The Daleth Effect

4

“It is a matter of security,” Skou said. He had a first name, Langkilde, but he never mentioned it, perhaps with good reason. “Skou,” he insisted, “just call me Skou.” As though welcoming all men to the informal friendship of a world-wide billiard parlor. “Go’davs, Hansen—Go’davs, Jensen —Go’davs, Skou.” But, although he insisted that he was just plain Skou to all men, he was most correct with others.

“We must always take security seriously, Herr Professor Rasmussen,” he insisted, his eyes watching everything while he talked. “You have something that requires security, therefore you must have security at all times.”

“What we have here…”

“Don’t tell me, I insist. The fewer who know, the fewer who can tell. Just permit me my security arrangements, and go about your work without a worry.”

“Goodness, man, I have no worry. We’ve only started work recently and no one knows about the project yet.”

“Which is the way it should be. I prefer to be in at the beginning or even before the beginning to make my arrangements. If they don’t learn one thing they won’t learn anything.”

He had the knack for constructing pseudo-colloquialisms that made him appear a bit of a fool, which he definitely was not. When he stood, hands stuffed into the pockets of his well-worn tweed jacket, he canted at an angle like a perpetual half-drunk. His blank face and sandy, thinning hair helped this illusion. Ove knew that it was illusion only. Skou had been a police officer for years, his German was perfect, and he had been a rather despised collaborator and card-playing companion of the occupying Germans in Helsingor during the war. He had also been head of the underground in that area, and the angle of his stance had something to do with his being shot by his former drinking companions, then escaping out of a second-story hospital window before they got around to questioning him too closely. Now he was connected with some government bureau, he was never too clear about it, but it added up to security and he got his way whenever he wanted it. He had been in and out of the labs for over a month, enforcing some rules and operations, so what was meant to be private was kept private.

“This all seems very cinematic, Herr Skou,” Arnie said. “If we just put the unit in a truck and cover it up no one would ever notice.”

“Skou, if you please. The unreal borrows from the real, the cinema from life, if you know what I mean. And maybe we can learn a thing or two from them. It is best to take precautions. A matter of security.”

Skou was not to be argued with. They waited, out of sight inside the Nils Bohr Institute building, while the red and black post office truck pulled up at the loading ramp outside. There was a certain amount of shouting when, backing in, it almost knocked over a stack of milk-bottle crates. But with not too many “Stop, Hendrik!” and “Lidt ertdnu! Sa er den derf” cries it put its back doors at the platfonn edge. Two postmen, bulky in their reddish-pink jackets and heavy with the thud of their wooden-soled traesko, brought in some armloads of parcels. That they were more than postmen was apparent by their complete ignoring of the presence of the three watchers: no normal Danish postman could have resisted this opportunity for a chat. Skou silently pointed to the crates that contained the unit and, just as silently, they pushed them into the waiting van. The wide doors were closed, the big padlock sealed, and the truck rumbled its engine and moved out into die road. They watched it until it vanished in the morning traffic.

“Post trucks are not invisible, but they are the next best thing to invisible,^,, Skou said. “They will go to the central office on Kobmagergade, along with many other trucks of the same shape and color. They will emerge a few minutes later—with new numbers, of course—and proceed to the quay. I suggest, gentlemen, that we proceed there as well to greet them upon arrival.”

Skou drove them in his car, a disreputable Opel of uncertain age, and did a certain amount of cutting down narrow streets and darting in and out of traffic until he was sure that they were not being followed. He parked near the yacht basin and went to find a telephone while they walked on ahead. A biting wind keened in off the waters of the Oresund, directly from Sweden and the arctic beyond. The sky was low and gray.

“It feels like snow,” Ove said.

“Is that the ship?” Arnie asked, looking toward the far end of Langelinie quay, where a single vessel was tied up.

“Yes, the Isbjorn. It seemed the best for our needs. After all, we can’t be too sure about stress and, old as she is, she’s still an icebreaker. I watched her half of last winter keeping the channel clear out here.”

Two policemen, massive in their great, long coats, looked out toward Sweden and ignored them when they passed. As did two equally solid men in a car halfway down the quay.

“Sfcou has his watchdogs out,” Ove said.

“I doubt they’ll have much to do. In this weather not many sightseers will want to walk along here.”.

The ship loomed over them, a black wall studded with rows of bulging rivet-heads. The gangplank was down, but no one was in sight on deck. They climbed up slowly, the ramp creaking beneath them.

“Quite an antique,” Ove said once they had reached the deck. “But a little too dark to match her *polar bear’ name with all the soot.” A thin ribbon of coal smoke rose from her stack from the furnace below.

“Old but strong,” Arnie said, pointing at the massive reinforcing in the bows. “The new generation of icebreakers slide up onto the ice and break it with their weight. This old-timer does it the hard way by bashing right on through. This was a wise choice. I wonder where everyone is?”

As though summoned by his words the door to the pilot house swung open and an officer appeared there, as dark and brooding as the ship in his black coat and boots, a great piratical beard concealing the lower part of his face. He stomped over to them and executed a very perfunctory salute.

“I assume that you are the gentlemen I was told to expect. I am Captain Hougaard, the commander of this vessel.” There was no warmth at all in his tone or his manner.

They shook hands with him, embarrassed by Skou’s instructions not to give their names.

“Thank you for having us aboard, Captain. It was very kind of you to make your ship available,” Ove said, trying to be conciliatory.

“I had no choice.” He was not in a peacemaking humor. “I was ordered to do so by my superiors. My men are staying below as was also ordered.”

“Very kind,” Ove said, working hard to keep any sarcastic edge from his words. There was the thin squeal of brakes as the post office truck pulled up on the quay below; a welcome interruption. “Would you be so kind as to have some of your men bring up the packages from that truck?”

Captain Hougaard’s only answer was to bellow commands down a hatchway, which brought a half-dozen sailors on the run. They were far more interested than the captain in what was happening, and perhaps grateful for the break in routine.

“Gently with those,” Arnie said when they carried the boxes up the gangway. “They can’t be dropped or jarred.”

“Couldn’t treat it more gendy if my mother was inside,” a blond giant of a seaman said. His wide sideburns vanished into a heroic moustache. He winked at them when the captain wasn’t looking.

They had gone over the blueprints of the ship and had selected the engine room as best suited to their needs. The bow end of the space was cut off by a screened wall into a room for the electrician, with his supplies and workbench. The power board and generator were here and, equally important, it was against the outer skin of the ship’s hull. The boxes were brought here and, under the watchful eyes of the two physicists, were gently lowered to the deck. When all of the men had gone the captain stepped forward.

“I have been instructed that your work is to be done in absolute privacy. However, since one boiler must be fired, an engineer will have to be stationed out here…”

“That’s perfectly all right,” Arnie broke in.

“…and when the watch is changed I will change the men myself. I will be in my cabin if you wish to contact me.”

“Fine, thank you for the aid, Captain.” They watched his retreating back. “I am afraid he doesn’t like all this,” Arnie said.

“I’m afraid we can’t afford to worry about it. Let’s get these things uncrated.”

Setting up the equipment took most of the day. There were four basic units, electronic equipment of some kind, unidentifiable in their dial-studded black metal cabinets. Heavy cables with multiple-pronged connectors snaked between them, and an even thicker cable ran to the power outlet. While Arnie worried over the connections and adjustment of the equipment, Ove Rasmussen pulled on a pair of cotton workmen’s gloves and studied the paint-encrusted, rivet-littered hull of the ship.

“Right here,” he said, tapping on a bulging rib with his hammer. He then went to work with steady precision, with hammer and chisel, removing the thick layers of paint that covered the steel. When he had a foot-long area cleaned right down to the bare, shiny metal, he scrubbed it industriously with a wire brush.

“Done,” he announced with satisfaction, pulling off the gloves and lighting a cigarette. “Clean as a whistle. Positive contact here and through the entire hull.”

“I hope so. This connection is most vital.” A flexible, rectangular-cross-sectioned wave guide protruded from what appeared to be the final unit in the interconnection, and terminated in a complicated bit of brass machining equipped with screw clamps. After a certain amount of filing of metal, and mumbled curses about the intractability of inert matter, they succeeded in fastening it to the prepared section of metal. Arnie made a number of careful settings and switched on the equipment.

“Trickle power,” he said. “Just enough to see if we are completing our circuitry.”

There was a sudden sharp rapping on the door. Ove went and opened it a crack. Captain Hougaard was outside, looking as annoyed as ever. “Yes?”

“There is a soldier here who wishes to speak to you.” He did not appear to enjoy his role as messenger boy.

Ove opened the door just wide enough to slip out through, then carefully closed it behind him. A uniformed sergeant, all web belts, brass clips, high boots, was holding the leather case of a field telephone. The cable from it vanished out of sight up the gangway.

“I was told to bring this to you, sir. The other unit is on the quay outside.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. Just put it down here and I’ll take care of it.”

The door to the electrician’s compartment opened and Arnie looked out.

“Could I talk to you, Captain?” he asked.

The captain pointed at the sergeant. “Wait for me on the deck above.” He was silent until the man had clumped up the stairway out of earshot. “What is it?”

“We need some skilled help. Perhaps you have someone aboard who can weld—and do a good job? It will take a long time to send ashore for help. This is a matter of national interest,” he added when the captain was silent, and appeared reluctant to answer.

“Yes, I’m very much aware of that. The Minister of Trade will have my complete report on this matter. There is Jens; he was a welder in the shipyard. I’ll send him down.” He went away, the very stomp of his feet radiating annoyance.

Jens turned out to be the moustached giant who had helped bring down the boxes. He appeared, swinging the heavy tanks of a gas welder like toys, smiling innocently.

“Now we get a look at the box of tricks, hey? No secrets from Jens; he sees all and tells nothing. Big mysterious secret affairs, Army, Navy, Marine—even Nils Bohr Institute like Herr Professor Rasmussen here.” Both men looked shocked as the big man winked and dropped the pipes and tanks to the deck.

“Perhaps we had better contact—” Arnie said, but was interrupted by Jen’s Olympian laugh.

“Don’t worry! See all, tell nothing. Jens has been in the Army, in Greenland—in the shipyard, South America. On television I saw the Professor here get the Nobel prize. Gentlemen, don’t worry, I am as good a Dane as they come, even if I was born in Jutland, which some lousy Zealanders hold against me, and I even have the Dan-nebrog tattooed on my chest. Would you like to see it?”

He assumed they would, even before they had a chance to answer, and opened his jacket and shirt to show the white-crossed red flag of Denmark tucked away behind the golden waves of hair.

“That is very good,” Arnie said—and shrugged. “I suppose we do not have much choice in the matter. I assume you will not talk about what you see here…”

“If the torturers pulled out every fingernail and toenail on my body I would laugh and spit in their faces without saying a word.”

“Yes, I am quite sure that you would. If you will come in here.” They stood aside while the big man dragged his equipment in. “It is the hull connection,” Arnie told Ove. “Just not good enough. The signal is not getting through. We will have to weld the wave guide to it.”

Jens nodded while they explained what must be done, and his welder popped, then hissed to life. He knew his work all right; the captain had not been wrong about that. After removing the wave guide; he brushed the area clean again and scrubbed it with solvent. Only then did he clamp the brass fitting back on and run a true and steady bead down its length, humming cheerfully to himself while he worked.

“Strange looking radios you have here,” he said, flashing a brief look at the equipment. “But of course it’s not a radio—I know that much, did a bit of radio operating myself in Indonesia. Physics, very complicated stuff.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much, Jens?” Ove asked.

“Sometimes, but not twice.” He closed a scarred fist that looked as big as a soccer ball. Then he laughed. “I talk a lot, but I don’t say much. Only to friends.” He picked up the equipment and started out. “It has been good speaking with you gentlemen. Don’t forget to call on old Jens when you need help.” Then he was gone.

“An interesting personality,” Arnie said. “Do you think he will tell anyone about this?”

“I hope not. And I doubt it. But I think I’ll mention him to Skou, just in case.”

“You’ve caught his security bug.”

“Perhaps. But if everything goes according to plan tonight, we are going to have something that we very much want to keep under wraps.”

“The signal is fine now,” Arnie said, and flipped off the power and leaned back and stretched. “That is all we can do for the moment. What comes next?”

Ove looked at his watch. “Six o’clock and I’m getting hungry. It was arranged for us to eat aboard.”

“The captain will really enjoy having us. Boiled fish, boiled potatoes, and alcohol-free beer, I suppose. We should take turns. Why don’t you eat first? I am not very hungry.”

“After your undoubtedly accurate description neither am I. But I’ll volunteer since it was my idea. It will be eleven o’clock before anyone shows up so we have more than enough time.”

Arnie puttered with the equipment and worked out an estimate on field strength at maximum output, so the time passed quickly. He unlocked the door when Ove called to him.

“Not one half as bad as we expected. Roast pork and red cabbage, very filling in a hearty, nautical way. Unless you have acquired some dietetic prejudices since I saw you last?”

“Hardly. Modern Judaism is more a state of mind and a cultural heritage than a religion. Though I admit that it is easier to find poultry than pork in Tel-Aviv. I look forward to the dinner.”

Just before eleven the field telephone rang with a clanging military urgency. Ove answered it.

“Skou here. The observers are assembling and. they wish to know when the demonstration will begin.”

“At once, tell them. Tell them I’m on my way up.” He rang off and turned to Arnie. “Ready?”

“Ready as we will ever be, I imagine.” He took a deep breath. “You had better stay on the other end of this phone so we can be in touch. Keep me informed constantly.”

“You know I’ll do that. And it’s going to work, be sure of that.”

“I hope that. We will look quite the fools if it does not.”

“The laboratory results…”

“Are not a field trial. We are going to try that now. Let me know when I am to start.”

Ove followed the telephone wire up through the ship and, when he opened the outer door, was pelted in the face by a flurry of fine snow. It was carried by a biting wind that made him close his coat tightly and turn up the collar. From the top of the gangway he could see the huddle of dark figures against the far wall of the quay. Skou was waiting for him when he came down.

“If you are ready they would be pleased if you started. Admiral Sander-Lange there is in his seventies, and we have two generals not much younger.”

“The Prime Minister… ?”

“Decided at the last minute not to come. But there is his representative. The Air Force people are here, everyone on the list.”

“We are all ready then. If you bring the phone over, I’ll brief them and we can begin.”

“I would like some explanation,” the admiral said when Ove came up, more than an echo of command still in his old man’s voice.

“I’ll be happy to, sir. What we hope to do here is to demonstrate the Daleth effect.”

“Daleth?” a general asked.

“The fourth letter of the Hebrew alphabet. The symbol that Professor Klein had assigned to the factor in the equation that led to the discovery.”

“What discovery?” someone asked, puzzled.

Ove smiled, his features barely visible in the snow-obscured light of the overhead lamp.

“That is what we are here to observe. The Daleth effect has been proven in theory, and in limited laboratory experiments. This is the first time that it has been attempted on a large enough scale to prove whether it will be universally applicable or not. Since there was so much physical difficulty, and security, in setting up this trial, it was decided that observers should be present even if there were a chance of failure.”

“Failure of what?” an irritated voice asked.

“That will be obvious enough in a few minutes…” The telephone rang and Ove broke off. “Yes?”

“Are you ready to start?”

“Yes. Minimum power to begin with?”

“Minimum power. Beginning”

“If you gentlemen will watch the ship,” Ove said, covering the mouthpiece.

There was very little to see. Flurries of fine snow swept through the cones of light along the quay. The Isbjorn’s gangplank had been raised, as had been instructed, and men stood by on the fore and aft cables, which had been slacked off. The tide had carried the ship away from the quay so that a gap of dark water could be seen. Waves gurgled and slapped between the hull and the stone wall of the quay.

“Nothing yet,” Ove said.

“I’m turning up the output”

The men were stamping their feet in the cold and there was an undertone of irritated murmuring. One of them turned to Ove, a complaint ready on his lips, when a sudden high-pitched whining filled the air. It seemed to come from all directions at once, sourceless and irritating, making them feel as though the bones in their skulls were vibrating. This painful aspect of the sound passed quickly, though the vibration itself remained, at a lower pitch, like the string on some celestial bass viol, humming to itself behind the backdrop of the world.

As this first sound died away, a creaking began in the Isbjorn, sounding first one part of the hull then the other. There were excited shouts on deck. Something like a shudder passed through the ship and tiny waves broke all around it and sucked at the hull.

“Good Christ, look!” someone gasped. They looked. It was incredible.

As though mounted on a giant underwater piston, the entire mass of the bulky icebreaker was slowly rising in the water. First the Plimsoll line appeared, then the red-leaded bottom of her hull. Dim blots of barnacles spotted it here and there and then, further down, hanks of weed trailed limply. At the stern the lower, barnacled part of the rudder appeared, as well as the propeller, rising steadily until all of its dripping blades were clear of the water. The seamen on shore quickly payed out line as the cables grew taut.

“What is happening? What is this?” one of the observers called out, but his voice was drowned out as others shouted with excitement.

The snow was lessening, blowing away in gaps and swirls; the lights on the quay now shone clearly on the ship and the sea. Water ran in continuous streams, louder than the slap of waves against the stone.

The keel of the ship was now a good meter above the surface of the Yderhavn channel.

“Arnie, that’s it. You’ve done it!” Ove clutched the phone, looking at the multi-thousand-tonned mass of the ship before him that floated, unsupported, in the air. “It’s a meter above the surface at least! Reduce power now, reduce…”

“I am.” The voice was strained. “But there is a harmonic building up, a standing wave…”

His words were drowned in a groan of metal from the Isbjorn and the ship seemed to shudder. Then, with frightening suddenness, the stern dropped into the water as though some invisible support had been removed, sliding back and down.

The sound was the crash of a giant waterfall, a crescendo of noise. In an instant, rearing up like an attacking animal, a wave of black water surged high over the edge of the quay, hung poised, one meter, two meters above—then plunged. Changing instantly to a bubbling, knee-high foaming tide that tore at the observers and splashed high against the rear wall. It swept the men off their feet, jumbled them together, hurled them apart, left them stranded like beached fish as it drained away iii a wide sheet of darkness.

As it subsided the groans and cries went up, and the shouts were echoed aboard the ship.

“Over here, my God, it’s the admiral!”

“Don’t touch him—that leg’s broken at least, maybe worse.”

“Get off me… !”

“Someone call an ambulance, this man’s hurt!”

Heavy boots hammered on the stone as the guards ran up: someone was shouting into a police radio. Aboard the Isbjorn there was the clang of metal as she wallowed back and forth, and her captain’s voice could be clearly heard above the others.

“Taking water aft—the wooden plugs, you fools—when I get my hands on the people who did this!”

The ear-hurting bahh-boo of police cars grew louder, and in the distance there was the rapid clanging of ambulance bells. Headlights raced down the length of the quay as water ran from its edge in a hundred tiny waterfalls.

Ove was dazed, washed against the wall, soaked to the skin and tangled in the wire from the telephone. He pushed himself to a sitting position, back against the rough stone, looking at the frantic scene of shouting men with the Isbjorn still rocking in the background. He was shocked by the suddenness of disaster, the wounded, possibly dead men near him. This was terrible; it should not have happened.

At the same time he was filled with such a rising feeling of exultation that he almost shouted aloud. It worked! They had done it! The Daleth effect was as Arnie had predicted it would be.

There was something new in the world, something that had never existed before this night, and from this moment onward the world would never be the same again. He smiled into the darkness, unaware of the blood that was running down his chin, and of the fact that four of his front teeth had been knocked out.

Snow still drove past spasmodically, first dropping a sheet of obscurity and then lifting it for a tantalizing glimpse. The man on the other side of the channel of the Yderhavn cursed to himself in a continuous guttural monotone. This was the best he could do with such short notice, and it was just not good enough.

He was on the roof of a warehouse, just across the half-mile-wide channel from the Langelinie quay. This area was almost completely deserted after dark, and he had had no trouble avoiding the few night watchmen and police who came by. His glasses were good, the best Zeiss-Ikon 200 mm wide-field night glasses, but they could see nothing if nothing was there. The snow had started soon after the official cars had pulled up on the quay and had been drifting by ever since.

The cars were what had aroused his interest, the high-level activity so late at night, the concerted motion of a number of military people that he kept under observation. What it meant he had no idea. They had gone to that damned quay, in the dead of night in a snowstorm, to stand and look at a filthy scow of a coal-burning icebreaker. He cursed again and spat into the darkness, an ugly man, uglier now in his anger, with a tight mouth, round head, bullet neck, and thin gray hair cropped so short it might have been shaved.

What were these thick and stupid Danes up to? Something had happened; there had been an accident docking ,, the ship perhaps, men had been knocked down. There had been a disturbance in the water. But there had been no sound of an explosion. Now there was plenty of excitement, ambulances and police cars coming from all sides. Whatever had happened had happened; there would be nothing else of importance to be seen here tonight. He cursed again as he rose, chilled, his knees stiff and cracking with the effort.

Something had happened, that was certain. And he was damned well going to find out what it was. That was what he was paid to do and that was what he enjoyed doing.

The ambulances clanged away, and it would have taken a keen eye in the darkness to see that the icebreaker now rode lower in the water.