Hoshawk shook hands with him. “You did it,” he said gruffly. “I apologize for ever thinking—”
The Chamber shuddered, and Hoshawk paled, but Jeffrey held up his hand. He glanced at the chronometer. “That was Marseilles blowing up,” he said.
His feet moved and he was gone. In a moment he was back. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he begged. “I’ve got to see the squad. Just figured out a way to beat the Blues. If you—”
He stopped, frowned.
He had felt it before they did—a distant blast. Then they heard it—a dull explosion through three hundred feet of solid rock above them. The floor shuddered under their feet.
It came again, and again, farther away. A pattern. Then off somewhere else came another string of explosions.
The forty august heads stared at the ceiling. Mouths were open, but the President’s mutant brain in seconds analyzed the possibilities and came up with the answer:
“Atom-bombs!”
“Impossible!” growled Hoshawk. “Forgacs’ Chamber was destroyed.”
The President was already back in the Chamber. He pressed a key.
“Starter,” came the answer. “Forgacs’ Chamber is destroyed. You have won the war.”
Hoshawk was behind him. “But he’s still firing, isn’t he?”
“No.” The President was icily alert. He pointed to the big map. There were no red pinpoints that would indicate rockets or bombs coming