaky hands, because he had never done anything of the sort — he looked in the beat-up phone book beside a drugstore booth for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, dialed and closed the door.

A man answered. “I’d like to talk to somebody,” Duff said, “about making an appointment.”

“Just a minute.” It was quite a long minute. Duff got ready another nickel.

“Yes? Hello? Higgins speaking.”

“Oh,” Duff said. “Well — look, sir. My name is Allan D. Bogan. I’m a graduate student at the university. I want to talk to somebody down there. I’ve run across something odd.”

A slight pause. “Could you give me any idea of the nature of what you’ve encountered? We’re pretty busy here—”

“I–I—I know that. Over the phone—” Duff hesitated. “Suppose I told you that I’m a graduate student in physics. The science that led to the atomic bomb—”

Mr. Higgins’ voice, businesslike to begin with, cut him off sharply, “Would three-fifteen this afternoon do?”

“P-p-perfectly.”

“Ask for me. Higgins. Slater Higgins.”

The office of the FBI looked like any office. No fancy equipment visible, no gun racks, no alarm or communication devices. And Mr. Slater Higgins, in his own small cubicle, with its swivel chair and desk, its one large window, looked like any junior executive.