Firechild by Jack Williamson Read Free Book Online Page A

or any nation. Lorain and Belcraft aren’t the only genetic engineers who have reached what you might call the brink of creation. Others—in Russia, in half a dozen countries—are only one jump behind us.
    If a biological superweapon is going to be possible, we want America to own it. Even if lives must be lost—” Clegg rapped a question, “How many lives?” Kneeland’s wild eye darted at the ceiling, but his voice flowed evenly on.
    “The nukes are bad enough, but genetic war could become a worse nightmare. Genes don’t have to be mined and run through billion-dollar refineries. Each of us carries our own. Bioscience labs are cheap enough to build. If anybody does perfect a weapon, genetic proliferation will come soon and come fast. The weapons could be spores, deployed by the wind—”
    “God’s first power, desecrated into an instrument of death!” Clegg had come without the brown beret, and the blood-colored handprint had begun to show through his ashy makeup. “And you admit—”
    “We’ve nothing to admit.” A rap of anger. “Whatever we’ve done was done in good faith, planned to bolster the national defense. If genetic weapons are to exist, we need them in time to develop defenses against them. Perhaps it’s true that we’ve lost a city. Its sacrifice may well save the nation.”
    “If you and your Pentagon friends are willing to sacrifice innocent cities—” Clegg’s hard jaw jutted out. “What else must we expect?”
    “That’s impossible to say.” Kneeland shrugged again. “At this early point, our field reports don’t make much sense. When I left the President, he was tied up with the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Strategic Air Command in a conference call. Cheyenne Mountain has been alerted, but up to now NORAD hasn’t picked up any hint of missiles.
    “Pending something definite about what the hell is happening, we’re alerting everybody. Civil defense, the military, the CIA and the FBI, state governments in the threatened areas—but very quietly, not to ignite a greater panic. We are confident that the danger can be contained and eliminated—if in fact any widespread danger does exist.”
    “If Enfield is dead,” Clegg muttered sourly, “I think a worldwide danger does exist. A danger even to our own survival.”
    “You don’t know that.” Kneeland’s odd eye stabbed suddenly aside, and his voice rose sharply. “We don’t in fact know anything. We won’t until broken communication links can be restored.” Both eyes back in focus, he squinted at his watch. “At this early point, that’s all I can say. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get back—”
    “Not quite yet—” Clegg cut him off. “I’ve got something else you’d better hear.”

8
    Arny
    Carboni
     
     
    A nya Ostrov had been called back to Moscow. A plainclothes lieutenant met her at Sheremetyvo airport with a black Chaika limousine and carried her fast into the central city. He parked outside the old Lubyanka prison, now converted into office space for the KGB headquarters, the Center.
    The shabby old building had been scrubbed and repartitioned and repainted, but agony and terror and despair still clung like the scent of death to its dingy corridors. Inside, the lieutenant identified her for the sentries. They grinned in appreciation of her figure, but she found no pleasure in their admiration.
    Though the bright summer day was hot for Moscow, she shivered a little, following the frayed red carpet down into the guarded offices of the Surveillance Directorate. Boris Shuvalov rose to meet her in a gloomy little room that once had been a torture cell.
    “My dear Anya!” His voice seemed too warm, his smile mechanical. “We’ve been waiting.” He sent the lieutenant outside and locked the soundproof door. His quick animal eyes tried to read her features. “Have you brought the Belcraft file?”
    “Not yet, Boris.”
    “Nyet?” His voice lifted. “Why