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    Day of the Moron
    Day of the Moron
    Day of the Moron
    Ebook69 pages50 minutes

    Day of the Moron

    By H. Beam Piper

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    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateDec 1, 2006
    Day of the Moron

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      Book preview

      Day of the Moron - H. Beam Piper

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Day of the Moron, by Henry Beam Piper

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Day of the Moron

      Author: Henry Beam Piper

      Release Date: July 31, 2006 [EBook #18949]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAY OF THE MORON ***

      Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

      DAY OF THE MORON

      BY H. BEAM PIPER

      [Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.]

      It's natural to trust the unproven word of the fellow who's on my side—but the emotional moron is on no one's side, not even his own. Once, such an emotional moron could, at worst, hurt a few. But with the mighty, leashed forces Man employs now....

      There were still, in 1968, a few people who were afraid of the nuclear power plant. Oldsters, in whom the term atomic energy produced semantic reactions associated with Hiroshima. Those who saw, in the towering steam-column above it, a tempting target for enemy—which still meant Soviet—bombers and guided missiles. Some of the Central Intelligence and F.B.I. people, who realized how futile even the most elaborate security measures were against a resourceful and suicidally determined saboteur. And a minority of engineers and nuclear physicists who remained unpersuaded that accidental blowups at nuclear-reaction plants were impossible.

      Scott Melroy was among these last. He knew, as a matter of fact, that there had been several nasty, meticulously unpublicized, near-catastrophes at the Long Island Nuclear Reaction Plant, all involving the new Doernberg-Giardano breeder-reactors, and that there had been considerable carefully-hushed top-level acrimony before the Melroy Engineering Corporation had been given the contract to install the fully cybernetic control system intended to prevent a recurrence of such incidents.

      That had been three months ago. Melroy and his people had moved in, been assigned sections of a couple of machine shops, set up an assembly shop and a set of plyboard-partitioned offices in a vacant warehouse just outside the reactor area, and tried to start work, only to run into the almost interminable procedural disputes and jurisdictional wranglings of the sort which he privately labeled bureau bunk. It was only now that he was ready to begin work on the reactors.

      He sat at his desk, in the inner of three successively smaller offices on the second floor of the converted warehouse, checking over a symbolic-logic analysis of a relay system and, at the same time, sharpening a pencil, his knife paring off tiny feathery shavings of wood. He was a tall, sparely-built, man of indeterminate age, with thinning sandy hair, a long Gaelic upper lip, and a wide, half-humorous, half-weary mouth; he wore an open-necked shirt, and an old and shabby leather jacket, to the left shoulder of which a few clinging flecks of paint showed where some military emblem had been, long ago. While his fingers worked with the jackknife and his eyes traveled over the page of closely-written symbols, his mind was reviewing the eight different ways in which one of the efficient but treacherous Doernberg-Giardano reactors could be allowed to reach critical mass, and he was wondering if there might not be some unsuspected ninth way. That was a possibility which always lurked in the back of his mind, and lately it had been giving him surrealistic nightmares.

      Mr. Melroy! the box on the desk in front of him said suddenly, in a feminine voice. Mr. Melroy, Dr. Rives is here.

      Melroy picked up the handphone, thumbing on the switch.

      Dr. Rives? he repeated.

      The psychologist who's subbing for Dr. von Heydenreich, the box told him patiently.

      Oh, yes. Show him in, Melroy said.

      Right away, Mr. Melroy, the box replied.

      Replacing the handphone, Melroy wondered, for a moment, why there had been a hint of suppressed amusement in

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