Now I laughed aloud. A few months ago nobody had taken the idea seriously. Tonight they ignored practical mechanical conceptions and grabbed desperately at a notion which every one of them would normally have dismissed as cheap fiction. But now the Reds were knocking at Kiev’s gates. Some there, I could tell, were still a little doubtful. There was no way in which I would convince them. I did not intend to try. I could make no claims until a prototype had been built. ‘Ray-cannon are not easily developed. A good deal of money and equipment is required.’
Petlyura was impatient. ‘You can have what you need. Doctor Braun,’ he indicated an elderly gentleman, ‘is a scientist from Kiev University. He can put all their resources at your disposal.’
‘When I have heard the young man’s idea,’ said Braun in a deep voice. He gave me a stare.
‘I have done some research,’ I said. ‘I believe it’s possible to concentrate a ray of light until it is so powerful it can cut through steel.’
it is not an unfamiliar theory,’ Braun agreed, ‘I don’t see how you can apply it.’
‘A special vacuum tube would be needed. Like a very large radio valve. Shall I describe it as simply as possible?’
‘For my sake,’ he said. The old man had a sardonic humour lacking in most of his colleagues. Perhaps he had less to lose. I described how mercury would be introduced into a tube and boiled to drive out air. The mercury vapour would then be trapped while the tube was sealed, with wires extruding. Low voltage could be applied to a heating element in the tube. Once it reached a temperature of 175° Celsius a high voltage would be applied to the electrodes, producing an electrical discharge in the mercury vapour. The excited mercury ions would then emit a light beyond the spectrum perceived by the human eye.
‘I call this Ultra-Violet light,’ I said. ‘Mirrors or quartz lenses could be used to focus it.’
‘And how much electrical power would you need?’ Braun was impressed. He frowned over some notes he had made in pencil on the table-cloth.
‘Obviously, the better the source of power, the stronger the beam.’
‘It is violet in colour, the ray?’ said someone else.
I began to explain, but Petlyura gripped my arm. ‘How many of these ray-machines could you build to give us, say, a month before help arrived?’
‘There would have to be an experimental model first. After that, it should be fairly easy to manufacture more. If the generators were available to power them.’
‘Would the generators in the electricity stations do?’ Petlyura enquired.
‘I think so.’ I had not expected such an offer. This meant he was willing to divert Kiev’s entire power supply. I was flattered. ‘Cables would have to be laid.’
‘Where would the machines best be sited?’
‘On the heights.’ General Konovalets was adamant. ‘That gives a sweep, you see. If they were used in the outlying suburbs they would be too cumbersome to move quickly, eh?’
‘The machines themselves would be transported in the normal way of artillery, but the power-sources are the problem.’ I admired his quick grasp. ‘One can’t go dragging huge cables all over Kiev. The people, as well as the streets and the houses, would get in the way.’
‘They always do!’ Konovalets spoke with mock despair. ‘St Andrew’s would be one good site.’
‘You mean the observation gallery, near the dome?’ I considered this. ‘The only thing I wonder about there is - ‘ I hesitated, not knowing whether to bring the question of religion into a discussion with socialists, many of whom might be militant atheists.
‘Sacrilege,’ said Petlyura. ‘Is that what you’re worrying about? You’re a believer? And a scientist?’
‘ - the problem of diverting power to such a high point.’
‘There is no sacrilege,’ said Konovalets quietly, ‘in defending ourselves against Bolshevism. They are sworn to destroy all religions.’
I saw at once that he was right. Indeed, it was almost as if God were providing us with a site from which we could defend His faith.
‘We’ll construct the experimental model in St Andrew’s.’ Petlyura lit a cigarette as waiters took away our dishes. ‘Power is easily diverted?’ He looked towards his Minister.
‘Not that easily, Supreme Commander.’
‘But it can be done?’
Braun said, it might be best having some sort of emergency source. A small petrol-fuelled generator, or banks of Voltaic cells.’
‘Voltaic cells are a bit old-fashioned.’ I smiled.
‘I’ve always found them reliable. They don’t break down.’
‘But they’re hard to operate. The connections?’
Braun shrugged. ‘I still advise a separate source of energy. If, in the middle of fighting the Bolsheviks, they capture our electricity stations, then we have no weapon.’
I was forced to agree. I now understood his logic. My mistake, as usual, had been to miss the practicalities as I became obsessed with the pure idea. The very term ‘death-ray’ was unpalatable to me. These days we have such words as ‘anti-personnel devices’ which keep the entire thing in perspective. Many words of this sort were borrowed by the Germans from the Bolsheviks and from the Germans by the Americans when they offered a home to Germany’s best scientists after the Second World War. They do not make the idea of warfare abstract. They allow a technician to do his job without becoming confused by unnecessary considerations. It is for priests and novelists to decide where the moral blame, if any, lies. In giving himself up to the Age of Individualism, Man has lost the ability to reason clearly. His art and science become confused, for he believes he should reach independent decisions on every aspect of his life. One has only to accept the authority of the Church to know true clarity of vision.
I had been elevated from my rather, ambiguous status in the scientific and business community to a fully-fledged member of the socialist Petlyurist group. I was nervous. I asked Petlyura what my powers were.
‘Whatever you need to fulfill your task.’ He was expansive. ‘You may requisition whatever you want - men and material - so long as you do not actually interfere with our current military operations. We have Russian and Polish chauvinists to contend with. And Deniken is likely to prove a highly unreliable ally, if he actually is an ally. He, too, is a chauvinist, but at the moment he hates Trotsky worse than me. What will become of him if the French decide he is an embarrassment?’
‘Let him go to Turkey with a hundred riders,’ said Konovalets. ‘Things are so bad there, he’ll be able to conquer the whole damned country in a week and have himself crowned Tsar of Constantinople.’
Petlyura raised his champagne glass. ‘Death to the enemies of Ukraine!’
I sipped a reluctant toast. As a ‘Russian chauvinist’ I was not in complete accord with our Ataman.
‘Twentieth-century methods will produce a twentieth-century revolution,’ said Petlyura. ‘And it will impress the superstitious peasants with the importance of science. I hear you are a linguist, Comrade Pyatnitski?’
‘I know English, German and some French,’ I said, ‘as well as Polish and Czech.’
‘And Ukrainian?’
‘The local dialect?’ I experienced a moment of terror.
Petlyura changed the subject. Then I thought him a gentleman, whatever else he stood for. My diplomacy had not worked, but neither had it misfired. Official Ukrainian was a form of Galician not easily assimilated even by Kievans who spoke their own patois. The language was about as authentic as the average Republican bank-note.
We were all of us in that candle-lit room speaking, needless to say, purest Petersburg Russian. Petlyura said, ‘I would imagine the French would pay for the secret of your ray?’