Atomic Weight 500 E-Book

Hans Dominil

• Herausgeber: via tolino media
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Realistic future novel about the further development of nuclear power from the year 1934. Two corporations wage a relentless battle for a new element with enormous energy potential. And for a scientist who alone has the ability and knowledge to produce it. With an essay by the editor about Hans Dominik. New translation by Alexander Remde

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Impressum

Hans Dominik

Atomic Weight 500

Published and translated by Alexander Remde

2023

Chapter 1

"In God's name, go!"

The words came out of Robert Slatter's mouth, hard and pressed, while his right hand flipped the large power switch. Some fifty eyes followed the movement of his hand and were glued to measuring instruments that protruded here and there from the gray earth. These instruments were the only way to see the effect of the enormous electrical energy that Mr. Slawter, the Duport Company's chief chemist, had just released into the depths of the dam pit with the flick of a switch. It was a dangerous experiment that was being undertaken here, and its outcome was of the utmost importance for the future work of the Dupont Company, the second largest American chemical trust. For this reason, there were more spectators present than usual for such experiments. Director James Alden stood next to Chief Manager Lee Dowd and watched the hands climb over the instrument scales just as intently as Mr. Larry and Mr. O'Brien, who headed other departments of the company. And behind them was a crowd of assistants and lab technicians, all eager to witness the big event up close.

Would it succeed? Would Mr. Slawter succeed in forcibly transforming the matter he was striving for by using thousands of kilowatts? Then completely new prospects and work opportunities would have to open up for the company. Then the company would suddenly have a lead over its biggest rival, United Chemical, which the latter would not be able to catch up with so easily. These were the thoughts that also moved Mr. Spinner, the company's head of news, because by virtue of his position he perhaps knew best of all those present what the competition was up to and how far they had come with the problem. But despite his interest, he remained cautiously in the background and withdrew even further as the hands of the measuring instruments approached the red warning line on the dials with alarming speed. Now they had reached it, now they were shooting beyond it.

Slavter saw it, stumbled . . . hesitated for a moment, raised his hand to the power switch, wanted to pull it back . . . half a second too late. The pointers, which had just indicated pressures of many thousands of atmospheres and huge temperatures, fell back of their own accord. A sign that the energy at the bottom of the deep dam pit had already forcibly cleared its own path. While Robert Slawter was pulling out the current lever, a tremor and shaking was already going through the tamped earth above the pit. A dull roar shook the air in the mighty hall. Like a crater, the floor rose at one point and a powerful gush of whitish-yellow gas burst from the depths. Fogging everything, taking the breath away, it filled the great hall in an instant. Escape! - was the thought that dominated everyone's mind. People rushed out through the open door. Here one fell, there a director was overrun by an assistant. Standing and rank were forgotten in these seconds of panic, the fear of death was breathing down everyone's neck, making those who had fallen pick themselves up again, forcing everyone to run at breakneck speed. Only in the middle of the work yard, far from the scene of the disaster, did the wild flight come to a halt. With panting lungs they stopped, took in the fresh air, saw the sun and blue sky above them and realized that they had escaped destruction. With the feeling of safety came a return of self-consciousness. Director Alden grabbed Slawter by the shoulder.

"What was that, Slavter? Did it go wrong?"

Robert Slawter pulled himself together and forced his thoughts into order.

"The steel bomb is detonated, Alden . . . the pressure rose too fast . . . the gas masks, Tamblyn," he shouted at his assistant . "Quick with the gas masks, Grimshaw! Howard, get some recipients here quickly . . . we need to take gas samples and examine them," he turned to Alden again, "we need to determine whether the gas is radioactive. Only then can we say whether the experiment was a success or a failure."

Lee Dowd, the Chief Manager, had heard the last words and shrugged his shoulders.

"A success? This explosion? Mr. Slawter, I'd like to call it a resounding failure."

Robert Slawter threw his head back.

"The explosion is irrelevant, sir. It was my fault, I switched off too late. The instruments warned me in time. That can be avoided the second time. We can build the bomb later for a second attempt. The only thing that matters is whether the matter has become radioactive."

Slawter no longer had time to deal with Dr. Dowd, because his assistants returned with the gas masks and recipients. He put on a mask, grabbed one of the glass recipients that had been pumped empty of air and walked back towards the hall. Tamblyn and Grimshaw equipped themselves in the same way and followed him. Howard stood waiting.

"Aren't you going to follow Mr. Slawter?" Director Alden asked with a slight edge in his tone. Howard stood still considering and then said hesitantly:

"I'm afraid, Mr. Director, the masks don't protect against radioactive gases."

"Nonsense, Howard, our masks are good against any gas."

Alden's displeasure was on full display as he continued. "Go on, man! Don't be a coward! Do what Mr. Slawter told you to do."

The voice and even more so the look on the director's face prompted Howard to put on his mask and start moving. But he took his time on the way to the hall, and he had barely taken a few steps into it and reached the first clouds of gas when he opened the tap of his recipient. With a hiss, the surrounding atmosphere penetrated the airless vessel. He quickly closed the tap and made his way back outside with the resulting gas sample. Alden and Lee Dowd stood together in the work yard and waited to see how things would develop.

"If Howard were right . . ." Lee Dowd remarked after a while. "If Slawter and his people were harmed . . . it would be a bad story . . ."

"I don't think it's possible," Alden tried to reassure him. "I saw that they had our universal masks. They protect against any kind of gas; don't worry unnecessarily, Mr. Dowd."

He had barely finished the sentence when Howard returned. In one hand he held the recipient, in the other the gas mask he had torn off his head. His face was flushed; it was impossible to tell whether it was from running so fast or for some other reason.

"A misfortune, Director Alden," he gasped breathlessly, "the others are lying unconscious by the dam pit."

Lee Dowd pressed his lips together and looked at Alden. Before he could say anything else, Alden reached for the gas mask in Howard's hand. He was about to put it on and hurry to the hall when Larry and O'Brien leaned in and held him down.

"Not one step further, Mr. Alden! It doesn't work like that . ."

Director Alden tried to free himself by force, but the two only gripped all the tighter.

"You'd run to your death too," O'Brien shouted at him. But Larry called for oxygen machines. He rushed his assistants across the square to bring the apparatus as quickly as possible.

"Run for all you're worth, boys," he shouted after them, "you're running for the lives of your comrades."

A meeting was taking place in the study of the President of United Chemical, Henry Chelmesford. Professor Melton, the chief chemist of the large trust, had been complaining to Chelmesford for five minutes about the waywardness of a subordinate.

"Well, Professor," the president interrupted him impatiently, "throw the man out if he gives you any trouble."

Professor Melton was still searching for words to reply when the third man in the room, Director Clayton, intervened.

"I strongly advise against it, Chelmesford. If we dismiss Doctor Wandel today, he'll join the Duponts tomorrow."

President Chelmesford gave the director a sharp look when the name of the rival company was mentioned. Annoyed, he asked the question:

"What made you think of the Dupont Company, Clayton?"

"Because I know how hard the Company is after Doctor Wandel. You may remember that it was I who won the German for our company. In my opinion, he is the most suitable man for our new work."

"What do you say to that?" Chelmesford asked the professor. He replied haltingly, while his eyes passed uncertainly back and forth between the two directors: "I can't deny that Doctor Wandel has excellent knowledge. But he resists my orders at every opportunity . . . wants to do everything his way . . . gets into arguments with my assistants . . ." Again Professor Melton had to search for words and couldn't quite find them. "It can't possibly go on like this with this doctor," he concluded abruptly.

"So? What's going to happen?" asked the President.

"I will send for the doctor, Mr. Chelmesford, and have a serious word with him in private," suggested Clayton; "I think I have some influence with him."

"Oh yes, Mr. Director! Do that," said the professor. "Hopefully you'll manage to talk some sense into this crazy person. Otherwise I don't know what will come of this."

While this meeting was taking place at the president's office of United Chemical, Dr. Wandel, the man in question, was standing in the new test laboratory and supervising the installation of a large autoclave. The mighty cast steel structure looked mammoth as it was slowly lowered inch by inch onto the prepared foundations by the heavy chains of two overhead cranes. The masonry crunched as it absorbed the enormous weight and the chains relaxed. The two cranes, freed from their load, were already moving towards the gable wall of the large hall-like room, while Dr. Wandel slowly walked around the foundation and looked at the spherical steel vessel from all sides. Shimmering and gleaming, it rested on its foundations like a symbol of restrained power, but the doctor didn't seem to like it. As he looked at it, the wrinkles on his forehead deepened, and words fell from his lips half aloud that meant no flattery to Professor Melton.

"Hello, doctor! That's a fine piece the Bedlam steelworks have supplied us with. Don't you think so?"

The words came from one of the laboratory tables, where Phil Wilkin, Professor Melton's first assistant, was handling all kinds of test tubes and retorts. Dr. Wandel didn't notice the sneer that played around Wilkin's lips. He was just on his way to the other wall of the hall to fetch a ladder.

"A fine piece, isn't it, Doctor?" Wilkin repeated his question when the German returned. Without answering the assistant, he leaned the ladder against the autoclave and climbed up it. Once at the top, he pulled a drawing out of his skirt, shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as he compared it with the lid of the autoclave and stuffed it back into his pocket with a huff.

"A first-class piece, isn't it?" the assistant asked the question for the third time as the doctor came down from the ladder.

"It's a first-class mess, if you must know, Wilkin!" cried Dr. Wandel angrily. "But I'll . . ."

The telephone shrilled into his words. Wilkin picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then answered:

"Yes, Mr. Director, Doctor Wandel is here. Shall I put him on the phone?. . . So, not necessary? Thank you, that's it!" He hung up the phone again and turned to Dr. Wandel.

"You want to see Director Clayton, he's waiting for you in his room."

The doctor slipped off his white lab coat and left the room. At the door, he almost collided with the Irish lab technician MacGan. The son of the Emerald Isle gazed in astonishment after the man who was hurrying on.

"The German seems to be in a bad mood today," he couldn't help but remark to Wilkin.

"I suspect, MacGan," the assistant replied, "that his mood will get even worse in the next quarter of an hour. I hope Director Clayton doesn't mince his words and gives him a good talking to."

Whistling quietly to himself, Wilkin made his way back to his table and showed no inclination to continue the conversation. Poor Dutchman, you don't have an easy time of it with the Yankees, the Irishman thought to himself as he set about organizing the bottles and menses in a cupboard.

"I asked you to see me," Director Clayton welcomed Dr. Wandel as he entered, "to clear up some misunderstandings that apparently exist between you and Professor Melton."

Indignation and annoyance painted themselves on the doctor's features as he took his seat opposite the director.

"It's not my fault, Mr. Clayton," he replied with a short shrug. "Perhaps it would be better if you spoke to Professor Melton about it."

"That's what just happened, Doctor. The professor complained about you to the President in my presence. I then took it upon myself to speak to you as well. You know, Doctor Wandel, with what expectations and hopes I brought you to United Chemical. It would not be pleasant for me if I were to be disappointed afterwards."

As Clayton spoke, Dr. Wandel found time to collect himself. The flush had gone from his face and his breathing was calmer as he answered:

"You also know, Mr. Director, what ideas and plans I came to your company with. But what use is that if I can't carry them out as I see fit? I don't know whether I have to fight against ignorance or malice, but certainly against one of the two. There is no doubt in my mind about that."

His gaze met Clayton's hard as steel during the last words until he lowered his eyes.

"I don't quite understand, Doctor, how you can say such a thing," the director began again. "We have responded to your ideas. At my instigation, considerable funds were made available for the procurement of the autoclave you requested. The apparatus was manufactured according to your drawings. As far as I know, it is now . ."

"It was not made according to my drawings," Dr. Wandel interrupted him, "they have deviated from my plans, . . . in such a way, Mr. Clayton, that the success of the intended experiments is in doubt from the beginning. I do not know at whose instigation it happened. At any rate, Professor Melton must bear the responsibility for it." As he spoke, Dr. Wandel drew a plan from his pocket and thrust it at the director.

"This is my drawing. Just now I had to convince myself that they had deviated very substantially from it without telling me a word about it beforehand."

Clayton looked indecisively at the drawing.

"I'll ask Professor Melton to give me his reasons," he said placatingly.

"He won't be at a loss for reasons. I've never known Professor Melton to lack reasons, let's say euphemisms, for his wrong actions," Dr. Wandel roared anew.

"Calm down, Doctor!" Clayton interrupted him. "You can discuss scientific questions objectively and calmly."

The doctor leaned back in his chair.

"So, let's be objective, Mr. Clayton! In the discussions that preceded my joining United Chemical, we were both in complete agreement about the work program: you have to expose the appropriate material to extraordinarily high pressures and temperatures if you want to achieve the set goal."

Clayton nodded. "That's right, Doctor Wandel, I haven't forgotten what you told me then about the research results of our famous Eddington. But I also told you immediately that we could never achieve the billions of atmospheres and degrees of temperature that this astronomer presupposes in the interior of the world's suns in an earthly laboratory."

"Your objection is justified, Mr. Clayton. But we must push the pressures and temperatures as high as possible. We must try to get as close as possible to the conditions assumed by Eddington in the laboratory if we want to be successful. I designed the new autoclave with this in mind. I must complain bitterly that my plans have been deviated from behind my back."

The director rubbed his forehead. "A silly story, Doctor Wandel. Why don't you let things go as they will for the next few weeks? If there are failures, Professor Melton himself will realize that he's wrong . ."

"And then try to blame me for his mistakes by any means necessary. But I'm not willing to spoon up the soup he's cooked up."

"I'll protect you from that, Doctor." Clayton reached for pencil and paper. "I'm taking your statements today for my files. For the time being, don't contradict Professor Melton. Let him carry out the experiments according to his instructions. If things turn out as you fear, I will place this sheet on the table for your approval and insist that they work according to your suggestions."

Director Clayton wanted to end the meeting with that, but Dr. Wandel had something else on his mind.

"Remember also, Mr. Clayton," he replied, "that we are likely to lose weeks and months in this way. We may miss you very much if other agencies working on the same problem succeed in the meantime."

Clayton made a placating gesture with his hand.

"I don't think the danger is great. The others won't succeed that quickly either. Avoid open quarrels with Professor Melton now. Let him run himself to death and your time will come of its own accord."

Dr. Wandel stood up. "Thank you for your mediation and your advice, Mr. Director," he said as he said goodbye; "but I can't promise you with certainty whether my nerves will be up to the test of patience that you are imposing on me."

And then Director Clayton was alone in his room. He thoughtfully tucked the note about the conversation he had just finished into his files. In a soliloquy, torn words came from his lips. "Perhaps the German is right . . . I'm afraid Melton is an ass . . hopefully the United won't have to foot the bill . . ."

After lunch, Professor Melton returned to the laboratory. He was eager to find out what effect the conversation with Director Clayton had had on his subordinate. Would the stubborn doctor finally give in and comply with his instructions without any annoying objections? Professor Melton hoped so, but he didn't give himself too much hope in that direction. He entered the room full of expectation and looked around on all sides. There was no sign of the German.

"Where is Doctor Wandel?" he asked Wilkin.

"He's gone away, Professor. He asked me to excuse him for the afternoon."

Melton was taken aback. Was the conversation that he was so curious about not actually taking place?

"When did Doctor Wandel leave?" he wanted to know further.

"Fifteen minutes ago, Professor. He was called to Director Clayton. Came back afterwards, took his hat and briefly explained that he had to take a walk into town."

Melton stood pensively for a while. So the meeting had taken place. Hopefully Director Clayton had given the German a good talking to. But why had he left afterwards? That didn't exactly look like inner contrition and improvement.

"Did you notice anything special about Doctor Wandel? Was he agitated . . or in a bad mood?" Melton asked cautiously. Wilkin watched him inquiringly from the side.

"Nothing special, Professor," he replied after a moment's thought. "He was actually more in a bad mood before he was called to see Director Clayton when he was looking at the autoclave here. When he came back, he seemed quite calm to me."

"So, Mr. Wilkin. So the doctor was in a bad mood. How did that manifest itself?"

Wilkin hesitated.

"I don't know, Professor, whether I'm right to tell you . . . it was about the new autoclave . . ."

"Please, don't be shy, Mr. Wilkin! I want an accurate report from you, as verbatim as possible."

The assistant shrugged his shoulders.

"If you wish, Professor . . . it wasn't exactly fine what Doctor Wandel said about the new machine . . ."

"Speak up, Wilkin! What did Doctor Wandel say?"

"He called it a first-class mess, Professor."

As Wilkin spoke, he watched Melton under half-lowered lids and saw him turn alternately red and pale.

"That was before the conversation with Director Clayton?" he asked briefly.

"Before the interview, Professor."

"You can testify to this statement in front of others if necessary, Mr. Wilkin?"

"Of course, Professor. I heard them clearly and remember them word for word."

Again it worked in Melton's features, and he thought for quite a while before expressing his decision.

"Well then, my dear Wilkin, let us draw the consequences from this. We don't want to expect Doctor Wandel to work with an apparatus that he judges so disparagingly. The two of us will carry out the tests with the new autoclave together. If they are as successful as I hope, then . . ."

He was afraid to say what he was thinking in the presence of the assistant, namely that the cross-headed doctor would finally tie up his bundle and go to hell. And Phil Wilkin came to a completely different conclusion to the sentence. Then we'll both have the glory and the profit of the matter, the assistant thought to himself. Then comes the time of fat royalties and shareholdings, and I'll be just as big an animal as Professor Melton.

Chapter 2

George quickly threw the oxygen apparatus over Larry, grabbed a valve and turned it. Pure oxygen hissed out of the steel satchel on Larry's back and into the airtight face mask. He took a few deep breaths to make sure the device was working properly and then hurried towards the hall. Whatever kind of devil gas was in there, he felt safe under the protection of the oxygen mask. His only concern was to get the casualties out of the poisoned atmosphere quickly, because seconds could make the difference between life and death.

There were still thick, whitish-yellow clouds in the room when he entered the hall; he could only vaguely make out the figures of the people he was looking for. They lay slumped, as if lifeless, by the embankment pit. He grabbed the first, nearest one - it was the assistant Grimshaw - and carried him outside. He came across two other people who had also equipped themselves with oxygen apparatus. He pushed Grimshaw's helpless body into the arms of one of them and ran back into the hall with the other. Slawter and Tamblyn were also rescued immediately afterwards.

Ambulance crews from the factory were already arriving with stretchers. The casualties were laid on them. The practiced hands of the Samaritans intervened in many places at once. The gas masks were removed from the unresponsive victims. A pulse was taken here, artificial respiration initiated there, and after long, anxious minutes the first signs of life became noticeable, a weak pulse in one person, a slight gasp in another, the barely perceptible twitching of a muscle in a third.

They were taken to the factory hospital, where a staff of doctors tended to the still unconscious patients. The eerie gas released when the bomb burst had affected them in a strange, hitherto unknown way. The fact that it penetrated smoothly through the masks was surprising, and its effect on the affected organism was no less strange.

The medical examination quickly established that there were no burns, chemical burns or signs of poisoning that would otherwise have been caused by gases. But the entire nervous system of the casualties seemed to have been thrown into disarray. Soon one person's heartbeat threatened to stop, only to suddenly resume at breakneck speed. Soon another's breathing stopped and had to be restarted artificially. Then again, severe cramps shook the entire musculature. The doctors had to be constantly on the watch in order to combat the frightening symptoms immediately with suitable means.

Would they succeed in driving the Grim Reaper away? For many anxious hours, the question remained undecided. Only after days did the mysterious disturbance caused by the unknown gas in the patients' bodies begin to subside, and gradually their bodies began to function normally again. One day came - it was the seventh since the accident in the dam pit - and the crisis was over. Slawter and his two assistants were back to life and were allowed to leave their camp for the first time.

Slavter was sitting in an armchair, still somewhat pale and weak, when George Larry was reported to him. While the visitor offered words of sympathy and congratulations on his recovery, Slawter's eyes were fixed on the other man's face. Then he could no longer contain himself and abruptly interrupted his speech with a question.

"Have you examined the gas, Larry?"

He nodded. "We have examined it and established all the essential data. Your attempt was successful despite the unfortunate coincidence."

"Did you succeed, Larry? What did you find?"

Slavter wanted to rise in a joyful movement, but he was still too weak to do so and sank back into his chair. "Speak up! Tell me what you found!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"The gas is highly radioactive, Mr. Slawter. You have concocted a devilish substance in your bomb. Its gamma radiation cuts through inch thick lead. It's lucky we noticed immediately and protected ourselves. Otherwise there could have been nasty burns in the laboratory . . . it's no wonder that this gas stunned you immediately despite your mask and put you on the sickbed for days. Its radiation is quite enormous . . ."

"Go on, Larry, go on!" Slawter urged impatiently. "The most important thing! You know what I mean."

"The atomic weight? Two hundred and forty-two! Four units above uranium. Congratulations, Slavter! You are the first person to succeed in producing a substance that has never existed on Earth or in earthly conditions before."

Slavter tried to stand up for the second time, but again weakness forced him back.

"Can I see your analysis, Larry?" he moaned, exasperated by his physical inability.

"I brought them for you," Larry replied and pulled a document out of his folder. "Here are the logs of our investigations. As you can see ..." he pointed to the dates in the records, "we got to work immediately after the accident. Here you have all the radiation measurements, and here . . ." he turned several pages, "you will find the determination of the atomic weight. We used several methods to determine it and came up with the result I just mentioned."

Slavter took the document from his hand. As he leafed through it, his eyes ran eagerly over the lines of the individual pages, as if he couldn't miss a single word. Now he had finished looking through it and lowered the paper.

"With all due respect, you've worked fabulously quickly and accurately, Larry. In just under ten hours you've established everything important . . . but . . ." he gave Larry a questioning look, "is that all? Haven't you done any more investigations with the gas in the week we've been here on the nose?"

Larry shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm afraid, Slavter, I'm going to disappoint you. The new element . . ." he made an attempt to joke ".. I suggest we call it 'Slavterium' in honor of its creator and discoverer, has a very short life span. Its decay into uranium and helium is very rapid. The incredibly strong radiation immediately led us to suspect something of the sort, and after the first half hour we found our suspicions confirmed. The amount of radiating substance in the recipients decreased almost visibly. We had to work very hard to make the observations that you find here in the protocol" - Larry pointed to photos in the protocol as he continued speaking - "we were able to get the spectrum onto the most light-sensitive plate with difficulty in the tenth hour. Then the remaining amount of the new element had fallen below the limit of detectability."

Slavter's right hand clutched the arm of the chair.

"No more gas in the recipients, Larry? All gone, disintegrated? Then it was a failure after all."

Larry shook his head dismissively.

"How can you say that, Slavter! It is in the nature of all radiant matter that it decays and disappears."

"But not like that, Larry! I thought quite differently . . . Oh, this cursed weakness, if only I could regain control of my limbs! We must make new experiments . . . work with more powerful bombs, produce other, much stronger substances with a longer life . . ."

A doctor came into the room. He had heard the last words and told Larry to end his visit.

"That's enough for today, Mr. Larry. Our patient is only just over the hill and still needs rest. Perhaps in eight days, my dear Slavter, you will be allowed to go back to your laboratory for the first time. For the time being, you should stay in bed."

Assistant Wilkin had made a mistake on one point in his report to Professor Melton. Dr. Wandel was by no means calm when he returned to the laboratory from his meeting with Director Clayton. There was a storm inside him, and it was only with difficulty that he was able to keep calm on the outside. 'Get out! Out into the open! See other people! were his thoughts as he grabbed his hat and stick and left the laboratory.

He stopped in front of the large portal of United Chemical, breathing a sigh of relief. The company's plant where he worked was located in the southeast quarter of Detroit, not too far from Lake Saint-Clair, which the Detroit River flows through on its way to Lake Erie. Dr. Wandel took a deep breath of the cool, clear air and walked along the promenade next to the river. As he continued through the park-like grounds that stretched all the way to Lake Saint-Clair, he reflected on his recent experiences.

.. .Induced by one of Clayton's confidants to break off promising negotiations with the Dupont Company and come to the U. C. . . by Director Clayton with towering promises, received with great coolness by Professor Melton . . then the three months' work in his laboratory. From the very first day he felt that he had to fight against invisible resistance. They said yes to all his proposals and plans, but delayed their implementation, made unauthorized changes . . and now finally this last trick with the autoclave. Should he just throw the whole thing to the gang?. . . Resume negotiations with the Dupont Company?. . . There were plenty of reasons to do so, but who knew how he would fare there?

In any case, it meant losing the work of the last few months and starting all over again . . .

Dr. Wandel stopped and pulled his hat off his head. His gaze went over the sunlit park and the large automobile road that approached the river here, without him being quite aware of the beautiful scenery. Inevitably, his brain continued to work.

Moving away from United?. . . Didn't that mean laying down your arms in front of your opponents, declaring yourself defeated?. . . No, he hadn't got that far yet. If the others wanted the fight, they should have it. It wouldn't be an easy fight, even if Director Clayton stood firmly by him, he was sure of that. Nevertheless . . . one way or another . . . he wanted to see it through to the end . . .

The path he was walking on now ran close to the highway. A loud honk behind him made him stop and look around. A car pulled up beside him at the side of the road; the man at the wheel held out his right hand to him.

"I wasn't mistaken, was it you, Doctor? At first I couldn't quite believe that you were walking around here instead of being stuck between your retorts and crucibles in the lab."

"We haven't seen each other for a long time, Mr. Schillinger," said Dr. Wandel as he gave his hand a firm squeeze.

"About three months, doctor! Always wanted to come and see you, but you know ..." he laughed, revealing two rows of dazzling white teeth. "Nobody has time in the States. You're still with the United, aren't you?"

"Still there, Mr. Schillinger. Been stuck in the lab for a quarter without a break. Took an afternoon off today for the first time."

"Great, doctor!" Mr. Schillinger opened the car door. "Get in and come along for the ride! I'm planning a little trip to the lake. I want to check things out there. I think you'll be interested in our new work too. We can have a nice chat on the way. Do you have any news from your relatives in Germany?"

Dr. Wandel accepted the invitation and took a seat next to the driver. With a jolt, the powerful car started up and sped along the highway at a speed of a hundred kilometers. The doctor let the strong wind blow around his hot forehead and felt his bad mood gradually give way to an evenly calm mood.

The questions that Joe Schillinger asked him during the onward journey also contributed to this. The old Schillinger had been close friends with Dr. Wandel's father in Germany and had later emigrated to the States. That was about an age ago now, but the connection with the German friends had always been refreshed by visits to the old homeland and remained alive. Joe Schillinger, although born in the States, also spoke fluent German, and when Dr. Wandel came to Detroit about six months ago, he was welcomed into his home with open arms. Now he almost reproached himself for having neglected this friendship for so long.

"We don't want to compete with Mr. Ford in terms of production," said Joe Schillinger, as the car rolled along the shore of Lake Saint-Clair, "but as far as repairs are concerned, we can give him a run for his money. We've even set up Martin ovens and forging presses in our new plant. Now when someone brings us their dented car, we don't have to telegraph over a thousand miles for spare parts. We make them faster and just as cheaply."

While Schillinger was saying this, a thought crossed Dr. Wandel's mind. Vague and vague at first, but as the other continued to speak, the idea took on an ever firmer shape.

"Martin ovens and forging presses," he said when Schillinger had finished describing his work, "that's interesting, I'd like to see them."

"That's all right, Doctor, the work is already in front of us. It's still too early for coffee anyway. If you don't mind, we'll have a look at it right away."

The car had now reached the gate and rolled across the vast factory yard. Elongated sheds on either side gave the impression of a large factory rather than a simple repair workshop. Several hundred wagons were lined up in rows in the yard. Some were still in the deplorable condition in which they had been brought in by their owners, while others were already neat and beautiful again, ready for new journeys.

"Oh yes! Thank goodness all sorts of things are being driven away in the States," said Schillinger, looking at the quantities of wagons. "We do a good business with them."

He led his guest through endless halls and workshops. Not without pride, he pointed to the conveyor belt in the paint shop, where a few dozen workers were at work with spray guns. Still unsightly on the outside, the repaired cars were fed onto the conveyor belt on one side. Then the guns hissed in the hands of the workers, a mist of paint played around the individual vehicle, here a light green, there a shimmering red or a rich blue, and just a few minutes later they rolled off the other end of the conveyor belt with a new, reflective coat of paint.

It was certainly a technical feat of the highest order, but Dr. Wandel only listened to his friend's explanations with half an ear. He urged him to move on, and after walking through ten other halls, they happily reached the forge.

The frame of a hydraulic press towered gigantically in the middle of the high room. Joe Schillinger spoke a few words with the foreman and then turned to Dr. Wandel.

"Let's wait a little, Doctor. The people are preparing the clutch for a heavy tractor. The piece has to come out of the annealing furnace right away."

They didn't have to wait long. Tongs were already moving into the furnace and pulling a heavy, bright red mass of steel out of the embers. Spreading heat and light through the room, it floated on the crane towards the press, and then the mighty press jaws went into action. Like soft wax, they kneaded and molded the hot steel, while the master, drawing in hand, made sure that the workpiece took on the prescribed shape under this violent treatment.

Dr. Wandel stood silently and followed the progress of the large forged piece. As if lost in thought, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a drawing and let his gaze wander back and forth between it and the workpiece under the press. Joe Schillinger slapped him on the shoulder.

"So thoughtful, Doctor Wandel? What kind of paper are you studying? Are you trying to give us an assignment?"

The doctor lowered the drawing.

"Is that what you're making up here, Mr. Schillinger? Frankly, I didn't expect it."

"Oh, doctor, don't underestimate us. We don't just forge things like this here from prima, primissima steel; we also machine them with pinpoint accuracy on our machine tools."

Meanwhile, he had stepped closer to the doctor and took the paper from his hand. It was the same drawing that Dr. Wandel had shown to Director Clayton just a few hours ago. Joe Schillinger pointed to the top corner, where the lid of the autoclave was depicted, and said:

"You see, Doctor, we can make pieces like that one here with ease. If you left me the drawing now, you could pick it up in eight days, ready to go."

"You're very enterprising, my dear Schillinger," the doctor tried to joke. "After all," he continued, becoming more serious, "this part is under particularly heavy strain. The Bedlam steelworks need at least a month delivery time. In such a case, I would indeed fall back on your work."

"With things like this, you really are better off coming to us. It saves you unnecessary waiting time. But come into our refreshment room now, we've really earned a cup of coffee."

"Your coffee is excellent, Mr. Schillinger," said Dr. Wandel as he put down his cup, and then returned to the conversation they had broken off in the smithy. He wanted to know at what price Schillinger could supply the autoclave lid. He asked for the drawing again, took the measurements, made a rough estimate, wrote down a few figures and quoted a sum, the small amount of which pleasantly surprised Dr. Wandel. As he slowly emptied his cup, he made a decision.

"You know, dear Schillinger," he said, "I'd like to have a reserve for this piece." He reached for a knife and cut off the top corner of the drawing containing the autoclave lid. "I'll leave this with you now. Please make me a spare part afterwards."

Schillinger took the paper.

"Will be done as soon as possible, Doctor. Shall I send the bill for it to United?"

"No need, Mr. Schillinger. Call me at the lab when the piece is ready. I'll pick it up myself and pay for it at the same time . . . By the way . . ." he continued after a pause, "I would prefer it if as little as possible were known about the purpose and destination of this piece."

Joe Schillinger laughed.

"That you chemists can't stop being secretive! But as far as I'm concerned; if one of our people asks nosy questions, I'll tell him something about a car spare part . . . well, maybe nobody would believe me after all. The lump is too big for that. I'd rather say it's for a lead press at the cable factory. They'll be more likely to fall for it."

"Do it any way you like, Mr. Schillinger. The only thing that doesn't need to be made public is that it's intended for United Chemical."

"All right, doctor. You can expect my call in eight days," Schillinger concluded the conversation and then took the pleasure of taking Dr. Wandel back to Detroit in his car.

Chapter 3

As Phil Wilkin strolled along Woodward Avenue in Detroit that evening, he suddenly bumped into Thom White, an old acquaintance from back in the day. The two had once studied chemistry together in years gone by, but then lost track of each other. Wilkin did not attach any particular importance to the meeting; the other seemed all the more pleased about it, and Wilkin was ultimately unable to resist his invitation to the nearest salon.

Over beers, a conversation quickly got going, from which he learned that his former college classmate was now also working in Detroit at the big paint plants on the upper river. White already knew that Wilkin worked at the United, and as the conversation progressed he did not make a murderer's pit of his heart. He spoke with great candor about the poor working conditions at the dye works, alternately ranting about miserable pay and narrow-minded supervisors while downing pint after pint of beer. At first Wilkin let him talk, but then, quite contrary to his usual manner, he began to come out of his shell, and finally half an hour passed during which he spoke almost alone.

He talked about his pleasant position as first assistant to Professor Melton, and one word led to another. He came to talk about the odd-headed German doctor. Obviously a protégé of the management, he had come into the department a quarter of a year ago with some very strange ideas, but they would soon tame him. Professor Melton was the right man to get rid of such people.

Tom White listened attentively and only threw a word into the conversation now and again when Wilkin's flow of words slackened.

"The German doctor is already cold. I'll be working on the new series of experiments together with Professor Melton," Wilkin concluded.

The other sighed. "You're a lucky man, Wilkin. Who could be as lucky as you! Couldn't there perhaps be a place for me in your department?"

Under the influence of alcohol, Wilkin's thoughts ran differently than usual. An egotist through and through, under other circumstances he would probably have brushed aside White's question with a politely dismissive answer. But now he said with a patronizing air:

"You could give it a try. Why don't you send a letter of application to Professor Melton, in which you mention our acquaintance and time spent studying together. Then he will certainly ask me about you, and I believe, my dear White, that my voice carries a lot of weight with Professor Melton."

Thom White thanked the assistant profusely for his good advice and intercession. He wanted to write the letter to Professor Melton first thing in the morning.

"As soon as things work out, I'll call you and let you know," Wilkin promised; "what number can I use to reach you at the paint plants?"

Tom White seemed at a loss for an answer.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me at my workplace," he said after some hesitation. "Our employees' telephone conversations are often overheard by the head office. You'd better write me a few lines at my apartment. Here's my address."

"As you wish, Mr. White," Wilkin said as he took the address, "I can understand your concerns." He glanced at his watch. "Good God, where has the time gone! Let's call it a day, tomorrow is another day. Don't forget to hand in your application."

As he said the last words, he reached for his cane and hat. He generously allowed Tom White to pay the whole bill, although his salary at the paint works was, by his own admission, deplorably low. Outside in the street, another firm handshake, and the two old acquaintances parted in different directions.

It is only a hundred geographical miles from Detroit to the small town of Salisbury in Delaware, where the Dupont Company had its headquarters, and the American airmail works quickly. By the afternoon of the following day, Mr. Spinner, the head of Dupont's news department, had a letter in his hands in which the conversation between Phil Wilkin and Tom White was written almost word for word. Mr. Spinner studied the document very carefully, and the words of appreciation which occasionally fell from his lips would certainly have pleased Tom White if he had heard them. Now Mr. Spinner lowered the letter and continued his soliloquy.

"Hm, hm! That's the way the boy has turned things around. He's supposed to make a connection with Doctor Wandel, but prefers to make a pass at Wilkin; not bad either . . . can be quite useful . . . He's a damned hard man to wind, the boy . . . still, if he succeeds . . . a position in the other camp, he could give us valuable information . . . but damned dangerous. Well, he has to take risks, that's what he's paid for . . but the correspondence mustn't get into the office files."

Mr. Spinner stood up and went to a large bookcase. The English classics shone out at him in gold-pressed leather volumes. He pressed a hidden contact and an electric motor began to purr. The entire cabinet slid silently to one side. A steel door in the wall of the room became visible, which Mr. Spinner unlocked with a complicated key, and the inside of a safe lay open. The news chief reached for a file cover and placed the letter from Detroit inside.

He wrote "White report - U. C." in red pencil on the cover and placed it in the safe. Then the steel door snapped shut again and the bookcase rolled back into its old place. Mr. Spinner sat down at his desk and took up his pen to write a letter to Tom White. It turned out to be several pages long, and anyone reading the text as it appeared on the paper must have gotten the impression that a talkative old uncle was dishing out endless family stories to his nephew. The picture changed considerably, however, if you read it using a cardboard template that Spinner had lying next to him. Placed on one side of this strange letter, it covered most of the writing, leaving only individual words visible. Then there was something completely different to read in the letter. It contained new deck addresses and an urgent warning to exercise the utmost caution in all further steps.

The last sentence that emerged from under the stencil read:

"If you get the position at the U.C., try to win the confidence of Doctor Wandel. When the time comes, let it be known that he has not been forgotten by us and that he is not averse to resuming negotiations."

Mr. Spinner finished his letter and placed the stencil in a folder. Involuntarily, he imagined how the recipient of the letter in Detroit would take a duplicate of the stencil from his desk before starting to read it.

The envelope in which the news director placed the document bore a printed company name, but it was not that of the Dupont Company. Rather, the imprint referred to a large ready-to-wear company that was known for its cheap wardrobe in the States. And finally, Mr. Spinner took the precaution of taking his letter to the station himself and putting it in the mailbox of the evening train due west. This also avoided the "Salisbury" postmark on the stamps, which might evoke memories of the Dupont Company in a suspicious observer.

Mr. Spinner loved to play it safe in every respect, and perhaps his undoubted successes were due in part to the care he took with even seemingly trivial matters.

Professor Melton was amazed at the equanimity with which Dr. Wandel accepted the news that the professor wanted to carry out the experiments with the new autoclave without him.

"Just as you like! It's up to you to decide," the doctor had replied coolly and briefly and had returned to his room to the theoretical calculations that had been occupying him for weeks.

Professor Melton was not sure whether Dr. Wandel's calmness was genuine or feigned. But he knew for certain that he himself was in a highly restless mood, and this mood did not improve when his gaze fell on the mighty, darkly gleaming steel sphere in the large laboratory. It seemed to him more and more as if it were not a dead physical apparatus, but a living, sinister being that glared at him treacherously. Occasionally there were minutes when he almost regretted that he had not left the experiments with the sinister device to the German doctor. But then it was always Phil Wilkin who stiffened his back with some seemingly random remark and drove on with the work he had prepared.

Fortunately, Dr. Wandel had placed a manuscript in the laboratory files that contained, or at least seemed to contain, everything important about the planned experiments and the necessary preparations . . . On the basis of these notes, Wilkin was now in the process of connecting a particularly powerful pressure pump system and a power source to the autoclave sphere. This took several days, during which Professor Melton had time to make up his own mind about the experiments.

According to the German doctor's program, extremely high pressures and temperatures should act on a suitable material . Something about the pressures could be gleaned from his notes. The steel hollow body of the autoclave was allowed to be exposed to a maximum internal stress of one hundred thousand atmospheres. If you went beyond that, you ran the risk of the apparatus exploding like a giant grenade, and the professor was not comfortable with the thought of such a possibility. He was already determined to stay well below the dangerous maximum pressure.

Maximum temperatures were also to be reached in the steel sphere, and this problem also caused the professor some headaches, as Dr. Wandel's notes were incomplete. It was of course clear that the embers had to be generated electrically directly inside the autoclave sphere. But while the doctor was still busy planning the necessary equipment, his disagreement with Melton had already taken on a more serious form and, annoyed, he had refrained from adding any further notes to the files.

In a morose mood, the professor sent for his assistant to discuss the matter with him. As was his custom, Wilkin took the light side of the matter and tried to dispel his superior's doubts.

"The heating transformer with a maximum output of one thousand kilowatts was built and delivered according to Doctor Wandel's specifications," he said lightly. "I have no qualms about using it and am now having a matching radiator wound."

The calmness with which Wilkin said it radiated over to Professor Melton, and at the moment the matter no longer seemed so worrying to him as it had a moment ago.

"The new heater will be ready in about five to six days," Wilkin continued in his report. "I would like to suggest, Professor, that we then first carry out a series of heating tests without applying pressure to the autoclave. This would give us a clear picture of the heat development in the sphere."

Professor Melton readily agreed with the words of his assistant. Firstly, because his suggestion seemed really sensible to him, but also because the thought stirred in his subconscious that with such a procedure the really dangerous high-pressure experiments would still have a good while to go.

"By the way," he said as Wilkin prepared to leave, "a letter of application has arrived here from a Mr. White. We could use a helper right now. The man refers to a close acquaintance of yours. Can you recommend him?"

Wilkin had long since stopped thinking about Tom White. It was only Melton's words that brought back to his mind that merry evening and the promises he had made to his old fellow student. He thought quickly. Obviously the boss was planning to take on someone else. Why shouldn't his friend White be allowed to get the job just as well as anyone else? In any case, he would be indebted to him for his recommendation and would not think of working against him.

"I may have lost sight of Mr. White for some time," he said with emphatic objectivity, "but I know him from the past as a very capable chemist and a skilled laboratory technician. I believe, Professor, that you are not making a bad move if you employ him."

The professor nodded and handed him the application letter.

"It's all right, Mr. Wilkin. Arrange for the man to introduce himself to me.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---