The Age Atomic

SEVENTEEN

Nimrod watched the floor indicator lights as the elevator carried him up the spine of the Empire State Building. There was no polished walnut here, no mirrors or brushed Art Deco steel. The elevator was a service one, spare and functional. It did the same job.

He had walked the few blocks from the Chrysler Building to his own, enjoying a clear, if cold, day. The agents from Atoms for Peace who trailed him from the Chrysler Building didn’t make much of an effort at disguising their movements as they followed him from one block to the next.

Nimrod frowned. Atoms for Peace putting agents on his trail did not surprise him, but it did worry him. It wasn’t personal. No, it was the position, the job they were watching. He was a threat. He was protector of New York City in many ways and custodian of the Fissure. His position meant, in theory, he was the custodian of her, because she was part of it, an unliving, unbreathing embodiment of the Fissure itself.

Nimrod chuckled. That was a fudge, of course, something similar to what the President had been told. She was a quantum copy of a woman who had died long ago, who had somehow been caught in the gap between the universes by physics so far beyond the comprehension of mortal men.

Atoms for Peace. Nimrod felt uneasy. Evelyn McHale had appeared only a few short months ago, and the whole operation was so new but wielded such power with a certain branch of the establishment in Washington, the kind of people who worried Nimrod, those who thought that America was under attack not from the Soviets or Castro or China, but from within, by intellectuals and artists and people who liked to ask questions.

Nimrod certainly included himself in that last group. The country was still reeling from the televised hearings led by that Senator McCarthy, and while Nimrod suspected the Senator’s influence was on the decline, there was no doubt that people were still afraid of the Red Menace.

The elevator indicator continued its slow curve to the right.

The Red Menace. Maybe he’d be labeled as a Communist. That would make it easy for Atoms for Peace to move in and disestablish his department. He wondered what their Director thought, if she was even still capable of comprehending the politics of the situation. To her it would be like understanding the politics of a termite colony.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could resign, pass the torch and they’d leave him alone.

Alone.

That was the real fear, wasn’t it? To be surplus to requirements, cast aside, to be alone.

Nimrod rolled his most recent conversation around in his mind. She had said they were preparing for war. War against the Empire State.

It was impossible, of course. Inconceivable.

And yet… the other side of the Fissure was closed. Something was happening in the Pocket universe. Clearly something bad. And, despite her vague suggestion that he would be involved, only Evelyn knew the truth. The future.

Nimrod had to know. He didn’t trust Evelyn — how could anyone? She wasn’t even human, not any more. And, as far as he was concerned, his own position was still pre-eminent: he was custodian of the Fissure, his department the overseers of the tether between the Origin and the Pocket. And, therefore, the first line of defense for both.

The elevator pinged and the doors rolled open. Nimrod exited, and quietly strolled through the lobby of his floor, past the little lounge and the agent stationed on duty who sat flipping through magazines, disguised as someone patiently waiting for an appointment. Nimrod knocked on the door of Tisiphone Realty, spoke the password, and was allowed entrance.

Nimrod paused, surveying the office before him. Agents and staffers were going about their usual business.

“Mr Grieves?”

At Nimrod’s call, the lead agent appeared from behind a pillar, drained his coffee, and marched towards his superior.

“Sir.”

Nimrod paused. Was this the right course of action? What was the threat, and where did it come from?

Was it from the Empire State? Or was it from the Chrysler Building?

Mr Grieves shifted his weight. “Sir?”

Nimrod brushed his mustache. The decision was made. “Call in all agents, Mr Grieves. This department is now on high alert. We must secure the Fissure at once.”

Mr Grieves nodded. He turned, then paused and turned back to Nimrod. “Have Atoms for Peace issued a warning, sir? What’s the threat?”

Nimrod sighed, and shook his head. “There was a warning, agent, yes. But I fear the threat comes from the Cloud Club itself.”

Grieves’s eyes went wide. Then he nodded and walked away, beginning to issue orders.

Nimrod watched his office spring to life, wondering again whether he was concerned about a threat to this world or the other, or for his own survival.