Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb by D. R. Martin

What did Mongke come up with?”
    “Right,” said Mel, clearing her throat. “Here goes—”
    When she finished explaining, simplifying the science for the three nonscientists, the table seemed very quiet, amid the bustle and noise of the packed restaurant. The other three looked staggered and dazed. Even Mr. Cargill seemed at a loss for words—not his usual style. Obviously upset, Uncle Louie slowly shook his head. And Johnny wondered with amazement and horror if such a thing were even remotely possible.
    “ An etheric bomb?” Johnny pronounced after a long, stunned silence. “Powerful enough to wipe out a whole city?”
    “I know, I know,” Mel said. “But I’ve gone over Mongke’s equations a dozen times, and I’d say there’s a chance that a bomb might actually work. They’d need at least three thousand wraiths, maybe more, and a containment vessel. No idea what that would look like, what it would be composed of, its size. But compress all those ghosts down to microscopic size—and ghosts can do that, you know. And they reach a critical mass. Then they form a conduit, a connection that draws energy directly from the ether and transfers it out to our universe. All in a millisecond. As a gigantic release of energy.”
    “A bomb to end all bombs,” groaned Uncle Louie. “Makes sense that the Ministry of War would want to have a few of those.”
    “Afraid so,” Mel agreed.
    “Ghosts would like it, too,” Johnny said. “What ghost wouldn’t want another chance to properly die, even if it means being blown up in a bomb? I mean, what if the Second Impossible thing isn’t impossible after all? What if the people behind this have figured out that the bomb is a way to send ghosts to the great beyond?”
    “Ghosts who’ve been trapped in the ether for centuries or longer might grasp at straws,” Mel said. “They’d be desperate for any chance to be released.”
    “It might make them suckers for someone who promises them an escape from their predicament,” put in Uncle Louie.
    Just then a waitress stopped by the booth, a plump woman with tight blonde curls all over her head. She regarded them and frowned. “Hey, whatsa matta?” she chirped. “Somebody die?”
    “Nope, nope,” lied Uncle Louie. “Everything’s fine.”
    “I betcha some pie or cake’d put some smiles on them gloomy faces, huh?” She handed out dessert menus and trotted away.
    “So do we still go on our grand adventure around the world?” asked Mel.
    “Absolutely,” Mr. Cargill pronounced. “You’re going to visit as many places where etherists have been murdered as is possible. You’re going to find out everything you can about the killings. And you’re going to send back your stories and photos through World Press Association offices. We’re still just operating on speculation and theory. But my reporter’s nose is tingling like crazy, and it usually isn’t wrong.”
    Mel scowled. “But how can we do anything, go anywhere, now that Mr. Santangelo’s forbidden us to?”
    Mr. Cargill shook his head. “No, not quite right, Melanie. Mr. Santangelo’s warned us, but he hasn’t gotten a judge’s restraining order. He hasn’t even talked to a judge yet.”
    “He lied to us?” Johnny asked with surprise.
    Mr. Cargill brayed with laughter. “He’s in the government. Of course he lied.”
    “How did you know, Chief?” asked Johnny.
    “Let’s just say I have a few friends of my own down at the National Building. But just in case Santangelo really intends to stop us, we’d better get a move on.”
    Johnny looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
    The newspaperman grinned and rolled his big cigar back and forth in his mouth. “How quickly can you folks pack your bags?”
     

 
    Chapter 18
    Monday, October 21, 1935
    Zenith
    At about one in the morning Johnny and Mel each gave the weepy Mrs. Lundgren a peck on the cheek—a strange, tingly sensation on the lips, kissing a ghost. Then they, Nina, and Uncle Louie