Triplanetary - E. E. Smith (phonics reader TXT) 📗

in charge of tracer on the Seven Line, called him “Uncle” Ralph, and the habit spread. And in a couple of weeks⁠—at about the same time that “Injun” Abernathy was slightly injured by being blown through a door by a minor explosion of his igniter on the Eight line⁠—he was promoted to full Chemical Engineer; a promotion which went unnoticed, since it involved only changes in title and salary.

Three weeks later, however, he was made Senior Chemical Engineer, in charge of Melt-Pour. At this there was a celebration, led by “Blondie” Wanacek, a sulphuric-acid expert handling tetryl on the Two. Kinnison searched minutely for signs of jealousy or antagonism, but could find none. He went blithely to work on the Six line, where they wanted to start pouring twenty-pound fragmentation bombs, ably assisted by Tug and by two new men. One of these was “Doc” or “Bart” Barton, who, the grapevine said, had been hired by Cappy to be his Assistant. His motto, like that of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, was to run and find out, and he did so with glee and abandon. He was a good egg. So was the other newcomer, “Charley” Charlevoix, a prematurely gray paint-and-lacquer expert who had also made the Siberian grade.

A few months later, Sumner called Kinnison into the office. The latter went, wondering what the old hard-shell was going to cry about now; for to be called into that office meant only one thing⁠—censure.

“Kinnison, I like your work,” the Chief Chemist began, gruffly, and Kinnison’s mouth almost dropped open. “Anybody who ever got a Ph. D. under Montrose would have to know explosives, and the F.B.I. report on you showed that you had brains, ability, and guts. But none of that explains how you can get along so well with those damned Siberians. I want to make you Assistant Chief and put you in charge of Siberia. Formally, I mean⁠—actually, you have been for months.”

“Why, no⁠ ⁠… I didn’t.⁠ ⁠… Besides, how about Barton? He’s too good a man to kick in the teeth that way.”

“Admitted.” This did surprise Kinnison. He had never thought that the irascible and tempestuous Chief would ever confess to a mistake. This was a Cappy he had never known. “I discussed it with him yesterday. He’s a damned good man⁠—but it’s decidedly questionable whether he has got whatever it is that made Tugwell, Wanacek and Charlevoix work straight through for seventy two hours, napping now and then on benches and grabbing coffee and sandwiches when they could, until they got that frag bomb straightened out.”

Sumner did not mention the fact that Kinnison had worked straight through, too. That was taken for granted.

“Well, I don’t know.” Kinnison’s head was spinning. “I’d like to check with Barton first. OK?”

“I expected that. OK.”

Kinnison found Barton and led him out behind the testing shed.

“Bart, Cappy tells me that he figures on kicking you in the face by making me Assistant and that you OK’d it. One word and I’ll tell the old buzzard just where to stick the job and exactly where to go to do it.”

“Reaction, perfect. Yield, one hundred percent.” Barton stuck out his hand. “Otherwise, I would tell him all that myself and more. As it is, Uncle Ralph, smooth out the ruffled plumage. They’d go to hell for you, wading in standing straight up⁠—they might do the same with me in the driver’s seat, and they might not. Why take a chance? You’re it. Some things about the deal I don’t like, of course⁠—but at that, it makes me about the only man working for Stoner and Black who can get a release any time a good permanent job breaks. I’ll stick until then. OK?” It was unnecessary for Barton to add that as long as he was there he would really work.

“I’ll say it’s OK!” and Kinnison reported to Sumner.

“All right, Chief, I’ll try it⁠—if you can square it with the Siberians.”

“That will not be too difficult.”

Nor was it. The Siberians’ reaction brought a lump to Kinnison’s throat.

“Ralph the First, Czar of Siberia!” they yelled. “Long live the Czar! Kowtow, serfs and vassals, to Czar Ralph the First!”

Kinnison was still glowing when he got home that night, to the Government Housing Project and to the three-room “mansionette” in which he and Eunice lived. He would never forget the events of that day.

“What a gang! What a gang! But listen, ace⁠—they work under their own power⁠—you couldn’t keep those kids from working. Why should I get the credit for what they do?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Eunice wrinkled her forehead⁠—and her nose⁠—but the corners of her mouth quirked up. “Are you quite sure that you haven’t had anything to do with it? But supper is ready⁠—let’s eat.”

More months passed. Work went on. Absorbing work, and highly varied; the details of which are of no importance here. Paul Jones, a big, hard, top-drawer chicle technologist, set up the Four line to pour demolition blocks. Frederick Hinton came in, qualified as a Siberian, and went to work on Antipersonnel mines.

Kinnison was promoted again: to Chief Chemist. He and Sumner had never been friendly; he made no effort to find out why Cappy had quit, or had been terminated, whichever it was. This promotion made no difference. Barton, now Assistant, ran the whole Chemical Section save for one unit⁠—Siberia⁠—and did a superlative job. The Chief Chemist’s secretary worked for Barton, not for Kinnison. Kinnison was the Czar of Siberia.

The Antipersonnel mines had been giving trouble. Too many men were being killed by prematures, and nobody could find out why. The problem was handed to Siberia. Hinton tackled it, missed, and called for help. The Siberians rallied round. Kinnison loaded and tested mines. So did Paul and Tug and Blondie. Kinnison was testing, out in the Firing Area, when he was called to Administration to attend a Staff Meeting. Hinton relieved him. He had not reached the gate, however, when a guard car flagged him down.

“Sorry, sir, but there has been an accident at Pit Five