The Cosmic Computer

the tunnel.
There were occasional lights on at the ceiling. Anse said they were all powered from their own nuclear-electric conversion units. “We don’t have the central power on here; there’s a big mass-energy converter, but we’re tearing it down to ship out.”
That was something they could get a good price for. Maybe even one-tenth of what it was worth. At least they wouldn’t have to sell it by the ton.
The tunnel ended in an enormous room a couple of hundred feet square and fifty high. There was a wide aisle up the middle; on either side, contragravity equipment was massed. Tanks with long 90  mm guns. Combat cars. Small airboats. Rank on rank of air-cavalry single-mounts, egg-shaped things just big enough for a man to sit in, with quadruple machine guns in front and flame-jets behind. Ambulances armored against radiation; decontamination units; mobile workshops; mobile kitchens. Troop carriers, jeeps, staff cars; power shovels, manipulators, lifters. All waiting, for forty years, to swarm out as soon as the bombs that never came stopped falling.
They floated the jeep along hallways beyond, and got down to look into rooms. Work was already going on in the power plant; a gang under a slim young man whom Anse introduced as Mohammed Matsui were using repair-robots to get canisters of live plutonium out of a reactor. Workshops. Laundries. Storerooms. Kitchens, some stripped and a few still intact. A hospital. Guardhouse and lockup.
More storerooms on the level above, reached by returning to the vehicle hangar and lifting to an upper entrance. By this time, gangs were at work there, too, moving contragravity skids in empty and out loaded.
“The  C.O. here must have had squirrel blood,” Anse said. “I think when the evacuation orders came through he just gathered up everything there was topside and crammed it down here, any old way. Honest to Ghu, this place was packed solid when we found it. Nobody’d believe it.”
“Wait till you see the next one.”
“You mean there’s another place like this?”
“You can say so. You can say a twenty-megaton thermonuclear is like a hand grenade, too.”
Anse Dawes simply didn’t believe that.
When they got back to the Administration Building on top, they found Rodney Maxwell, Jerry Rivas, the general foremen, and half a dozen gang foremen, in consultation.
“We’re getting a hundred and fifty more men and ten farm scows from Litchfield,” his father said. “Dave McCade’s coming out from our yard, and Tom Brangwyn’s sending one of his deputies to help boss them. We’ll have to keep an eye on this crowd; they’re all Tramptown hoodlums, but that’s the best we can get. We’re going to have to get this place cleaned out in a hurry. We only have about two weeks till the wine-pressing’s over, and then we want to start the next operation. Conn, did you see all that engineering equipment, down on the bottom level?”
“Yes. I think we ought to leave a lot of that here⁠—the shovels and bulldozers and manipulators and so on. We can move it direct to Force Command. How are we fixed for blasting explosives?”
“Name it and we have it. Cataclysmite, FJ-7, anything you want.”
“We’ll need a lot of it.”
“We’re going to have to get a ship. I mean a contragravity ship, a freighter; first, to move this stuff out of here, and then to move the stuff out of Force Command. And we want it mounted with heavy armament, too. We not only want a freighter, we want a fighting ship.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it,” Rodney Maxwell said. “Where we’re going is full of outlaws; there must be hundreds of them holing up over there. That’s where all the trouble on the east coast comes from. Now, outlaws are sure-thing players. They want to be alive to spend their loot, and they won’t tackle anything that’s too tough for them. A lot of guards and combat equipment may look like a loss on the books, but the books won’t show how much of a loss you might take if you didn’t have them. I want this operation armed till it’ll be too much for all the outlaws on the planet to tackle.”
That made sense. It also made sense out of the billions of sols the Federation had spent preparing for an invasion that never came. If it had come and found them unprepared, the loss might have been the war itself.
The scows and the newly hired workers began arriving a little after noon. The scows had been borrowed from plantations where the crop had been gotten in; there were melon leaves and bits of vine in the bottoms. The workers were a bleary-eyed and unsavory lot; Conn had a suspicion, which Brangwyn’s deputy confirmed, that they had been collected by mass vagrancy arrests in Tramptown. As soon as they started arriving, Jerry Rivas hurried down to the old provost-marshal’s headquarters and came back with a lot of rubber billy-clubs, which he issued to his gang-bosses, regular and temporary. A few times they had to be used. By evening, however, the insubordinate and troublesome had been quieted. They would all steal anything they could put in their pockets, but that was to be expected. By evening, too, the contents of the underground treasure trove was moving out in a steady stream, and scows were shuttling to and from Litchfield.
Rodney Maxwell was going back to town after lunch the next day. Conn wanted to know if he should go along.
“No, you stay here; help keep things moving. Remember what I told you about the older and wiser heads? Let me handle them. I’ve been around them, heaven pity me, longer than you have. Just give me an audiovisual of your proxy and I’ll vote your stock.”
“How much stock do I have, by the way?”
“The same as I have⁠—ten thousand five hundred shares of common, at twenty centisols a share. But watch where it goes after we open Force Command.”

His father was back, two days later, to report:
“We’re organized. Kurt Fawzi’s president, of course,