who could make a motel chambermaid smile—we must go back one week to begin their story.
WEATHER I
It’s Longitude 155 degrees, Latitude 83 degrees north. It’s the Arctic Ocean, a vast plain of grinding, shifting sheets of ice under a twilight gloom. It’s almost the exact middle of the six-month polar night.
There is no sound under the lead-colored sky except the booming and grinding of the ice floes. The usual howling winds of this godforsaken place have dropped to a dead calm. This is noticed by a strange little machine half-buried in a floe.
The machine is a product of the cold—here very cold—war. Of the Edison Effect, noticed and described long ago by Thomas A., who was working at the time on the problem of a practical electric light. Of a Navy-minded senator who wangled a cut in the Air Force budget, forcing generals to decide: “Since we won’t have the planes or crews for patrols we’ll have to do it some other way, maybe by machine.” Of a huge building in New Jersey where a thousand-odd happily quarrelsome men, most of them possible geniuses and a few about whom there is no doubt whatsoever, daily turn out fundamental research and practical solutions to whatever happens to be bothering communications companies. Of a young man with a Ph.D. in mathematics who got the bright idea that finally cracked the power-lead problem; it got him a raise from $115 to $125 a week, a Class C gate pass instead of a D, and a very important note of commendation from Dr. Kelly. He valued most highly the new gate pass; it meant that he could now drop in at odd hours to tinker at his projects if he got any more bright ideas late at night or over the weekend.
The machine looks like a foot-locker and on its side, under a crust of ice, the words are stenciled: “BAROMETRIC TELEMETERING DEVICE, U.S.A.F. M-51. PROPERTY OF U. S. GOVERNMENT. DO NOT TAMPER OR DISTURB.” The warning is generous. The machine is booby-trapped with an explosive charge calculated to blow up the machine and any wandering airmen or explorers who might try to pry it open and see what makes it tick.
It cost 32,000 dollars to build the machine and another 20,000-odd dollars in gasoline, salaries and overhead to parachute it to this spot from a B-50. There are hundreds like it dotted over the huge desolate plains of ice which are more or less American property.
All this money was spent so the machine could do what it’s doing now. It’s noticing the dead calm that has fallen on this latitude and longitude and is beeping this information southward on a tight radio beam to three airmen in a smelly little weather station on Point Anxiety, which rises from the northern coastline of Alaska.
CHAPTER III
PASSENGER JOAN LUNDBERG
“Madame Chairlady!” said Joan Lundberg.
Mrs. Quist winced and mumbled shyly: “Chair recognizes Miss Lundberg.” The ladies of the Scandia Women’s Democratic Club settled down or twisted uncomfortably, according as they thought Joan Lundberg was a capable and zealous party worker or a humorless fanatic.
Joan rose and said deliberately: “It seems to me that there’s been a certain amount of mismanagement and last-minute maneuvering here. It’s a simple question of electing one delegate to the National Conference of Democratic Women’s Clubs in San Francisco. Three names have been put in nomination and we’re deadlocked. Well and good; that’s the American way of doing things.
“What I don’t like, and I’m sure the majority of clear-thinking ladies present are with me on this point, is the way grave issues are being slurred over. We’ve got to send somebody to San Francisco who will make the voice of the midwest Democratic woman voter heard on such vital issues as me-tooism, squandermania, realistic curbs on the power of the labor bosses—oh, I could go on for hours!
“And what are we debating instead of these vital issues? We are debating over who will put up the better appearance. Over who will impress the ladies in San Francisco not by her determination to put a Democrat in the White House but by her clothes. Through this debate is running an ugly undertone of mink-coatism!”
They gasped at the words. The reporter from the Chicago Sun-Times drowsing in the back abruptly jerked to life and began scribbling.
“In all humbleness,” said Miss Lundberg, “I ask that some friend who puts devotion to principle above appearance place my name in nomination as delegate to the National Conference of Democratic Women’s Clubs. And I want to add that I’ll back up my stand by paying full expenses for the trip myself and will not expect to be reimbursed by one penny for my service to the party.”
There was a relieved sigh.
Mrs. Quist, too shy to run a meeting properly but serving traditionally because Mr. Quist was First Deputy Chief of the Cook County Sheriff’s Police, asked timidly: “Do I hear such a nomination?”
Grinning, Edith Larsen rose and proposed Miss Lundberg as delegate. Mary Holm glared at her. Mary Holm was one of the three deadlocked candidates and knew perfectly well why Edith Larsen was spoiling her party. Edith thought Mary was making a play for her fat slob of a husband just because she’d been decently polite to him. Well, her duty was clear. Mary Holm got up, withdrew her candidacy and warmly seconded the candidacy of Joan Lundberg (the blonde frump).
Joan was elected by a comfortable margin over the required two-thirds. Most of the ladies were relieved that the treasury had been spared the burden. Joan herself was mightily relieved. Not only would she be able to show the ladies in San Francisco what a real fighting midwest Democratic clubwoman was like, but she wouldn’t have to undergo the embarrassment of returning her ticket and canceling her reservation aboard the Golden Gate. Leaving nothing to chance, she had picked up the reservation that morning at Union Station. Wait too long and there might be no room left, she had sternly told herself. Take a chance—that was how our republic grew great.
The meeting adjourned for coffee and coffee-cake, and Joan was surrounded by a buzz of congratulations. Blonde, petite Mrs. Holm said gently: “I was so glad I could withdraw in favor of some really responsible person, Joan dear. You know what a burden the trip would have been for me—baby sitters, the place in a mess when I got back—Joe’s a darling, but he’s a bear in a den about picking up and dusting …”
(Translation: “You may have stolen my ’Frisco joy-ride from me, you blonde frump, but I’ve got a husband and children and you haven’t.”)
“I’ve got to pack,” Joan said abruptly. “Excuse me, girls.” She found her good cloth coat among the minks and leopards, and an unseen sneer curled her lip.
The reporter—he was unbelievably young—caught her at the door. “Congratulations,” he said cheerily. “I’d just like to check the spelling.”
She spelled her name and he put it down in block letters on a long Western Union press message form. “Do you think they’ll put it on the wire?” she asked.
“Well, probably not, Miss Lundberg. We just grab a handful of these when we go out on assignment…age?”
“Thirty-two,” she said.
“That was swell about mink-coatism,” he said. “I’m going to put it in my lead.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “They’ll take it out. Advertisers.”
“Oh,” said the young man. “I never thought of that. Are you on a paper, Miss Lundberg?”
“Excuse me,” she said. “I have to pack. My train leaves at 9:05 tomorrow morning. Good-bye.”
She
