The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun (22 page)

“HA!” burst from the lungs of General Horgan, and for a petrified moment, none of them knew whether this was the beginning of another bellow, a cry of anguish, or a sneeze, until it was followed by similar explosions, “HA HA HA HA HA!”

The general was laughing!

“HA HA HA HA HA HA!”

The table, the chairs and the whole room seemed to shake as he squeezed the trigger again and a whole stream of bubbles emerged.

And now the awful hypnotic spell was broken. The general was laughing; then laughter was permitted. They had all been bursting to let go and now they did and raised the roof with their shouts and screams, their yelps and yaks and bellows of merriment as the general pounded the table with his fist in hysteric guffaws and began to find words.

“Oh Jesus, Jesus, wait until the sons of bitches see this. This is the funniest goddamn thing that ever happened. Wait ’til they try to figure this one out. This is better than anything we could have sent them. John, you’re a goddamn hero even though you’re a stupid bastard as well. I’ll get you a gong for this if it’s the last thing I do. Oh, brother, brother, I’d give my retirement pay if I could be over there now, when they get a load of this.”

The conference disintegrated, the friendly general was slapping Sisson on the back. It wasn’t only in the movies. The marines sometimes did arrive in the nick of time.

Julian thought they were all crazy.

In Moscow it was not a quarter past eight. It was a quarter past seven, the Pentagon Russian expert having been wrong in his calculations. He usually was. In a conference room hidden away in a secret place on the edge of the city, General Barzovsky, his staff and a collection of experts from the KGB, and allied intelligence, espionage and counter-espionage units were there.

The conference room was extraordinarily like the one in the Pentagon Building, the same long polished table, the same framed photograph looking down from the wall except that there were two photographs instead of one, Lenin, of course, and then the dour visage of Brezhnev. The other difference was that the frame holding the photograph of Brezhnev was so constructed that the top could be removed and another photograph substituted in a matter of seconds. But General Barzovsky appeared just as huge and bullet-proof, square-headed and formidable as General Horgan. The light glinted from polished black boots instead of brown. Huge, blue-uniformed chests were covered with medals and ribbons. The civilians wore ill-fitting sack suits.

There was tension, high tension, in the room as the assemblage awaited the fruition of years of planning and preparation to lay their hands on what had been hinted at as America’s newest and most secret weapon. The spy planted in the United States twelve years before to be available for that one moment, had succeeded in photographing it, a brilliant technician of the Soviet State had succeeded in making a model. It was to be revealed.

General Barzovsky looked at his watch and rumbled, “Well?”

A flustered aide also examined his watch and said nervously, “Any moment now, comrade general. We have had word that Comrade Uvanov is on his way here.”

There was a stir at the door, murmurs, heel clicks, the sound of passwords being demanded and given. The entrance was impressive. A major in his greatcoat and epaulettes; Comrade Uvanov, still in his laboratory overalls; and behind him Comrade Allon. Comrad Allon was not entirely happy or comfortable for he was flanked by two members of the counter-espionage group. The major saluted and said, “Comrade general, here is Comrade Uvanov of the Special Engineering Branch, Comrade Allon of whom you have been told, and Comrades Vishky and Rumov you know.”

“Well?” rumbled General Barzovsky.

“Proceed,” ordered the major.

Comrade Uvanov threw a scrutable look at the major for he was not entirely happy either but the officer was implacable and so the ordnance engineer produced an enlarged photocopy of a diagram of the interior construction of a pistol, and likewise, made up from the diagram in black gunmetal and about the size of a .38 automatic, a model of the gun itself. This he laid upon the diagram in the centre of the conference table. In the same deathly silence that had reigned only ten minutes before in the far-off Pentagon, those gathered around the table were semi-hypnotized.

General Barzovsky arose, likewise placed his knuckles upon the table, leaned forward and examined both articles.

“And what may I ask is that?” he said, indicating the diagram.

The major clicked off the reply as though by rote, “It is a photograph of the diagram of the latest secret weapon of the Department of Ordnance of the United States Army obtained by Comrade Allon.”

“And that?” inquired the general.

“That,” replied the major, “is a working model of the secret weapon itself achieved by the skill of Comrade Uvanov and with the aid of the obviously coded instructions to be found on the photograph. And here, Comrade General, may I put in a word for the genius of Comrade Maranovsky of our decoding department who broke the code by discovering that it was not a code at all, but actual instructions for manufacture of the weapon, thus bringing to naught the brilliance of the American scheme to confuse us.”

General Barzovsky once more regarded the diagram and then he looked over Comrades Uvanov, Allon and the major and all those sitting about the table in silence and the expression upon his face was of one looking at the insane.

He reached over now and took the diagram in his left hand and the gun in his right. He went through the ritual of examination, then dropped the diagram back on to the table and holding the pistol at arm’s length, squeezed the trigger. A grapefruit sized bubble formed faithfully at the nozzle, detached itself and floated away and then another and another and a fourth and fifth as the general kept squeezing. They were all of the same size for the comrade engineer had constructed the model from the pencilled corrections made by Colonel Sisson rather than from Julian’s original. This Bubble Gun was working perfectly. The bubbles that filled the air of the conference room were even more beautiful than those that had entertained the Pentagon group, for in place of indirect lighting there was a huge central crystal chandelier. The building formerly had belonged to the chief of staff of the army of His Most Holy Majesty, the Czar of All the Russias. The crystals of the chandelier broke the light into all the colours of the rainbow and the bubbles caught them up magnificently and floated away with them to burst here and there wherever they alighted before the horrified gaze of the onlookers.

In a way it was as though the general himself was hypnotized for he did not seem to be able to stop squeezing the trigger and producing more bubbles. Not all of them exploded, Russian soap apparently was tougher than the American brand. Some settled upon heads or shoulders, others came to rest on the backs of chairs or on the table. One rose briefly into the air and then returned and settled comfortably upon the hand of General Barzovsky where it reflected him expanded fivefold in the manner of one of the mirrors in a fun fair before it blew up quietly and in doing so broke the spell, for the general who put the gun back on the table, sat down, raised one ham of a fist and thundered it down upon the wood while from his massive chest there burst the most tremendous, “HO!”

Comrade Allon quietly slid to the floor in a dead faint, for there was nothing for him but the firing squad and thus he missed the second and third “HO’S!” which burst from the general to startle and surprise the trembling gathering as “HO!” after “HO!” flowed and tears streamed from the general’s eyes. He was laughing his head off.

He was laughing. General Barzovsky was laughing. He was not angry, infuriated, maddened with rage, he was pleased to be amused. Then it was permitted for everyone to laugh and so shouts and screams and yells and bellows went up to join the hilarity of a Russian general with a sense of humour until the last of the bubbles exploded into nothingness and the crystal pendants of the great chandelier tinkled against one another, stirred by the waves of laughter.

C H A P T E R
1 5

J
ulian asked, “What happened?”

They were in Sisson’s office, the sergeant sitting at his table was still grinning to himself. The story had circulated. The colonel rocked back in his swivel chair. On his desk before him was Julian’s diagram and the Bubble Gun. He likewise indulged in a reflective smile before he replied.

“It’s too complicated, Julian.” And then feeling that this was unfair and on the short side, he said, “Often when men get into a panic over some things and become nervous and fearful, and fear that all is getting out of control, they react to the situation by doing something silly in the hope that what it is that is worrying them will get distracted and go away.”

Julian, in his straight-backed chair, the soles of his sneakers barely meeting the carpet, stared. The explanation was not being all that explanatory.

“Well,” the colonel continued, “due to an accident of circumstances and thanks to you as well, something sillier than usual happened and everybody is very pleased with me, and I shall be eternally grateful to you.”

“Me?” Julian cried. “What did I do?”

The colonel did not reply immediately. Then, he said gravely, “As I told you before, Julian, it’s a little too difficult to explain, but I want you to make me a promise, will you?”

Behind their lenses, Julian’s eyes grew larger.

The colonel then said, “About anything you saw or heard in that room you keep your lip buttoned.”

Julian was momentarily rendered speechless by the tremendous import of the colonel’s warning, but even better was to come.

“Here,” added the colonel and opening a drawer of his desk, he extracted a rubber stamp and ink pad and applied the former to the latter. Then, he reached over and carefully pressed the stamp first upon Julian’s diagram and then upon the back of the boy’s hand. In glorious purple ink it read
TOP SECRET.

“Get it?” the colonel asked.

Julian looked upon the mark on his hand as though he had been awarded the Congressional Medal and, without realizing it, raised it and held it momentarily to his cheek where it made a faint purple smudge. Then he whispered, “Yes, sir. I wouldn’t say anything to anyone, ever.”

The marvel of what Colonel Sisson had done all but totally stifled his curiosity, but once again he felt the sweet inner thrill of having participated, of having in a mysterious way come close to something important, exciting and even dangerous in the world of grown-ups. The words
TOP SECRET
confirmed this. For the moment it was sufficient to have been told in this manner that he and his Bubble Gun had again played a part that this time was too tremendous even to be talked about. That was the way things were between men.

The colonel asked, “How did you make out at the Patent Office?”

The exquisite feeling drained from Julian’s breast, the glare of reality chased the shadows of his fantasy and he was back once more in the world of real trouble. He would have been glad to have relieved himself in tears but not in front of Colonel Sisson or the sergeant who was now writing on some papers with one hand and at the same time listening with both ears.

Instead Julian simply shook his head in silent negation, delved into his pocket and produced a pink pamphlet from the United States Department of Commerce entitled, “Patents and Inventions, An Information Aid for Inventors.” The colonel took it and regarded it gloomily.

He sighed, “I know it practically by heart.”

“Oh,” said Julian, “do you invent . . . ?”

The colonel nodded, “In one way or another.”

Julian remained silent and the colonel leafed through the pamphlet. He opened it apparently at random and in a low voice began to mutter a long extract of instructions, which Julian already had heard via Mr. Morrow.

The colonel droned on: “One inch from its edges a single marginal line is to be drawn, leaving the ‘sight’ precisely 8 by 13 inches. Within this margin all work must be included. One of the shorter sides of the sheet is regarded as its top, and, measuring down from the marginal line, a space of not less than 1¼ inches is to be left blank for the heading of title, name, number and date, which will be applied by the Office in a uniform style.” He paused and interpolated, “God, bureaucrats. Listen to this. ‘Character of lines: All drawings must be made with drafting instruments or by photolithographic process which will give them satisfactory reproduction characteristics. Every line and letter (signatures included) must be absolutely black. This direction applies to all lines however fine, to shading, and to lines representing cut surfaces in sectional views. All lines must be clean, sharp and solid, and fine or crowded lines should be avoided. Solid black should not be used for sectional or surface shading. Freehand work should be avoided wherever it is possible to do so.’ ”

When he had finished he looked over the edge of the pamphlet at Julian who was regarding him miserably.

“Uh huh,” said the colonel. “I tried to give you an idea on the bus. Did they tell you about researching?”

Julian nodded in the affirmative.

The colonel continued, “. . . and recommend that you acquire a practitioner—a patent attorney?”

Julian nodded again.

“Did you see an examiner?” But the colonel shook his head and answered his own question. “No, you wouldn’t until you’d filed your drawing and claim and paid your fee. Well . . .” He leafed through the pamphlet again and looking up at Julian saw that his lips and chin were trembling and that he had better do something about it.

He said, “Look here, Julian, it isn’t as bad as all that. It actually sounds a lot worse than it is. Anyway, what we can do is fix you up with your first step, the drawing. I’ll have one of my draftsmen get on it right away. We could have it ready for you by tomorrow morning. You could take it over to the Patent Office, file it and then see what would happen.”

“Gee, sir, would you?” It came out almost as a shout of delight and gratitude, but immediately after his face clouded over.