SILENCE IS—DEADLY
By Bertrand L. Shurtleff
Radio is an absolute necessity in modern
organization—and particularly in modern
naval organization. If you could silence all
radio—silence of that sort would be deadly!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The hurried rat-a-tat of knuckles hammered on the cabin door.Commander Bob Curtis roused himself from his doze, got up from hischair, stretched himself to his full, lanky height and yawned. Thatwould be Nelson, his navigating officer. Nelson always knocked thatway—like a man in an external state of jitters over nothing at all.
Curtis didn't hurry. It pleased him to let Nelson wait. He moved slowlyto the door, paused there, and flung a backward glance at the man inthe cabin with him—Zukor Androka, the elderly Czech scientist, a guestof the United States navy, here aboard the cruiser Comerford.
The wizened face of the older man was molded in intent lines ofconcentration, as his bushy gray head bent over his drawing board.Curtis got a glimpse of the design on which he was working, and hislips relaxed in a faint smile.
Androka had arrived on board the Comerford the day before she sailedfrom Norfolk. With him came a boatload of scientific apparatus andequipment, including a number of things that looked like oxygen tanks,which were now stored in the forward hold. Androka had watched overhis treasures with the jealous care of a mother hen, and spent hoursdaily in the room in the superstructure that had been assigned as hislaboratory.
Sometimes, Curtis thought old Androka was a bit wacky—a scientistwhose mind had been turned by the horror that had come to his countryunder the domination of the Nazi gestapo. At other times, the manseemed a genius. Perhaps that was the answer—a mad genius!
Curtis opened the door and looked out. Rain whipped against his facelike a stinging wet lash. Overhead, the sky was a storm-racked mass ofclouds, broken in one spot by a tiny patch of starlit blue.
His eyes rested inquiringly on the face of the man who stood beforehim. It was Nelson, his shaggy blond brows drawn scowlingly downover his pale eyes; his thin face a mass of tense lines; his big handsfumbling at the neck of his slicker. Rain was coursing down his whitecheeks, streaking them with glistening furrows.
The fellow was a headache to Curtis. He was overfriendly with ablack-browed bos'n's mate named Joe Bradford—the worst trouble makeron board. But there was no question of his ability. He was a goodnavigating officer—dependable, accurate, conscientious. Nevertheless,his taut face, restless, searching eyes, and eternally nervous mannergot Curtis' goat.
"Come in, Nelson!" he said.
Nelson shouldered his way inside, and stood there in his drippingoilskins, blinking his eyes against the yellow light.
Curtis closed the door and nodded toward the bent form of ZukorAndroka, with a quizzical grin. "Old Czech-and-Double-Czech is workinghard on his latest invention to pull Hitler's teeth and re-establishthe Czech Republic!"
Nelson had no answering smile, although there had been a great dealof good-natured joking aboard the Comerford ever since the navydepartment had sent the scientist on board the cruiser to carry on hisexperiments.
"I'm worried, sir!" Nelson said. "I'm not sure about my dead reckoning.Th