First Published: 1949 COLD WAR by Kris Neville 
 THE GOVERNMENT NEEDS YOU!
 if
 you can qualify
 YES!
 Space Stations need men!
 America's defense has an opening
 for you!
 Excellent pay!!
 Generous Furloughs!
 Applicants must be between the ages of 24 and 32, and must pass a rigid physical examination. For full particulars, and application blanks visit or write any government post office. 
 "The President is in conference," the third assistant secretary informed Leland Kreiger.
 Leland Kreiger took out his calling card. It contained nothing more than his name and the initials, XSSC, in pica type, in the lower left-hand corner. 'Will you hand him this, please," he said. "He is expecting me."
 "I'm sorry, Mr.... uh ... Kreiger, but I must know the nature of your business."
 "On the contrary; you must not," Leland Kreiger said. "I assure you the President will be interested."
 And ten minutes later, Leland Kreiger was seated before the President's desk.
 The President was a tired man. His face showed it, his body showed it, his eyes showed it. His cheeks were hollow, his shoulders bent, and, under his eyes, there were large, black rings. He had been in office only two years.
 "Mr. President. Failure."
 It was a bleak statement. But the expression on his face never changed. The President took it calmly.
 The President sighed. "I should have known. It was the last chance--" His voice trailed off. "You did the best you could. I don't blame you."
 "I tried," Leland Kreiger said. There was nothing else to say.
 "Did they believe you? Your credentials--?"
 "Of course. They were certain I was your direct representative. No doubt about that."
 "And they said?"
 "That there are things more precious than life; that their people could never tolerate a foreign rule--" He hesitated for a moment, and then added, hastily, "And that we were bluffing."
 "I expected it, of course. But I could hope. Now... . Leland, is there no answer?"
 The President asked the last much in the spirit of a man appealing to a doctor who has told him he has but three weeks to live.
 "There is only one answer, sir. I was sent to tell them to submit all their armaments to us or we would destroy them. They said it was a bluff. The only thing to do is--to destroy them."
 "Leland, you know I could never do that," said the President, looking down at his hands. "Perhaps the rulers, yes. But think of the innocent men, women, and children... . the uncounted millions--"
 He looked up. "It's strange, isn't it? If a state of war existed between us, then perhaps I would. But no such state exists. Ostensibly we are friendly nations. I might rouse our people to a point where they would support a war--but I could never justify it. The enemy will go just so far, and no further. They are careful not to give us an excuse."
 He paused a moment. "How cruel it would sound: 'He could find no solution but slaughter!' If we used the weapon once, what would the world think? How could we ever hope for peace?"
 "But, sir, the risk--"
 "With one hundred million lives at stake, no risk is too great! What would history say? What would all Christian instinct tell us?"
 "If we only had time."
 "Time? How I hate that word. Yes, yes. If we had time--In twenty or thirty years we could discontinue the Space Stations. But not now."
 The President looked up at the ceiling. And beyond it. He shuddered.
 The President called in Senator Tyler of New York, leader of the opposition in Congress. The President did not like him personally. And, yet, this was not a question of personalities.
 "Senator, please be seated," he said, after shaking the man's hand as warmly as possible.
 The senator sat down, and, without asking, extracted a cigar. He lit it.
 The President set his lips grimly. "I have asked you here on a matter of vital interest to this country. Vital. Anything that I tell you today is in the strictest confidence."
 The senator leaned back. He did not commit himself.
 The President ruffed some papers on his desk.
 "I want to stress the importance of secrecy. The newspapers must never discover what I am about to tell you. It would... . well, it would throw the world into a panic."
 "That is very strong language, Mr. President."
 The President looked him over carefully. He was a huge man. Fat. Heavy jowls. Tiny eyes. Eyes that glittered with shrewdness.
 And the President wished it weren't necessary to tell him.
 Outside, unknown to the senator, a secret service man was waiting for him to leave the office. From this day, the senator would be watched every hour of the day and night. His private mail would be opened--his telephones tapped--everything he said and did monitored by the secret service.
 And if he started to reveal the secret, his life would be extinguished like a cupped candle.
 The President stood up. "No, keep your seat," he said. "I assure you that it is not a strong statement." He walked across the room. "Let me ask you once again to call off this investigation. If you were to say the word--"
 "Mr. President, that is impossible. The people have a right to know," he sucked on his cigar, "that every safeguard is being taken to insure that the Space Stations are manned by loyal American citizens."
 If that were only the problem, the President thought.
 "Why," the senator went on, "think of what would happen if an enemy spy managed to get control of a Station--he could wipe out half of the United States merely by flicking his wrist." Here the senator flicked ashes onto the carpet by way of emphasis.
 Almost automatically the President thought, Mrs. Thorne, the housekeeper, will be very angry. He caught himself. Of late his mind had a 3 tendency to rove, and to concern itself with the inconsequential.
 The President said: "Let me assure you that every precaution is being taken. Each man is checked so thoroughly that we know him better than he knows himself. Will you call o the investigation?"
 "NO! You're hiding something, and we are going to find out what! Don't forget that we have the right--"
 "You win," the President said wearily. "I was afraid of it. It's not the loyalty check that you want to look into--you're after something else. Something's wrong, and you don't know quite what, but you intend to find out."
 "Exactly," the senator said, smiling.
 "If you go through with this investigation, it would result in publicity that we could not stand. There is a chance, because you gentlemen are so thorough, that you would discover what I am concealing. To prevent that, I am going to be frank with you. For, after all, one man is easier to bind to secrecy than fifteen. After you hear me out, I am sure that you will call off the investigation."
 "I must reserve judgment," the senator told him.
 "Very well. But, sir, remember that you have forced me. The responsibility, and the consequences, are yours, and yours alone."
 "Naturally," the senator said. "I can look after myself."
 The President walked to the wall chart. He unrolled it, and it rustled dryly.
 "I am going to cover material with which you are completely familiar. You will forgive me, but it is necessary to stress a few points. But first, are you sure--?"
 "Get on with it; I'm listening."
 "These," the President said, pointing to circles in red on the map, "are our nine Space Stations. You will note that they are located so that, at every second, some station is in direct target line with every point on Earth. Due to physical considerations, the stations move very rapidly in their orbits. But this has been made to serve a military purpose. To destroy this defense network, it is necessary to destroy every station, because every station, in its orbit, comes within range of every point on Earth. One might be eliminated, or maybe even two, with our present technical knowledge, but not all nine. And each one, in the space of ninety seconds from a given signal, can blanket an area half the size of Asia with atomic destruction. Each space station carries enough pure death to annihilate any nation on Earth!"
 He paused.
 "It is a perfect defense against an atom bomb. But, at the same time, it is a negative defense. It cannot prevent this nation from being attacked. But an attacker would, at most, launch only a few dozen rockets before he was completely and utterly destroyed.
 "And it is our only defense against aggression. It is all that we have. All of our atomic power is concentrated in those nine stations. If they were to be grounded tomorrow, we would be practically defenseless. Any one of several countries could conquer us within the space of weeks." The President let the chart snap back on its roller.
 "In effect, we rule the world. But, as you know, our 'rule' is of a negative sort. We rule by threat." He laughed dryly. "We have something hanging over their heads. They--the enemy, shall I say?--knows that we will never take positive action without strong justification--without what must amount to an open declaration of war upon us, or a definitely aggressive move against one of her weak neighbors. Therefore, the enemy has a wide range of free action. Their only consideration is this: 'Will America use the Space Stations to stop us?', and if the answer is 'no,' then they may proceed."
 He looked down at the senator.
 "The international situation has become pretty much of a touch and go affair. Bluff and counter bluff."
 "I know all that," the senator replied.
 "You will recall, also, the only time that we used a Space Station. The whole world shuddered."
 "Of course. Who doesn't remember? Russia was bent on setting up a Space Station of her own. We warned her. But she thought it was a bluff. The day they were ready to launch it, we dropped a single bomb on it. After all, we couldn't permit another nation to have a Station. It would be intolerable."
 "Yes," the President said, musingly, "one tiny bomb. Not an attack-but only one bomb. And yet the feeling ran high against us. Both here and abroad. The people of the world felt that surely some other means could have been found. Not involving death!"
 The President sighed. "It postponed for ten years at least the day when we would no longer need Space Stations."
 The President walked over and sat down.
 "Russia, you will remember, protested to the U. N. She wanted the Stations placed under international control. We could not permit that, because, primarily, the Stations are not a method of enforcing peace, but of defending our own country against any and all aggressors. Russia could take no further action--for she existed only under our sufferance. She had merely gambled and lost."
 "I, and any high school child," the senator said, "know that. Please come to the point."
 The President ignored him. "The whole problem of Space Stations is to much for one man. I wish that I had never heard of them!"
 The senator put out his cigar. "Well, senator, let me review. "You realize that Space Stations are our only defense?" The senator grunted. "Yes."
 "And that we cannot use them offensively against an enemy unless she gives us ample justification?"
 "Yes."
 "And do you know that if we discontinued them, we would be attacked tomorrow? By a nation who would absorb a calculated amount of destruction in order to dominate the world--by a ruthless enemy, an enemy who bears us not the slightest love?"
 The senator snorted.
 And the President smiled. "Of course," he said, "we could surrender to the enemy."
 The senator jerked upright. It was an effort that made his face red. "Man, do you realize what you're saying!"
 "Calm down," the President advised. "I know my oath of office as well as you do."
 He hesitated a moment while the senator settled back somewhat uneasily.
 "What I have done is merely mention various alternatives that would confront us if we decided to discontinue the Space Stations. Bloodshed or subjugation. The alternatives are all untenable."
 "Naturally," the senator said.
 "But I must discontinue the Space Stations," the President told him as mildly as if he were mentioning that eggs were on the White House breakfast menu for tomorrow.
 "That will be impossible for many years," the senator said with equal mildness.
 "Oh, but I don't have many years, senator. In fact I don't have any time at all."
 The President got up again and walked over to the far wall and stood looking at a picture of President Lincoln. He put his hands behind his back and seemed to be talking, not to the senator, but to the picture. "Now you can begin to appreciate my position."
 Adam Kregg had, for a long time, been covering the national picture, as it looked from Washington, in his daily column. Recently he had been writing on the seriousness of the military situation, and of repeated rumors "from high official sources" that the United States was planning to attack the enemy without warning. He deplored these reports, as a matter of course. He pointed out that, at present, we were in no danger; indeed, that we were able to keep peace, although an uneasy sort of peace, and that since affairs couldn't get worse, they were bound to get better. "It is possible," he wrote, "that within the next twenty years, if we continue on our present policy, differences between both nations may be resolved. At any rate, it is obvious that we can gain nothing by the use of force; it can only result in needless bloodshed. It is not justifiable. Eventually every nation will see, by our judicious use of the Space Stations, that we do not seek to rule, but that we do seek to live in Peace, unmolested by any aggressor."
 Undoubtedly, Mr. Kregg had the welfare of man at heart. However, he was, first and foremost, a reporter. He had an unfailing nose for news. He could put 2 and 2 and 2 and 2 together every time and come up with the correct total. A hint here, a word there, an omission elsewhere, and Adam Kregg had a scoop.
 Washington was honeycombed with his sources. And nothing was sacred. If it was startling, if it would set well in type, then Mr. Kregg put it in his column.
 Several times he had roused the wrath of the government. They called him irresponsible. Others called him a brave and fearless reporter. And his motto was "All the News." Period. He would rather chop off his two hands than suppress a story.
 To him nothing was confidential. Everything was grist for his mill.
 Once the government sought to bring a criminal action against him. The nation's press took up the hue and cry: "If convicted, this will mean the end of a free press in America."
 And Adam Kregg went happily on his way, reporting "all the news." That is, until he happened across the most closely guarded of government secrets.
 Perhaps he deduced it. Perhaps someone told him. At any rate, he found out.
 It was shocking. It even stunned him. He became frightened. And then he saw the story in headlines--the nation and the world thrown into the same state of terror that he was in. Naturally he decided to print it.
 He was going to give it to the great American public. But if not in print, then by some other means. That was that. Arrest him, and it would come out at his trial. Any action the government chose to take, still the people were going to be told.
 For, as Adam Kregg knew, he lived in a democracy. And the government tactics did not include--
 He tucked the column into his coat pocket. He was going to take it to the syndicate personally. He was going to see it go out over the wires. And nobody was going to talk him out of it. It was the scoop of a lifetime. Maybe ten lifetimes. Better, even, than when the reporter had discovered, during the last war, that the Government had broken the Japanese code.
 He got into his car and drove crosstown to the syndicate branch office.
 He got out and started across the sidewalk.
 A huge, black car hurtled around the comer and flashed by him. Two shotgun blasts erupted from it.
 He fell, his chest torn away. He squirmed once and died.
 Almost immediately, a plainclothes agent was bending over him. The man removed the bloody sheaf of typed paper. He stood up and flashed his badge to the crowd.
 "This man is dead," he said.
 And a policeman came running up.
 The FBI seized all of Adam Kregg's personal papers. They told the press that they were looking for clues.
 And there were headlines: FBI STArTS INVESTIGATION Of ADAM KREGG'S DeATH! But the assassin was never found.
 Adam Kregg failed to realize that the secret was too big to protect by normal, democratic procedures.
 "It's a neat legal question," the Chief Psychiatrist admitted. "But you know very well we can never bring the case into court!"
 The President agreed. "You're right, of course." He looked off into space. "And I hate it! The way it forces us to abridge all human rights--"
 The Chief Psychiatrist nodded grimly.
 "Well?" the President demanded. "Can't you do something? Isn't there any test? Anything?"
 "No." The Chief Psychiatrist looked away. "There is no way of telling who's susceptible and who isn't. Frankly, we're puzzled. The first case came up a little over a year ago. This is the fifth. Each case follows the same pattern... . I... . well, that's all we know."
 "How is the man now?"
 "Aside from the memory blank, completely normal."
 "And what do you recommend?" 
 "We can't take the case to court. As it stands, of course, we can't release him. If for no other reason than security. It's obvious that he can't be held accountable--but, as I said, that's a neat legal question. And, we must remember, that the condition may return at any time."
 "Well?"
 "Wait and see. What else can we do?"
 There was a momentary pause. "Mr. President, I'd like to have you see for yourself what you're up against. Come and look at the patient."
 The President stood up. It was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do. But after all, this whole mess was his responsibility.
 The patient was isolated in a cell block of the Federal Prison. He was sitting on his bed in the far cell.
 The keys grated harshly as the jailer admitted the President and the Chief Psychiatrist.
 The patient stood up. His face was pallid. Tight anguish lines laced it. But it was still a handsome face--young, strong, tanned. The eyes were red rimmed, as if the man had been crying. Blond hair spread in an unruly thatch.
 The President walked slowly to his cell.
 The patient looked at him for a moment without recognition. Then the red circled eyes seemed to light up.
 "You're... . you're the President!" he gasped.
 "I am," the President said, gently.
 "I... . I," he began and then stopped with a choke. Suddenly a wild look came into his eyes. "Why have they got me here?" He grabbed the bars and shook them. "Why? Why? WHY?" He sobbed. "Why won't they let me see my wife and baby? Why won't they let me see anybody? You're the President," his voice began almost to whine, "surely you can tell me. What have I done?"
 He banged his fists on the bars.
 "Tell me! Tell me!"
 "Here, here," the Chief Psychiatrist said. "Control yourself!"
 "I'm... . I'm sorry. But why won't somebody tell me anything? I... . I want to see Doris." He turned his face to the President. "That's my wife, sir. And Jerry. That's my baby--cutest little kid. Why won't they let me see them?"
 He began to cry.
 The Chief Psychiatrist touched the President's arm. "Let's go," he whispered. "We can't do anything. It's shock."
 They turned and started to leave.
 "NO!" the blond youth cried. "Oh, no! Don't leave me. Don't leave me here alone." He began to sob. "I'm afraid... . afraid... . afraid--"
 "Doesn't he remember?" the President asked when they were out of the cell block.
 "Doesn't seem to. He must have established a subconscious block. There is no conscious memory for the whole period."
 "How do you explain it?"
 "I can't. And what makes it more horrible, it happened after that poor kid's first tour of duty. Now we know it isn't necessarily the time element. And that's about all we know.
 "Our tests are as perfect as human science can make them. We may screen as many as ten thousand applicants before we have found one who is qualified, even, for the solitary test. I'll bet we've screened half of the available men in America. We have been so selective that, if we went one step further, we could qualify no one. And yet--there is the human element there, that eludes us.
 "There still remains those men upon whom the Space Stations act as a drug. Like marijuana. They seem to tower above mortality!
 "And all that responsibility, all that tension--so many lives at their fingertips. And the suspense--what with the way the newspapers are playing up the international situation--sitting there, waiting, waiting, waiting. Listening for that deadly signal. Waiting to punch the controls that will destroy one hundred million people. One-hundred-million! And the tension mounting as they swirl over enemy territory... . the flood of relief over their own--" He paused.
 "I can imagine what the poor devils must think. Life and death... . life and death... . life and death--Over and over, producing a hypnotic effect •,--like the individual death-wish. And the mind falls into that pattern- starts working like a pump."
 He paused for a moment. "And then there is the second stage. 'Suppose I should push this button here, what would happen? would happen? would h-a-p-p-e-n? Or this button... . or this--Life and death. And one- hundred-million people... . living... . loving--"' He stopped. "You see?"
 "I--see," said the President.
 "No wonder they break. All the world, all that living, there, at their fingertips--" He sighed.
 "All five of the men waited until they were home on furlough before they snapped." He snapped his fingers. "Like that! And all followed a pattern--like that poor boy in there, taking a butcher knife to his wife and kid. Insane--criminally insane. Or the one before--"
 "Don't!" the President ordered, closing his eyes. "Please. No more." Then after a while, he opened his eyes again and looked upward.
 The law of averages, he thought, is catching up with us. Five on furlough. And swirling in one of those nine orbits, up there, is a man who may, at any moment, become... . just like the five... . murderous... . insane!
 And in each of the Stations there is enough power to destroy half a continent.