<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2>
<h3><i>One Tumultuous Night</i></h3>
<p>I come now with very little more to record.</p>
<p>I returned to my own world. And Derek stayed in his. Each to his own;
one may rail at this allotted portion—but he does not lightly give it
up.</p>
<p>The scientists who have examined the mechanism with which I returned
very naturally are skeptical of me. Derek feared a further communication
between his world, and mine. He smiled his quiet smile.</p>
<p>"Your modern world is very aggressive, Charlie. I would not want to
chance having my mechanism duplicated—a conquering army coming in
here."</p>
<p>And so he adjusted the apparatus to carry me back and then go dead. I
have wires and electrodes to show in support of my narrative. But since
they will not operate I cannot blame my hearers for smiling in derision.</p>
<p>Yet there is some contributing evidence. Derek Mason has vanished. A
watchman in an office building near Battery Park reports that at dawn of
that June morning he heard splintering glass. He found the office door
with its broken panel, and the ax lying on the hall floor. He even
thinks he saw a ghost stretched out by the window. But he is laughed at
for saying it.</p>
<p>And there is still another circumstance. If you will trouble to examine
the newspaper files of that time, you will find an occurrence headed
"Inexplicable Tragedy at Battery Park." You will read that near dawn
that morning, the bodies of three men in crimson cloaks came hurtling
down through the air and fell in the street near where several taxis
were parked. Strange, unidentified men. Of extraordinary aspect. The
flesh burned, perhaps. All three were dead; the bodies were mangled by
falling some considerable height.</p>
<p>An inexplicable tragedy. Why should anyone believe that they were the
three crimson nobles whom Derek attacked with his strange ray?</p>
<p>I am only Charles Wilson, clerk in a Wall Street brokerage office. If
you met me, you would find me a very average, prosaic sort of fellow.
You would never think that deeds of daring were in my line at all. Yet I
have lived this one strange tumultuous night, and I shall always cherish
the memory.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="The_Stolen_Mind" id="The_Stolen_Mind"></SPAN>The Stolen Mind</h2>
<h2>By M. L. Staley</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus4.jpg" alt=""/></div>
<h3><i>The structure, pivoting downward, plunged Quest to his waist in the osmotic solution.</i></h3>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="sidenote">What would you do, if, like Quest, you were tricked, and your
very Mind and Will stolen from your body?</div>
<p>"What caused you to answer our advertisement?" Owen Quest felt the steel
of the quick gray eyes that jabbed like gimlets across the office table.</p>
<p>"Why does any man apply for a job?" he bristled.</p>
<p>Keane Clason gave an impatient smile.</p>
<p>"Come!" he said. "I'm not trying to snare you. But there were unusual
features to my ad, and they were put there to attract an unusual type of
man. To judge your qualifications, I must know just why this proposition
appeals to you."</p>
<p>"I can tell you that," nodded Quest, "but there's nothing unusual about
it. In the first place, I knew that the Clason Research Corporation is
the leading concern of its kind in the country. In the second place,
this seemed to offer a way to obtain a substantial sum of money
quickly."</p>
<p>"Good," said Clason. "And you feel that you have all the necessary
qualifications?"</p>
<p>"Decidedly. I am 24 years old, athletic, and of an earnest and
determined nature. Moreover, I have no family ties, and I'm willing to
run any reasonable risk in order to improve the condition of my fellow
men."</p>
<p>Clason smiled his approval.</p>
<p>"You say you need money. How much immediately?"</p>
<p>Quest was unprepared for the question.</p>
<p>"A thousand dollars," he ventured.</p>
<p>Without hesitation Clason counted out ten one-hundred-dollar notes from
his wallet and laid them on the table.</p>
<p>"There's your advance fee. You're ready to go to work immediately, I
hope?"</p>
<p>"Certainly," stammered Quest.</p>
<p>Stunned by the swiftness of the transaction, he sat staring at the money
that lay untouched before him.</p>
<p>To accept it would be like signing an unread contract. But he had asked
for it; to refuse it was impossible. Even to delay about picking it up
might arouse Clason's suspicion. Already the latter had turned away and
was opening the door of a steel cabinet. Quest had one second in which
to reach a decision.... He crammed the currency into his pocket.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>With delicate care Clason set two objects on the table. One looked to
Quest like a miniature broadcasting tower or a mooring mast for lighter
than air craft. The other was a circular vat of some black material,
probably carbon. Within it a series of concentric tissues were suspended
from metal rings, and in a trough outside ranged four stoppered flasks
containing liquids of as many different colors.</p>
<p>"Look at these models carefully," said Clason. "They represent two of
the most remarkable discoveries of all time. The one on your left is the
most <i>de</i>structive weapon known to man. The other I consider the most
<i>con</i>structive discovery in the history of science. It may even lead to
an understanding of the nature of life, and of the future of the spirit
after death.</p>
<p>"Both of these were developed by my brother Philip and me together—but
we have disagreed about the use to which they shall be put.</p>
<p>"Philip"—the inventor dropped his voice to a whisper—"wants to sell
the secret of the Death Projector—the tower, there—as an instrument of
war. If I should permit him to do that, it might lead to the destruction
of whole nations!"</p>
<p>"How?" demanded Quest "I've heard of a device called the Death Ray. Is
this it?"</p>
<p>"No, no," said Clason contemptuously. "Even in a perfected state the Ray
would be a child's toy compared to the Projector. This is based on our
discovery that invisible light rays of a certain wave-length, if highly
concentrated, destroy life—and our additional discovery that if these
are synchronized with short radio waves the effect is absolutely
devastating.</p>
<p>"We obtain the desired concentration of invisible light by using a
tellurium current-filter under the influence of alternate flashes of red
and blue light. The projector can literally blanket vast areas with
death, up to a top range of at least five hundred miles.</p>
<p>"Just picture to yourself what this means! In a space of ten minutes two
men can lay down a circle of destruction a thousand miles in diameter;
or they can cut a swath five hundred miles long in any desired
direction."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"Have you ever proved it?" demanded Quest skeptically.</p>
<p>"Yes, young man, we have," snapped Clason. "Right here in the
laboratory—but on a minute scale, of course. However, there's no time
to demonstrate now. The point is that my brother is determined to sell
if he can obtain his price for the invention. He argues that instead of
bringing disaster upon the world, this machine will forever discourage
war by making it too terrible for any civilized nation to consider. In
spite of my opposition he has opened negotiations with an ambitious
Balkan power. He may actually close the sale at any moment!</p>
<p>"However," Clason drew a deep breath "you see this other device? Simple
as it appears, it is the key to the whole situation. We can use it—you
and I—to overcome Philip's will and prevent this unthinkable
transaction. The two of us can do it. Alone I would be virtually
helpless."</p>
<p>"Why not have the Projector confiscated or destroyed by our own
Government?" suggested Quest. "That seems to me the only safe and sure
way out of the difficulty."</p>
<p>"You simply do not understand," frowned Clason impatiently. "Philip is
selling the plans and descriptions of the machine, not the machine
itself. Even if this model and the larger test machine that we have
built were destroyed—even if I were willing to have Philip sent to
Leavenworth for life—he could still sell the Projector.</p>
<p>"But this other invention, our Osmotic Liberator, makes it possible for
me to gain control of Philip and actually <i>change his mind</i>, through the
medium of an agent. I have hired you to act as my Agent, Quest, because
I can see that you are a young man of unusual character and vitality.
And by way of reward I can promise you both money and a brilliant
future."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The inventor poised in a tense attitude on the edge of his chair as
though his body were charged with electricity. His eyes seemed to dart
out emanations that set Quest's blood to tingling. Then for a moment the
latter lost consciousness of his physical self. It was as though he had
opened a door and found himself suddenly on the brink of a new and
totally strange world. He dispelled this fancy by a quick effort of the
will, for he knew that he had a delicate problem on his hands and that
it must be solved within a very few minutes. However he proceeded, he
must act without disloyalty to his Government, and at the same time
without injustice to Keane Clason.</p>
<p>"Tell me," he said in a husky voice, "how do you intend to use me? I do
not believe in Spiritualism. I would be a poor medium."</p>
<p>Clason gave a short laugh.</p>
<p>"You are not to be a medium in that sense at all. Spiritualism as
practiced is just a blind sort of groping and hoping. Osmotic
Liberation, on the other hand, is an exact and opposite physico-chemical
science. Here—I will show you."</p>
<p>Into the outer cell of the Liberator he emptied the purple vial, and so
on to the innermost, which he filled with a golden-green liquid like old
Chartreuse.</p>
<p>"The separating membranes, you understand, are permeable by these
complicated solutions. Each liquid has a different osmotic pressure and
therefore should, under normal conditions, interchange with the others
through the membranes until all pressures are equalized. I prevent such
interchange, however, by maintaining an anti-electrolysis which retards
ionization and thus builds up what might be called osmotic potential.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"Now if an Agent—yourself for instance—submerges himself in the
central cell, at the same time maintaining a physical contact with his
Control at the surface of the liquid, and if then the osmotic potential
is suddenly released by throwing the electrolytic switch, the host of
ions thus turned loose in the outer compartments make one grand rush for
the center solution, which contains the cathode.</p>
<p>"Under these conditions your body becomes a sort of sixth cell, and your
skin another membrane in the series. Properly speaking, however, you are
not a part of the electrolytic circuit but are merely present in the
action. Your body acts as a catalyser, hastening the chemical action
without itself being affected in any way. Physically you undergo no
change whatever; but in some strange way which is, like life, beyond
analysis, your mind flows out into the solution, while your unaltered
body remains at the bottom of the tank in a state of suspended
animation.</p>
<p>"If no Control is present, all that is needed to return your mind into
your body is a throw of the electrolytic switch back to negative,
whereupon you emerge from the tank exactly as you entered it. But with
your Control present and in contact with your submerged body, your mind,
instead of remaining suspended in the solution, flows instantly into his
body and resides there subject to his will.</p>
<p>"This can not be done, however, unless the wills of Control and Agent
have first been brought into accord. To accomplish that, we clasp
hands"—Quest grasped Clason's extended hand—"and look steadily into
each other's eyes.</p>
<p>"Now, it is well known that the vibrations of an individual's will are
as distinctive as the sworls of his finger-prints. What is not so well
known is that the frequency of vibration in one person can be brought
into accord with that in another.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"You consciously retract your will by concentrating your mind upon the
thing which you know I wish to accomplish. Gradually while we continue
in this position your vibrations speed up or slow down until they
acquire exactly the same frequency as my own. We are then in accord, and
when your mind is liberated in the tank it is in a state which admits
absorption into my body. And it is subject to my will because you have
purposely attuned it to my peculiar frequency. Immediately after the
transfer there will be a brief conflict, due to the instinctive desire
of your will to obtain the ascendancy. But of course mine will gain the
upper hand at once, since both wills will be in my frequency."</p>
<p>Quest felt, rather than saw, a wall of alarm closing in on him. He tried
to avert his eyes, to withdraw his hand from Clason's grasp. With a
nostalgic pang in the pit of his stomach he suddenly realized that he
could not do so. He had gone too far—farther than any man in his
position had a right to go. Having deliberately weakened his will, it
seemed now to have deserted him entirely. A prickling sensation coursed
up his spine, his extended arm went numb, his hand trembled violently.</p>
<p>"Splendid!" said Clason, suddenly releasing both eye and hand. "Just as
I foresaw, you will be able to attune yourself to my vibration-frequency
with hardly an effort. Now please remain seated; I'll be back in a
moment."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>For a second after the door closed, Quest remained slumped in his chair.
Then he was on his feet, shaking himself like a wet dog to free himself
from the spell under which he had fallen. Something about Clason
attracted and at the same time repelled him, fraying his nerves like an
irritant drug and confusing his mind at the moment when he needed the
full alertness of every faculty.</p>
<p>Invisible light—disembodied minds—will vibrations! Nothing there to
get hold of. Were these things real or imaginary? Was Keane Clason a
great inventor, or a madman? Would Philip prove to be a real or an
imaginary scoundrel? Should he summon help, or go on alone?</p>
<p>Professional pride said: wait, don't be an alarmist! With his knuckles
Quest tapped the table, half expecting it to melt under his fingers. The
feeling and sound of the contact gave him a peculiar start. On the
farther end of the table stood a letter-box—an invitation. From his
pocket Quest snatched a slip of paper, and wrote:</p>
<blockquote><p>6 stroke 4—9:45A—Hired. If no report in 48 hours, clamp down
hard.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>To address a stamped envelope and slip it in with the outgoing mail was
the work of seconds. But he was none too quick. He had just dropped back
into a lounging attitude when the door burst open and Clason flew into
the room?</p>
<p>"We must act instantly," hissed the inventor. "Philip plans to close the
transaction within a day."</p>
<p>In spite of himself, Quest jumped upright in his chair. Clason tapped
him on the shoulder reassuringly.</p>
<p>"It's all right," he smiled, "I'm ready for him. We'll make our move
this afternoon and beat him by eighteen hours.</p>
<p>"Let's see." He paused. "Oh! yes. I was about to explain to you that as
soon as the will of the Agent enters the body of his Control, the latter
can again transfer it into the body of still another person.</p>
<p>"Now you understand why I advertised for a man of exceptional character?
As my Agent, I want you to enter the body of Philip, and your will must
be strong enough to conquer his in the battle for mastery which will
begin the instant you intrude into his body. You will still be under my
control, but your will must be strong enough on its own merits to
overcome his. I can direct you, but your strength must be your own.
That's clear, isn't it?"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"I think so," said Quest slowly. "But what becomes of me after you have
frustrated Philip's plot?"</p>
<p>"That's the easy part of the process," smiled Clason; "but naturally you
feel some anxiety about it. I simply withdraw your will from Philip,
return it to your own body, and pay you a reward of ten thousand
dollars."</p>
<p>"You're sure you can?"</p>
<p>"Perfectly. I have merely to touch Philip's hand to recapture your will.
Then I immerse myself in the tank with the switch at plus. The osmotic
action will extract both wills momentarily from my body. But the
presence of two bodies and two wills in the solution together forces a
balance, and each will seeks out and enters its own body. Then you and
I climb out of the tank exactly as we are this minute."</p>
<p>"If it weren't for my belief that anything is possible," Quest shook his
head, "I'd say that your claims for this invention were ridiculous."</p>
<p>"And you couldn't be blamed," admitted Clason readily. "This toy of a
model is hardly convincing. But come along with me and I'll show you how
the Liberator looks in actual operation."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The office rug concealed a trap door which gave upon a spiral stair.
Below, Clason unlocked another door and led the way through a narrow and
tremendously long passage lighted at intervals by small electric bulbs.
Presently another door yielded to the inventor's deft touch and closed
behind them with a portentous chug. Here the darkness was so utter and
intense that Quest imagined he could feel the weight of it on his
shoulders. From the slope of the passageway and the muffled beat of
machinery that had come to his ears on the way along, he guessed that he
was below ground in some chamber at the rear of the factory.</p>
<p>He gave a low exclamation as Clason switched on the toplight. No wonder
the darkness had seemed of almost supernatural quality! Even the hard
white glare of the daylight arc was grisly. Its rays rebounded from the
liquids of the great circular tank in a blinding dazzle of color, while
the dull black walls and ceiling were so perfectly absorptive that
beyond arm's length they became to all effects invisible. Even the ledge
on which he stood—the shoulder of the vat—gave Quest the feeling that
to move would be to step off into a bottomless pit.</p>
<p>But Clason took his attention at once, pointing here and there in his
quick, nervous way to indicate how faithfully the Liberator had been
reproduced from the model. In all respects the arrangements were the
same, with the addition that here a long plank like a spring-board
extended out from a wall-mount as far as the central compartment of the
tank, and that from its end a narrow ladder hung down to the surface of
the Chartreuse liquid. A double-throw switch fixed to the wall above the
base of the plank was evidently the source of electrolytic control.</p>
<p>"When you throw the switch to plus," said Clason, pointing to the
chalk-marked sign above, "you produce the violent electrolytic action
needed to bring about a liberation. All the rest of the time it should
be closed at minus, in order to maintain the anti-action which I
explained to you.</p>
<p>"Now let's rehearse, so that when the time for the real performance
arrives we can be sure of running it off without a hitch."</p>
<p>"All right, sir," nodded Quest, so dazed by the glittering light that he
was hardly conscious of what he said.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"First," said Clason, running lightly up the steps to the plank, "you
walk out to the end, like this, and start down the ladder. Then you
lower yourself into the tank. The liquid is at body temperature; it's
neither strongly acid nor caustic; it will cause you no injury or
discomfort whatever.</p>
<p>"Meanwhile I keep in contact with your hand until the instant that you
become submerged. Now your mind is in me, see?—ready for transfer into
Philip, where it will act as my Agent. That's how simple it is! Come on
up and we'll go through the motions."</p>
<p>Quest experienced a shiver as he mounted the bridge. Annoyed with
himself, he shrugged the feeling off. There was no risk here. Moreover,
it was a part of his daily work to take chances; he had done so a
hundred times without hesitation. Now he moved all the more quickly, as
if to belie the squeamishness that possessed him in spite of himself.</p>
<p>Swinging past Clason on the plank, he lowered himself without a pause
to the bottom rung of the ladder, while the inventor, hanging head
down, maintained contact with him.</p>
<p>"No need to stay here," he said in sudden irritation. "I understand
perfectly what I am to do."</p>
<p>"I'm testing my own acrobatic ability," grunted Clason amiably. "Just a
minute now."</p>
<p>He wriggled as if trying to adjust himself to a better balance, but in
reality to mask the motion of his free hand with which he reached up and
pressed a button in the side of the plank. Instantly the structure,
pivoting downward on its wall-socket, plunged Quest to his waist in the
osmotic solution.</p>
<p>"For God's sake get out of the way!" he shouted, trying to wrench his
hand out of Clason's sinewy grip. "Let go, I tell you!"</p>
<p>But Clason clung like a leech, his teeth gritted under the strain. Again
the plank lurched downward, and with a violent splash Quest vanished
below the surface.</p>
<p>Quick as a cat, Clason scrambled up the ladder and back to the base of
the plank, where he erased and interchanged the chalk-marked signs with
which he had misled Quest. Then with a sinister twist of a smile he
threw the switch to minus, and turned to watch as the plank slowly
righted itself and the vacant ladder came clear of the liquid.</p>
<p>For some time he stood staring at the gleaming colored rings of his
dissociation-vat like some witch over her cauldron, his lips working,
his hands clasping and unclasping like the tentacles of some sub-sea
monster. Then, as if the spell had suddenly broken, he turned on his
heel and switched off the light. As he hastened down the passageway
toward his office, the airlock sucked the door against its jamb with an
ominous whistle.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>In a twinkling, as Quest's shackled spirit writhed in its new housing,
he knew that he was in bondage to a scoundrel. Formless and voiceless,
he still fought madly for the freedom which the instinct of ten
thousand generations made necessary to him.</p>
<p>At the same time he was furious at himself for having been tricked like
an innocent schoolboy. The plank socket, the button which had tripped
the supporting spring, the fake rehearsal, the tuning of his will to
that of Clason—step by step the whole cunning scheme unfolded itself to
him now.</p>
<p>But what could be the purpose behind this villainy? Only one answer
seemed possible. Keane must be the one bent on selling the Death
Projector, Philip the one who wished to frustrate the fiendish
transaction! And Quest of the Secret Service—he was to be the tool to
force the sale.</p>
<p>With the soundless scream of rage Quest's will hurled itself against
Keane's. The two met like infuriated bulls, and for an instant too brief
to be pictured as a lapse of time they poised immovable. But two wills
can not exist on equal terms in a single body, and in this case the
vibration of both was that of Clason. Quest had challenged the Master
Will. He could do no more. It hurled him back, crushed him like foam,
compressed him to the proportions of an atom in the background of his
consciousness. So brief and unequal was the conflict that in the next
breath Clason had all but forgotten the presence of the stolen will
within him. When he was ready to use his Agent, that would be time
enough to summon him!</p>
<p>Despite this suppression, Quest began to see dimly through strange eyes,
and to hear vaguely with ears that were not his own. Feelers, tentacles,
some intangible kind of conduits carried thought impulses to him from
the Master Will. He received these impressions vividly, but those which
he gave off in return were so weak, due to the subjection of his will,
that Clason was entirely unconscious of any response. Quest was not
enough of a scientist to be astonished at the ability of a disembodied
mind to experience sense impressions in the body of another. He was
only glad that the darkness and silence were growing less. Very, very
slowly he was awakening to a new kind of consciousness—the
consciousness of another person's Self. He hated and loathed that Self,
yet it was better than the awful blankness that had gone before.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Suddenly, as light grew brighter and sound more clear and definite, a
new element entered—the element of hope. At first it was feeble: its
only suggestion was that sometime, somehow, he might escape this prison.
But it was like water to a parched plant. It caused his will to expand,
to extend its feelers, to press up a little more bravely against the
crushing pile of the Master Will.</p>
<p>Now another surprise sprang upon him. He was moving! That is, Clason's
body was moving in some kind of a conveyance, which was threading its
way through crowded streets. Stores, buildings, buses, people—Quest
remembered them all distantly as things he had known thousands of years
ago. The driver turned his head, and his profile seemed vaguely
familiar.</p>
<p>Now a rush of foreign thoughts drowned out his own. They were a sort of
overflow from the mind of Clason. They thronged along the conduits that
bound the two wills together, but only Quest was conscious of the
movement.</p>
<p>Keane's mind was on his brother Philip: that much was particularly
clear. And there was something about a telephone call. Yes, Keane had
telephoned to the police, disguising his voice, refusing to divulge his
name. He had said that a man by the name of Philip Clason was in trouble
and had told them where to find him. Then the police had telephoned the
factory, and Keane had pretended astonishment and alarm at the news.
That's why he was here now—he was on the way to confer with the police.
And he was chuckling—chuckling because he had fooled Quest and the
police, and because now the hundred million dollars was almost in his
grasp.</p>
<p>Cutting in close, the car turned a corner and drew up before one of a
row of loft buildings in a section of the city which Quest failed to
recognize. As Clason stepped to the sidewalk, Quest was more painfully
aware than ever of his powerlessness to influence by so much as the
twitch of a muscle the behavior of this hostile body in which he had
permitted himself to be trapped. In his weakness he felt himself
shrinking, contracting almost to nothingness under the careless pressure
of the Master Will.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Clason glanced casually at his watch, and three men converged toward him
from as many directions. There was nothing to distinguish them from
anyone else in the street, but along the conduits it came to Quest that
they were detectives and that they were there by appointment with Keane
Clason.</p>
<p>"What floor?" asked the latter, with an excitement which Quest felt
instantly was pure pretense. "Are you sure they haven't spirited him
away?"</p>
<p>"Don't worry," replied the leader of the detectives. "The alley and roof
are covered. We'll take care of the rest ourselves."</p>
<p>On tiptoe they climbed three long flights of stairs in the half-light.
Clason held back as if in fear. He was a good actor, and Quest felt the
shrinking and hesitation of his body as he crouched and slunk along in
the wake of the detectives, pretending terror at what was about to
happen, though he knew—and Quest knew he knew—that there would be no
resistance up there—that Philip would be found alone exactly as he had
been left by Keane's hired thugs.</p>
<p>On the top landing Burke, the leader, paused to count the doors from
front to rear.</p>
<p>"This is it," he whispered to the bull-necked fellow just behind him.</p>
<p>The other nodded, and crouched back against the opposite wall while his
companions placed themselves in position to cross-fire into the room the
moment the door gave way.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Quest longed for the power to kick his hypocrite of a master as he still
held back, cowering on the stairs, playing his fake to the limit. Then
the door flew in with a splintering shriek under the charge of the human
battering ram, and across it hurtled the other two detectives in a cloud
of ancient dust.</p>
<p>"Here he is!" someone shouted.</p>
<p>"Phil! Phil!" Keane Clason's voice fairly quavered with sham emotion as
he ran into the room and threw himself at a man tightly bound to an
upholstered chair, which in turn was wedged in among other articles of
stored furniture.</p>
<p>But Philip was too securely gagged to reply, and as Burke slashed the
ropes from across his chest he dropped forward in a state of collapse.
Stretched on a couch, he soon gave signs of response as a brisk massage
began to restore the circulation to his cramped limbs. Suddenly he sat
up and thrust his rescuers aside.</p>
<p>"What time is it?" he demanded with an air of alarm.</p>
<p>"One o'clock," replied Keane before anyone else could answer, patting
his brother affectionately on the shoulder while within him Quest
writhed with indignation. "By Jove! Phil, it's wonderful that we got to
you in time. Really, how—you're not injured?"</p>
<p>"No," grunted Philip, "just lamed up. I'll be as fit as ever by
to-morrow."</p>
<p>"If you feel equal to it," suggested Burke, "I wish you'd tell me
briefly how you arrived here. Do you know the motive behind this affair?
Did you recognize any of the body-snatchers?"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Philip frowned and shook his head.</p>
<p>"Yesterday noon," he said slowly, "I took the eight-passenger Airline
Express to Cleveland on business. There were three other passengers in
the cabin—two men and a woman. Right away I got out a correspondence
file and was running over some letters. The next thing I knew I was
approaching the ground in the strangest state of mind I ever
experienced. My head was splitting, and everything looked unreal to me.
Seemed as if I was coming down on some new planet."</p>
<p>"You mean the ship was gliding down to land?"</p>
<p>"No, no. I was dangling from a parachute.... By the way, where am I
now?"</p>
<p>"In a Munson Avenue loft."</p>
<p>"In Chicago?"</p>
<p>Burke nodded.</p>
<p>"I guessed as much," frowned Philip. "You see, I came down in a field,
and then before I could free myself from my trappings I was pounced
on—trussed up and blindfolded—by a gang of men. I knew they had taken
me a long distance by automobile, but I saw nothing more until they tore
the blindfold from my eyes when they left me here."</p>
<p>"And they were all strangers to you?"</p>
<p>"Yes—those that I saw."</p>
<p>"Isn't this enough for just now, Burke?" interrupted Keane, and Quest
received an impression of uneasiness that was not apparent in the
inventor's tone. "After a good rest he's sure to recall things that
escape him now."</p>
<p>"Just one minute," nodded the detective, turning back to Philip. "Can
you think of no plausible reason for this attack? Is there no one who
might possibly benefit by putting you temporarily out of the way?"</p>
<p>Philip gave a frightened start. Then he was on his feet, clutching at
his brother's arm.</p>
<p>"Keane!" he pleaded, "Keane! What's happened? I know, I know! It's the
Projector."</p>
<p>"Water!" roared Keane, and Quest felt the panic that coursed through him
as he tried to drown out his brother. "Somebody bring water! He needs
it!"</p>
<p>At the same time he snatched up Philip's hand in a grip of steel.
Instantly the latter's wild eyes became calm, the flush passed from his
relaxing face, and he slumped down weakly on the couch.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>In that fleeting moment Quest surged into the body of Philip and
confronted his will with a fierce and triumphant ardor. For now his will
would have command of a body with which to fight his fiend of a Control.</p>
<p>With a sensation of contempt he met Philip's resistance and buffeted him
ruthlessly backward, crushed down and compressed his feebly struggling
will. And as Philip yielded, Quest felt his own will expanding to
normal, taking possession of the borrowed body with hungry greed, and
flashing from its faded eyes the spark of youth.</p>
<p>Burke stared in amazement at the kaleidoscopic rapidity of the changes
in the rescued man's expression. Strange lights and shadows continued to
flit across Philip's face as Quest's invasion of him proceeded, but with
a diminishing frequency which soon assured Keane that his Agent was
tightening his command.</p>
<p>The younger of Burke's aides stood fascinated, his mouth agape. The
other spoke guardedly to his superior:</p>
<p>"Dope, eh!"</p>
<p>"Nah!" replied Burke, shrugging himself out of his trance. "Shock."</p>
<p>The actual duration of the conflict in Philip was something less than
three seconds. It would have been more brief if Quest had exerted
himself to the utmost. But his sensations as he first surged into this
new habitat under Keane's propulsion were so weird and unearthly that
for the moment he was lost in the wonder of the experience. For that
short time, therefore, Philip was able to fight back against the onrush
of the invading will.</p>
<p>In the next second Quest became conscious of the resistance. Urged on by
his Control, he must push Philip back and quell him; but his sympathy
for his opponent and his hatred of Keane roused him to sudden revolt. He
wanted to disobey the Master Will, retreat, leave Philip in command of
himself. But he could only go on, unwillingly thrusting back Philip's
will despite the indescribable torment and confusion in his own. Then,
with the feeling that he was ten times worse than the most inhuman
ghoul, he took full possession of his borrowed body.</p>
<p>"I'll take him home now," said Keane composedly to Burke. "As you see,
he needs a little extra sleep. Meanwhile, if you have any occasion to
call me, I will be at the factory."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>To the youthful mind of the Agent, used to the lightness of an athletic
physique, the body in which it moved down the stairs to the limousine
seemed strangely heavy and awkward.</p>
<p>"I'm badly done up, Keane," he said with Philip's lips as the car got
under way.</p>
<p>"Bah!" snorted Keane, "you've had a scare, that's all. Go to bed when
you get home and sleep till nine this evening. At ten a man named Dr.
Nukharin will call for you. He will drive you to a garage, leave the
car, and transfer to another one a few blocks away.</p>
<p>"Out near Marbleton you will find an airplane staked in an open field.
Nukharin is a capable pilot. He will fly back southeast along the
lakeshore to the meeting place. You should arrive about twelve-thirty.
The test is set for one o'clock."</p>
<p>Quest listened in a state of abject rage. Lacking the power to resist
his Control, he could only boil away in Philip's body like a wild
creature hemmed in by bars of steel.</p>
<p>"Bring with you," continued Keane venomously, "the set of papers that
you took from the safe in my office. Hold the other set in readiness to
deliver to Nukharin to-morrow, after he has studied the results of the
test and has notified Paris to release a hundred million dollars in
cash for delivery at your Loop office at 3 p. m."</p>
<p>The murderous greed of the man maddened Quest. He tried to revolt, his
will squirming like a physical thing, threshing the ether like a wounded
shark in the sea. For a moment he felt that he was about to burst the
bonds that his demon of a Control had woven around him. So violently did
he resist that the immured and sporelike will of Philip forged up
fitfully out of the blackness and joined his in the hopeless struggle.
But along the attenuated conduits that still chained Quest to the Master
Will Keane caught the impulse of the mutiny, and his eyes darted flame
as he countered with a will-shock that paralyzed his unruly Agent.</p>
<p>"Listen! you whimpering dog," he snarled. "Think as I tell you—and
nothing more! You are going to apologize to Dr. Nukharin for your
previous unwillingness to sell the Projector. You are going to tell him
that I am at fault—that I held out—but that you found a way to force
my compliance. You understand?"</p>
<p>Quest could find no words. With Philip's head he nodded meekly. Just
then the car stopped and the chauffeur threw open the door.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Dr. Nukharin flew high despite the masses of cumulus cloud which
frequently reduced visibility to zero. He had merely to follow the rim
of the lake to his destination, and an occasional glimpse of the water
was sufficient to hold him on his course.</p>
<p>In the back seat hunched Philip, his body crumbling under the weight of
Quest's despair. For hours the latter had gone on vaguely, hoping
somehow to thwart this horrible transaction that was rushing the world
to its doom, thinking he might grow strong enough to wrench himself free
and so liberate Philip from the dominance of his conscienceless brother.
Even though such a move should leave his own will forever separate from
his body, he was ready and anxious to make the sacrifice.</p>
<p>Suddenly the crash of the motor ceased and Nukharin banked the ship up
in a spiral glide. Quest had never been in the air before, and the long
whirl down into the darkness on this devil's errand was to him as eery
as a ride to perdition in a white-hot projectile.</p>
<p>His mind seemed to trail out in a great nebular helix behind the
descending ship. He felt that he had suddenly crossed some cosmic
meridian into a new plane of existence, where he was changed to a gas,
yet continued capable of thought. But even here his obsession remained
the same. Keane Clason—trickster, traitor, arch-criminal—must be
destroyed!</p>
<p>"I'll get him!" vowed Quest in words that were no less real for being
soundless. "I'll trail him to the end of space and bring him to
account!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Then wheels touched earth and the cold, bare facts of his destiny rushed
in on him with redoubled force. He felt the nearness of his Control
seconds before he perceived him through the eyes of Philip. With a
sensation like a stab he realized that now he must speak, play his part,
be any bloodless hypocrite that Keane Clason chose to make him. The
silent order surged down the conduits promptly enough; he responded as
an automaton obeys the pressure of a button.</p>
<p>"Well, Doctor," chuckled Philip with a cunning leer, "here's the magic
tower, just as I promised you. We'll run it up in a jiffy. This test is
going to be so vivid and conclusive that not even a hard-headed skeptic
like you can raise a question."</p>
<p>"You misunderstand me," returned Nukharin in an injured tone. "So far as
I am concerned this procedure is only a formality, but it is none the
less necessary. Suppose that I should spend a hundred million of my
government's money and the purchase prove worthless? You may guess that
my folly would cost me dear."</p>
<p>Keane Clason was waiting on the platform of a giant truck, the motor of
which was idling. All the apparatus was in readiness except that the
three demountable sections of the tower had yet to be run up into
position.</p>
<p>"One of the beauties of the D. P.," said Philip gleefully to the Doctor,
while Keane smiled slyly to himself, "is that this pint-size dynamo
provides all the current needed for the test. We pick the power for our
radio right out of the air by means of a wave trap and mensurator
invented by this bright little brother of mine," and he clapped Keane
patronizingly on the back.</p>
<p>"Yes, ah—Dr. Nukharin," ventured Keane timidly, and at that moment
Quest experienced the raging red hatred that causes men to murder.
"Philip has promised me that you will employ this device only as a
threat to hold the ambitions of the larger powers in check."</p>
<p>"Of course, of course!" replied the Doctor heartily. "But now let's have
the test. Even at night I'm not too fond of these open-air
performances."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The height of the tower as they ran the upper sections into place was
forty feet. When all connections had been inspected, first by Keane,
then by Philip, the former led Nukharin aloft.</p>
<p>As the climax of his plot approached, Keane's excitement bordered on a
cataleptic state, hints of which came confusedly through the conduits to
Quest. With a peculiar satisfaction he felt that Keane was suffering.
The inventor's jaws became rigid, as though his blood had changed to
liquid air and frozen him, and he had difficulty in controlling the
movements of his arms.</p>
<p>Now he was afraid! Genuinely afraid, this time. Quest caught the impulse
too clearly to doubt its meaning. This was no sham! Keane was doubting
his own machine, fearing that in the crisis some element in the finely
calculated mechanism might fail to operate, thus cheating him of the
blood-money on which his heart was set. Then he was speaking, and even
Nukharin noticed the tremor in his voice:</p>
<p>"These nine tubes, which look like a row of gun barrels, are molded from
silicon paste. Each shoots a beam of invisible light and a radio dart of
precisely the same wave length. The destructive effect depends chiefly
upon this exactness of synchronization."</p>
<p>"A question occurs to me," said the Doctor: "will others be able to
manipulate the machine as successfully as you can?"</p>
<p>"It's fool-proof," chattered Keane, almost losing control of his voice,
"absolutely fool-proof. Surely you have scientists in your country who
can follow written directions! Nothing more is necessary."</p>
<p>"Very well," shrugged Nukharin. "I only want to be sure that no
unforeseen difficulties may arise in an emergency."</p>
<p>"See this range-setter?" continued Keane. "The thread on the vertical
shaft enables us not only to limit the range by angling the beams into
the ground, but it can also be disengaged and the Projector revolved in
a flat circle for maximum ranges."</p>
<p>"And is there no danger of the machine going wrong—of destroying itself
and us?" suggested Nukharin.</p>
<p>"None whatever, Doctor. There is no explosive force and no great
electrical voltage involved. As long as we stand back of the muzzles we
have nothing to fear.</p>
<p>"Now look. I have set the micrometer at three hundred yards, which will
just about cover the stretch between ourselves and the lake. I will cut
a swath for you—and every bush, every blade of grass, every insect in
this swath will be withered to ash in the twinkling of an eye. The
destruction will be absolute."</p>
<p>"Please proceed," said Nukharin grimly.</p>
<p>Keane pulled a lever in its slot, then pressed it down into its lock as
his projection battery swung lakeward at the desired angle. Then with
one hand poised on another lever, he pressed an electric button.</p>
<p>At the controls below, a bulb flashed on and off. The signal was
superfluous, for already Quest had received his silent command from the
Master Will. An icy dread fastened on him. He must obey the unspoken
command; he had no will of his own with which to resist. The test would
be a success; the Projector would be sold; the world would be turned
into a shambles. And he, Owen Quest, would be the destroyer, the
murderer, the weak fool who made this horror possible.</p>
<p>All this flashed through the Agent's mind in the fraction of a second
that it took him to extend Philip's hand, close the switch of the
dynamo, and snap on the alternating lights in the housing over the
tellurium filter.</p>
<p>For an interminable five seconds he waited, in a ferment of revolt which
the paralysis of his will made it impossible to put into action. Then
again the command pulsed within him, the signal bulb flashed, and he
reversed his motions of the moment before.</p>
<p>Cold sweat cascaded down Philip's face as Quest felt the ladder
vibrating under descending feet. He longed for the power to hurl Keane
Clason to the ground and turn the Projector upon him. But with an awful
irony the Master Will forced him to his feet, and to speak in a tone
that withered the manhood within him.</p>
<p>"Come," said Philip in a triumphant tone to Nukharin, "and I will show
you that Clason inventions perform as well as they sound."</p>
<p>Flashlight in hand, he started toward the lake with Nukharin and his
brother close behind him. Twenty paces, and the long meadow grass
suddenly vanished from beneath their feet.</p>
<p>"See that!" whispered Philip excitedly, waving the light from side to
side to show the forty-foot swath that stretched away before them. "Not
a trace of life left, not a blade of grass—nothing but dust!"</p>
<p>The only response was a gurgling sound that issued from Nukharin's
throat.</p>
<p>"Look!" Quest formed the word with Philip's lips under the urge of the
Master Will. "Here was a tall bush. What do you see now? Just a
teaspoonful of ash. When you examine the remains by daylight, you will
find that even the root has disintegrated to a depth of two feet."</p>
<p>"Enough of this," croaked Nukharin in horror. "The deal is closed."</p>
<p>His face was convulsed with fear. Without another word he whirled about
and fled toward his airplane. Philip gave a start as if to follow.</p>
<p>"Halt! you slob," growled Keane, whose composure had returned with the
successful outcome of the test. "I have use for your company, even
though you are as great a coward as our Slavic friend."</p>
<p>Coward! The epithet stung Quest like a flaming goad. One of the fine,
intangible lines that bound him under the will of Keane Clason severed,
and his own will exploded into action like a thunderbolt. With startling
agility he whirled Philip about, the flashlight clubbed in his hand. But
Keane was quicker still. A clip on the wrist sent the weapon flying.
Then Philip reeled backward from a kick in the stomach, and his
clutching hands beat the air as he sank unconscious in the dust.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>With a violent tug, Quest lifted Philip's body to a sitting posture. The
phone was ringing, and by the pull on the will-fibers he knew that Keane
was at the other end of the wire. Philip's body was failing under the
strain of the part it was forced to play, and the blow of the night
before had further weakened it. Now he sat rocking his head painfully
between his hands. But Quest lifted him to his feet by sheer will, and
he staggered across the room.</p>
<p>"Hello!", he said in a hoarse voice.</p>
<p>"Get the hell out here to the factory!" rasped Keane, and the crash of
the receiver emphasized the command.</p>
<p>It was one o'clock as Philip whirled his sedan into Olmstead Avenue. At
three, reflected Quest as the car scorched over the pavements, he must
be at the downtown office to deliver the papers and receive the money.</p>
<p>Then he was face to face with Keane, reeling dizzily at the hatred that
blazed from the latter's accusing eyes.</p>
<p>"Double-crossed me, eh!" The voice was a low snarl, and as he spoke
Keane thumped the extra outspread on his desk. "But you're not going to
get away with it—neither of you!"</p>
<p>Dismay, hope, dread, wonder robbed Quest of the power to speak. But he
whirled around behind the desk with such unexpected violence that Keane
staggered back in alarm. Then he was devouring the screaming headlines
of the newspaper. Three seconds, like a slow exposure, and every word of
the Record's great scoop was etched upon his mind as if with caustic:</p>
<blockquote><p class="center">DOOM LAUNCH ADRIFT ON LAKE</p>
<p class="center">Physician Baffled by Condition of Five Bodies Found in Craft</p>
<p class="center">Blighted Area on Shore Said to Have Bearing on Tragedy</p>
<p>THAW HARBOR, IND., June 6.—Five Chicago sportsmen, most of them
prominent in business and society, perished in the early hours this
morning while returning in the launch of A. Gaston Andrews from a
weekend camping party near Hook Spit on the Michigan shore.</p>
<p>The boat was towed into this port at daybreak by the Interlake Tug
Mordecai after being found adrift less than a mile off shore.
According to Captain Goff of the Mordecai the death craft carried
no lights and he barely avoided running her down. The weather along
the Indiana shore was perfect throughout the night and there is
nothing to indicate that the launch was in trouble at any time. The
bodies are unmarked, and this little community is agog with rumors
ranging all the way from murder and suicide to the supernatural.</p>
<p>Dr. J. M. Addis of Thaw Harbor, the first physician to examine the
bodies, says that they appear to have suffered some violent
electro-chemical action the nature of which cannot be determined at
the moment. This statement is considered significant in view of the
reported discovery ashore of a large blighted area almost directly
opposite the point where the launch was found. Joseph Sleichert, a
farmer who lives in that vicinity, reports that this patch of
ground extending back from the lakeshore was completely stripped of
vegetation overnight. He ascribes the damage to some unknown insect
pest. Others say that the condition of the ground indicates that it
has been burned at incinerator temperatures. Nothing is left of the
soil but a blue powder.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Philip faced his brother with eyes that were dull with agony.</p>
<p>"You have made me a murderer!" Quest forced out the words in painful
gasps.</p>
<p>But Keane snapped back at him like a rabid dog.</p>
<p>"You did it—you did it yourself! You tampered with the Projector. You
tried to spoil the test. You changed the range. You tried to kill me,
and instead you killed these others. And you're going to pay—both of
you. You hear me?—you're going to pay!"</p>
<p>His voice mounted the scale to a scream. It was a wail of unreasoning
terror, of the dread of exposure, of the fear that he would fail to
collect the fortune now so nearly in his grasp. The accident that had
jarred his well-laid plans had unnerved him.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Frantically Quest strove to answer him, to explain his utter subjection,
as Agent, to say that if he had possessed the will to oppose or trick
him he would have turned him over to the police, or might even have
killed him, at the very outset. But in his frenzy, Keane had so
tightened his control that Quest was speechless. Now he tried to
substitute gesture for words, but Philip was rooted to the spot like a
statue; even his hands were immovable.</p>
<p>He might have remained in this state indefinitely had not Keane's fears
withdrawn his mind from his immediate surroundings. Momentarily he
forgot Quest, Philip—everything but himself and his predicament. And in
the instant that his vigilance relaxed, Quest's enslaved will
experienced a sudden lease of strength and hope. Independently of his
Control, he found that he could move Philip's hand, could take a
faltering step.</p>
<p>But now, what to do? How might he fan this feeble spark of volition to
sufficient strength for decisive resistance? The idea came to him: if
only he could place distance between himself and Keane, perhaps with one
titanic effort he might launch himself against the Master Will, take him
by surprise, crush him down, and reverse him to the status of Agent
instead of Control.</p>
<p>With infinite effort Quest forced Philip's body step by step across the
room. He must reach that window, get a signal of distress to someone in
the street.</p>
<p>But Keane began to sense a mutiny. He followed. He crossed the floor
with slinking, tigerish steps and snaking body. His wet lips writhed
back over his teeth, and his contorted features wove the leer of the
abyss. Now as his Control drew physically near, Quest felt his mite of
strength ebbing fast. Slowly Keane reached up with his clawed fingers
and grasped his Agent by the arm.</p>
<p>"Remember!" he hissed, "if these deaths are traced to us, you break
down—you confess—you take the blame—you paint me lily white—you
describe the cowardly means by which you moulded me to your will—you
plead only for a quick trial and the full penalty of the law. You
understand?"</p>
<p>Quest made no reply, but he understood all too well the hideous
intention of his betrayer. What a fool he had been to imagine that Keane
Clason would ever restore him to his body! Philip to the chair, Quest a
homeless spirit wandering in space, and for the body at the bottom of
the tank, the brief regrets of the Department!</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>A sudden rushing sound filled the air with a sense of action and alarm.</p>
<p>Two—three—four speeding automobiles swung in recklessly to the curb
and shrieked to a standstill under smoking brakes. Men leaped out and
deployed on the run to surround the factory. Keane darted to the door
and twisted the key.</p>
<p>"Come on!" he spat at Philip as he snatched back the rug and threw open
the trap door.</p>
<p>The command galvanized Quest to action. In two bounds he had Philip on
the stairs. A heavy impact rattled the office door just as he dropped
the trap into place over his head. Then, infected with Keane's panic, he
was running down the passageway like mad.</p>
<p>Inside the tank chamber the brilliantly colored rings of liquid flashed
back the rays of the arclight. Half crazed with anxiety, Keane danced on
the black ledge like a monkey on a griddle. His face was ashen, drool
ran from his twisted mouth, his eyes were two black pools of terror.</p>
<p>Again Quest experienced the peculiar sensation which came with the
slackening of control. New hope sprang up in his agonized being as heavy
blows boomed against the air-locked door. Great waves of fear poured
along the conduits, betraying to the Agent the state of mind of his
Control. Now what would Keane do? What could he do? Why, of all places,
had he fled down into this blind burrow?</p>
<p>Thud, thud! Then came a series of sharp reports. Outside, they were
trying to shoot away the deep-sunk disk hinges.</p>
<p>Still the door stood fast, but the fury of the assault on it whipped the
faltering Keane to action. In a bound he was on the platform. With a
lightning hand he threw the switch to plus, starting electrolytic action
in the tank. Then he pressed a button concealed under the edge of the
switch-mount and a panel slid silently aside in the wall, revealing a
narrow outlet.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>To Quest everything went a flaming red. He might have known that this
fox would have something in reserve—a way of escape when danger
threatened!</p>
<p>But his Control gave him no time for independent thought. He forced
Quest to turn Philip's eyes up to his own. Without disconnecting that
grip of his glittering eyes, Keane leaped back to the ledge. Quest felt
the silent order:</p>
<p>"Get up on that plank! Dive into the tank! Get back into your own body,
let Philip have his! Then come up—the two of you—and face the music.
For I'll be gone, and your story will sound like the ravings of a
maniac."</p>
<p>Quest took an obedient step toward the platform. But at the same instant
a tremendous crash shivered the door. It seemed to unnerve Keane Clason.
With a gasp he sank down upon the steps, his body doubled in pain, his
hand clutching at his heart. Another crash followed, and he shuddered
and cried out.</p>
<p>Instantly Quest felt an expansion of the will. Keane's sudden physical
weakness had loosened his control. Philip's lips worked painfully as
Quest forced him to pause, to disobey the command of the Master Will. In
a spasm of will he fought to wrench himself free from the countless
clinging tentacles of his Control. In great surges, Quest's reviving
volition pounded against the walls of his borrowed body. Now he sought
to force this sluggish body back to the wall, so that he might release
the airlock and spring the door. But Philip seemed to ossify, every cord
and muscle of his body frozen to stone by the conflict that raged within
him.</p>
<p>Braced against the wall, Keane was rising slowly to his feet. His
seizure was easing, and so he was able to exert a better pressure upon
his rebellious Agent.</p>
<p>"Come!" he gasped, realizing that he lacked the strength to escape alone
and must therefore change his plan. "Lift me—quick! Carry me out! Slide
the panel back into place. We will escape together!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The spoken command turned the balance against Quest. His will yielded to
the master. At the same instant Philip's body relaxed like an object
relieved of a great excess of electrical potential. Suddenly strong and
supple, he lifted the trembling Keane and tossed him across his
shoulder.</p>
<p>For a moment there had been a lull in the assault on the door. Now the
battering resumed with a fury that jarred the whole chamber and sent
ripples dancing across the varicolored liquids in the osmotic tank.</p>
<p>"Quick!" gasped Keane. "Move! I say. Carry me out."</p>
<p>But he was in a fainting condition. Crash after crash rocked the
chamber, and with every blow Quest's will felt a stimulation that
enabled him to stand off the commands of his Control. Then a wave of
nausea swept over him and left him reeling. It seemed that Philip's
blood had turned to boiling oil. A dazzling mist swallowed him up, and
with a weird sense of inflation he felt full strength returning to his
will.</p>
<p>A booming blow that bulged the door inward acted upon him like a stage
player's cue. He leaped to the platform. The gurgling sound of
remonstrance rattled from Keane's throat. But Quest paid no heed. Philip
was walking the plank—away from the open panel—out over the tank.</p>
<p>Rapidly he dropped down the ladder to the bottom rung, snatched Keane's
wrist in a gorillalike grip, and hurled him down into the vat.</p>
<p>Then Philip was clinging desperately to the ladder, his strength gone,
his body shivering as if with ague.</p>
<p>"Go on up!" came a strange, impatient voice from below him. "For
heaven's sake let me out of here!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>A downward glance, and with a shout of alarm Philip was scrambling up
the ladder, for there was a head down there, and a pair of naked
shoulders, and the face of a man he had never seen before. Hand over
hand Quest followed. Philip had collapsed and lay prone on the plank.
Quest lifted him to his feet and shook him anxiously.</p>
<p>"Philip!" he urged. "Philip! Can you walk?"</p>
<p>The tattoo on the battered door helped to revive the older man.</p>
<p>"Quick!" whispered Quest, kneading Philip's arms. "There's barely an
hour left. Get to your office. Burn the papers. Refuse the money. Do you
hear me?"</p>
<p>Philip nodded dazedly.</p>
<p>"Hurry!" puffed Quest, thrusting him through the opening that Keane had
reserved for his own escape, and sliding the panel back into place.</p>
<p>Quest was himself now—young, strong, free. Instantly he threw the
electrolytic switch to minus. For Keane had failed to emerge from the
tank, and since he was submerged alone, he could not escape until
electrolysis was halted.</p>
<p>Just as Quest leaped from the platform to release the airlock, the door
burst in and three men with drawn guns rushed into the chamber.</p>
<p>The leader stopped with a startled oath and stood blinking his
unbelieving eyes. Quest was poised like a statue, his naked body
gleaming an unearthly white against the lusterless black of the wall.</p>
<p>"Quest," came from the three in chorus. Then a rush of questions:
"What's the matter? What's happened to you? Where are the Clasons?"</p>
<p>Quest turned toward the platform, expecting to see Keane.</p>
<p>"Something's wrong!" he shouted. "Quick! Somebody get Philip. He's gone
to his Loop office. Keane Clason's at the bottom of this tank. I'm not
sure how this thing works, but Philip can get him out! I'm sure of it!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Despite the confident predictions of both Quest and Philip Clason,
osmotic association failed to restore Keane to life, and at last the
coroner ordered the removal of the body. The autopsy revealed heart
disease as the cause of his death.</p>
<p>For reasons best understood at Washington, the cause of the five launch
deaths was withheld from the public. Quest's punishment for his part in
the crime consisted of a promotion and a warm personal letter from the
President of the United States.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="Compensation" id="Compensation"></SPAN>Compensation</h2>
<h2>By C. V. Tench</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus5.jpg" alt=""/></div>
<h3><i>Good God! Was I going mad? Surely this was some awful nightmare!</i></h3>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="sidenote">Professor Wroxton had disappeared—but in the bottom of the
mysterious crystal cage lay the diamond from his ring.</div>
<p>"Why, John!" Involuntarily I halted at the entrance to my snug bachelor
quarters as the flood of light my turning of the switch produced
revealed a huddled figure slumped in an easy chair.</p>
<p>"Aye, sir, 'tis me." The man got to his feet, gnarled hands rubbing at
his eyes. "An' 'tis all day that I've been waiting for you, sir. The
caretaker said you'd be back soon so let me in. I must have fell asleep,
an' no wonder, what with the strain an' no sleep or rest all last
night."</p>
<p>"Strain? No rest?" I stared my bewilderment, trying at the same time to
conceal the vague apprehensions occasioned by the fact that the trusted
servitor of my friend, Professor Wroxton, should wait all day for me.</p>
<p>Hastily shedding my outer things, I bade him again be seated, sat down
facing him, and asked him to explain.</p>
<p>"'Tis the professor, sir." The old chap peered at me with anxious,
wrinkled eyes. "'Tis common enough for him to send me here on messages,
sir, but to-day I've come on my own, because, sir," answering the
question in my eyes, "I haven't seen sight of him since last night."</p>
<p>"Why—" I began.</p>
<p>"That's just it, sir." John took the words out of my mouth. "For twenty
years my wife an' me have looked after the professor at The Grange. In
all that time he's never been away at night. Whenever he had to come to
town he'd tell us. Most times I'd drive him myself in the old car. But
that was very seldom, sir, for Professor Wroxton had few interests
outside."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"But, John," I protested "is there no other reason for your agitation?
He might have had an urgent call, or gone out for a walk or drive by
himself."</p>
<p>"No, sir. If you'll pardon me, sir, you're wrong. The professor was
fixed in his habits. He would not go away without tellin' me. Think
back, sir, you know the professor as well as me. Better, because you are
his friend and I am only a servant. Although, sir," this proudly, "he
always treated me as a friend."</p>
<p>"Go on," I urged, seeing he was not finished.</p>
<p>"Well, sir, a few minutes back you asked me if there was no other reason
for my being upset like. There is, sir. You know, sir, that for more'n
twenty years the professor has led a retired sort of life; the life of
a—a—"</p>
<p>"Recluse," I suggested.</p>
<p>"That's it, sir. He only left The Grange when he had to. He was all
wrapped up in some weird-like thing he was inventing. In all those
years, sir, you were the only visitor who ever went into his laboratory,
or stayed at The Grange for a night or more. That is, sir, until three
days ago."</p>
<p>"Go on," I again urged, some of his perturbation communicating itself to
me.</p>
<p>"The Grange, sir, lying as it does, fifteen miles from town an' back in
its own grounds away from the road, isn't noted by many. When strangers
do get into the grounds I usually gets 'em out again in short order.
Three days ago, sir, a stranger drove up to the door in a fine car. He
told me he was wantin' to purchase a country home. I told him The Grange
was not for sale an' turned 'im away. He was turning his car to leave
when my master came out. To my surprise, sir, he invited the stranger
in. An' I'm sure, sir, because he looked so taken aback like, that the
stranger had never seen the professor before."</p>
<p>"And after that?" I asked, now feeling decidedly uneasy.</p>
<p>"The stranger, sir—a Mr. Lathom he called himself—stayed on. He was in
the study with the master last night. This morning there was no trace of
either of them."</p>
<p>"But—good God, John!" I jerked to my feet, a fresh dread clutching at
my heart. "What are you trying to get at? The professor and Mr. Lathom
might possibly have driven away somewhere last night."</p>
<p>"Both cars, sir," the servant answered, "are in the garage. I bolt all
the doors in the house myself every night. They were still fastened this
morning. My wife an' me searched the house from cellar to garret an'
hunted all over the grounds. We couldn't find a trace of the master or
his guest."</p>
<p>"You mean to suggest then," I shot at him, "that two full grown men have
completely vanished? It's absurd, John, absurd!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>I paced the floor thinking desperately for a few minutes, conscious of
the ancient's anxious eyes. I half smiled. The thing was too ridiculous
for anything. Old John had grown morbid from living away from the outer
world. Also, I had to admit that the atmosphere of The Grange,
impregnated as it was with the lethal scientific dabblings of my friend,
was exactly suited to the conjuring up of unhealthy forebodings in
uneducated minds. I'd drive out to the home of my friend at once. No
doubt I'd find him fit and well. He had refused to install a phone, so
drive it had to be.</p>
<p>"John." I stopped my pacing and patted him on the shoulder. "I'm coming
out to The Grange at once." His face showed his thankfulness. "I am
sure," I went on as I struggled into my coat, "that we shall find the
professor and his guest awaiting us. Anyway, it's time you got back to
your wife and had some food."</p>
<p>"I hope to Heaven, sir, that you're right." With that we left the
building and entered my car.</p>
<p>Although I had tried to dispel my fears, although I had tried to banter
John out of his dread, I drove that evening as I had never driven before
or since. Barely fifteen minutes later I halted my roadster at the short
flight of steps leading to the main door of The Grange. Even as we
stepped from the machine the door flung open and an agitated woman
hurried towards us. She was Mary, John's wife.</p>
<p>"Sir!" She gripped my arm and stared anxiously into my face. "'Tis glad
I am that you've come. The Grange is a house of death."</p>
<p>In spite of myself a chill shook my whole body. Gently handing her to
John, I strode up the steps.</p>
<p>At the open doorway I halted, the aged couple crowding on my heels, the
woman still babbling about death. I couldn't blame her. All day she had
been alone in that gloomy, rambling old building, wondering, no doubt,
why John and I had not returned sooner.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>And gloomy the house was. Always, even when staying there at the
professor's request, I had found it to be somber and depressing, as if
there lurked within its walls the shadowy wings of the years-old tragedy
that had caused my friend to retire to such a God-forsaken place, and
there become absorbed in his scientific experiments.</p>
<p>Even now, as I gazed into the dimly-lighted hallway, the air seemed
charged with that same malignant something I cannot describe.</p>
<p>Pulling myself together I strode quickly along the corridor, and flung
open the study door. The lights being full on, one glance sufficed to
show me that my friend was not there. Swinging on my heel, the horror I
saw in the eyes of the servants, honest, healthy folks not easily
frightened, conveyed itself to me. Somehow, the sight of that room,
lights on, chairs drawn up to the burnt-out fire, brought home to me the
fact that something serious was amiss. I chided myself for thinking John
had been unduly agitated.</p>
<p>For a moment I stood, trying to conceal the chill coursing through my
veins, puzzling what to do next. I decided to search the house
thoroughly. If I found no sign of the professor or his guest, I would
call in the police.</p>
<p>Fearfully yet willingly the aged couple led me from room to room, from
attic to basement, until but one place remained—the laboratory. I
hesitated for several seconds at the closed door of my friend's
workroom. Not that I had never entered the—to a layman's
eyes—weirdly-appointed place. I had been in many times with the
professor. But this time I dreaded what I might find.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Pulling myself together, I gently tried the door. To my horror it
yielded to my touch. Alive, the professor always kept it locked. A new
dread assailed me, as, flinging the door wide open, I blinked in the
sudden glare of powerful globes. Someone had left the lights full on!</p>
<p>Horrified I stood and stared, knowing by their heavy breathing that the
aged couple were also staring with fright-widened eyes. Afraid of what?
I did not know. I only knew that the atmosphere had become even more
sinister. I knew that something dreadful had taken place in that room.</p>
<p>Trembling with consternation I forced myself to take a few steps
forward, then I again stared about me. At one end of the large room
something shone brightly in the glow of the lights. Slowly I walked
across to examine it: it appeared to be a glass case, almost like a
show-case, about eight feet square and seven feet in height. With the
mechanical actions of the mentally distraught I walked all around it.
Not the slightest sign of an entrance could I see. The fact intrigued
me. I tapped lightly on the highly polished surface with my fingers. It
rang to my touch like cut glass.</p>
<p>Through the transparent surface I could see John and his wife. They were
watching me furtively, wondering, no doubt, why I lingered. As I looked
at them John suddenly lumbered up to the case on the opposite side.
Dropping to his knees, he stared. Turning an imploring gaze to me, he
pointed. His lips moved soundlessly. I followed the pointing finger with
my eyes; gasped at what I saw.</p>
<p>Near the center of the cage, on the floor constructed of the same
crystalline substance, something glittered, its brilliance almost
dazzling as the light rays struck it. My face pressed close to the cold
outer surface of the structure, my shocked intelligence gradually
realized what that small sparkling object was. It was a magnificent
diamond—and the professor had always worn a diamond ring!</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>In a sudden frenzy of horror I pawed my way around the cage to where
John still knelt. As I reached him he jerked his head in a numb way as
he croaked, "It's a diamond, sir! The professor's!"</p>
<p>"But how?" I implored. "How can it be? There's no way into this thing.
Perhaps he was working here, and the stone came loose from its setting.
He couldn't have dropped it after the cage was completed."</p>
<p>"It's his diamond, sir," intoned the old man, dully. "I know it is."</p>
<p>Then a sudden unreasoning terror filled me. I shrank away from that
shining box. It seemed to be mocking me, gloatingly, malevolently.</p>
<p>"Quickly!" I threw at the aged couple. "Let us get out of here! Now! At
once!" They needed no second urging. I knew that they felt as I felt:
the laboratory was a sepulcher!</p>
<p>Five minutes later I was guiding my car over the narrow road to town. I
did not pause until I drew up at police headquarters. I suppose my
appearance was distraught, for I was ushered into the presence of the
chief without delay. In a few moments I had poured out my story. He
listened with a polite calmness I found almost maddening. Leaning back
in his chair, he reviewed, audibly, the facts.</p>
<p>"Some twenty-odd years ago your friend, Professor Wroxton, married. He
was so absorbed in the pursuit of some weird invention that he neglected
his bride. She ran away with another man. This man deserted her, and
disappeared. The professor found her many months later, in desperate
health. Shortly afterwards she died. Your friend tried to trail the man,
but failed. Shocked and saddened beyond measure, he retired to a place
known as The Grange."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>He suddenly straightened up in his seat, and pointed at me a thick
forefinger.</p>
<p>"How long have you known Professor Wroxton?"</p>
<p>"About ten years," I answered.</p>
<p>"What was he trying to invent?"</p>
<p>"I don't know," I replied.</p>
<p>"And yet you had his confidence in other matters?"</p>
<p>"But what has all this to do with finding out what has become of my
friend?" I blurted out. "Perhaps every moment counts."</p>
<p>"A lot." The chief eyed me in a way I did not like. "Solely because your
friend has not been seen by his servants for nearly twenty-four hours,
merely because you saw what you believe to be his diamond in some kind
of a glass compartment in his laboratory, you come here as distraught as
a man who has something terrible on his mind. Why?"</p>
<p>"I can't say." I shifted uneasily under that direct stare. "Somehow I
<i>feel</i> that something dreadful has happened to my friend."</p>
<p>"We do not go by <i>feelings</i>." The chief got to his feet. "But you have
told me enough to warrant action. I want you to guide me and a couple of
men to this house. Please wait here until I return." He left the room.</p>
<p>Sitting there awaiting his return, I tried to ponder the matter
reasonably. After all, perhaps the chief was right. Merely because the
professor had been absent for a few hours and I had seen what I thought
to be his diamond in the laboratory, I had worked myself into a perfect
fever of anxiety. I almost smiled to myself. In that businesslike office
the whole affair did seem absurd. After all the professor did not have
to answer to his servants for his actions.</p>
<p>Heavy footsteps, announcing the chief's return, caused me to rise to my
feet. A few minutes later, in company with the three officers, I was
driving again towards The Grange.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>We made the return journey in almost complete silence. Occasionally the
chief would shoot a question at me; but, the night air cooling my
fevered brain, my replies were guarded. He realized that fact, for I
felt his eyes upon me all the way. What was going on behind that broad
forehead, I wondered.</p>
<p>Then we reached The Grange. As we mounted the steps, John, his wife
herding behind him, flung wide the door. He answered the question in my
eyes with a negative shake of his head, and the words, "Nothing fresh,
sir."</p>
<p>The chief eyed him keenly, then curtly bade him lead the way to the
laboratory. John hung back, his face blanched. "I can't, sir," he
faltered. The chief turned to me, and, although I wanted to follow
John's example, although the atmosphere of the house had again filled me
with an unshakable dread, I led the way, standing back at the door to
allow the officers to enter first.</p>
<p>With calculating gaze the chief slowly took in every detail of the stone
apartment. He turned to me.</p>
<p>"What is there here to be afraid of?" I pointed hesitatingly towards the
crystalline cage. The chief and his men strode across to it.</p>
<p>"You don't know how to open this?" the chief shot at me after a brief
examination.</p>
<p>"No," I replied. "It was not here on my last visit."</p>
<p>"When was that?"</p>
<p>"Some two or three months ago", I answered. "My work occasions much
traveling on my part."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The chief and his men turned again to the cage, talking in undertones.
He turned again to me.</p>
<p>"You notice that this thing is built in sections. One of them must be
movable. Perhaps—" He paused as his eyes fell upon some wires and tubes
that trailed across the floor from underneath the cage to a switchboard
fastened to the wall.</p>
<p>"Perhaps," he repeated, "it is worked from that board." He crossed over,
stared thoughtfully at the shining levers for some seconds, and moved
one slightly. The result was astounding. All four of us stared with
unbelieving eyes as slowly, without the faintest sound, a section of one
wall slid inwards, as if guided by invisible tracks on floor and
ceiling.</p>
<p>"Guess that's enough for now." With the words the chief backed away,
almost timidly, I thought, from the switchboard, and walked to the cage.
For a moment he hesitated, but he entered, and emerged with the
sparkling object in his hand.</p>
<p>"It's the professor's," I choked, crowding close to him.</p>
<p>"How'd you know?" he shot back. "All unset stones look pretty much
alike."</p>
<p>"I just know," was all I could falter.</p>
<p>"You 'just know'." The chief sat down on a stool and regarded me
searchingly. "Mr. Thornton, when I started out with you, I thought I was
on a wild goose chase or the trail of a confession. You looked exactly
like a man who had either committed a serious crime, or was getting over
a bad drunk. I feel sure now"—he again regarded the diamond—"that your
story was not the product of an alcohol-crazed brain. Come on!" He
lurched to his feet, and grasped me by the shoulder. "Come through!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Without answering, I wrenched myself free. Over my shoulder I saw one of
the policemen at the door. In the hand of the other a revolver suddenly
appeared. Good God! I glared in bewilderment from one to another. Was I
going mad? Surely this was some awful nightmare! What had I said to make
them suspect me of having committed a revolting crime?</p>
<p>"Sit down!" The command came from the chief. Mechanically I found a
stool, and obeyed him. "Hold your stations, boys, and listen carefully,"
he ordered his men. Then he turned to me.</p>
<p>"Professor Wroxton was a wealthy man without kith or kin?"</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Do you know the nature of his will?"</p>
<p>"Yes." Chilled to the heart, I felt the circumstantial net tightening.</p>
<p>"What is its nature?"</p>
<p>"This house and an annuity to John and his wife," I explained. "The
residue of his wealth to me."</p>
<p>"Humph!" The chief stared at me piercingly. "And how has business been
with you lately?"</p>
<p>Damn the man! What right had he to put me through the third degree? I
felt my state of dazed horror slowly giving way to anger. I glanced
around. The pistol still menaced; the man at the door had not moved. It
was useless to try and evade the questions.</p>
<p>"For the past year," I replied, "business has been very poor. In fact,
the professor advanced me some money."</p>
<p>"Humph!" Again that irritating, non-committal grunt.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The chief turned in his seat and stared thoughtfully at the crystalline
cage.</p>
<p>"And you don't know what the professor was trying to invent?"</p>
<p>"Only its nature," I began.</p>
<p>"Ah! That's better. Why didn't you tell me that before?" The chief
leaned forward.</p>
<p>"Well," I explained, "the whole thing seems so absurd. When the
professor told me how his married life had been broken up, he told me
that at that time he reached the utmost depths of human suffering.
Absolute zero, he called it."</p>
<p>"Ah!"</p>
<p>"The experiments he indulged in," I continued, trying to hide the shiver
pimpling my flesh, "were to produce an actual state of absolute zero. It
is years since he told me this. I had almost forgotten it."</p>
<p>"And exactly what is an absolute zero?" The chief's eyes never left
mine.</p>
<p>"Well," I protested, "please understand that I also am a layman in these
matters. According to my friend, an absolute zero has been the dream of
scientists for ages. Once upon a time it was attained, but the secret
became lost."</p>
<p>"And exactly what is an absolute zero?"</p>
<p>Curse the man! I could have struck him down for the chilling level of
his tone. I forced myself to go on, realizing that I was damning myself
at every step.</p>
<p>"An absolute zero is a cold so intense it will destroy flesh, bone and
tissue. Remove them," my voice rose in spite of myself, "leaving
absolutely no trace."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>No trace! Something attracted my eyes. The chief had opened his hand.
The diamond there flashed and sparkled as if mocking me. I pulled myself
together, and went on.</p>
<p>"It all comes back to me now. One day I came out here and found the
professor terribly distraught. He told me that, with the aid of electric
currents he had been able to invent the absolute zero, but he could not
invent a <i>container</i>."</p>
<p>"Why?" Those eyes continued to bore into mine.</p>
<p>"Because—remember it is years since he told me this—there was
difficulty in controlling the power. Besides destroying living things,
it would destroy bricks and mortar, stone and iron. Only one substance
it could not wipe out—crystalline of diamond hardness.</p>
<p>"I know, now!" I jumped to my feet and grabbed the chief's arm. "I know
now what he meant. Fool, fool! Why did I not think of it before? This—"
I swung towards the cage—"is compensation." Almost panting in my
eagerness I went on:</p>
<p>"My friend told me that the law of compensation would atone to him for
the tragedy of his youth. Absolute zero in suffering would be atoned for
by a real state of absolute zero. Chief!" I whirled on him. "Don't you
understand? This is the perfected dream of my friend. It is the absolute
zero."</p>
<p>"Humph! Plausible but not convincing." I slumped back at the officer's
words. "That does not explain the professor's disappearance. Even if it
did, what about Mr. Lathom? And don't forget this contrivance is worked
from outside. We found the diamond inside. Of course, he might have
placed it there himself to test the machine," he concluded.</p>
<p>"Of course, that's it," I commenced. But I regretted the words when I
saw suspicion flicker again in the chief's eyes. Lamely I finished, "And
he has probably rushed off, in an ecstasy of triumph, to acquaint
professional colleagues."</p>
<p>"Without unlocking any doors or taking a car, eh?</p>
<p>"Mr. Thornton." The chief stood up and regarded me sternly. "As a
sensible man, don't you think yourself that your story is a bit thin?
The professor has disappeared. Here is a strange-looking case which you
say is an absolute zero container. Whether you know, or are just jumping
at conclusions, remains to be proved. But even if it is, do you think
that, after perfecting such a tremendous invention, the professor would
commit suicide?"</p>
<p>"On the contrary," I gasped, "my friend was a man of gentle, kindly
disposition, but strong purpose. I should think his first action on
attaining his life's ambition would be to notify me, his closest
friend."</p>
<p>"And he didn't." Every word condemned me, and roused me to retaliate.</p>
<p>"Chief, I know enough of the law to know that, before you can try a man
for murder, you must prove that murder has been committed." I grinned
savagely. "You must have the corpus delicti. Go ahead! Find my friend or
his remains, or else withdraw your charges." I grinned again, with
shocked mirthlessness.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Then I buried my head in my hands. I had called in the police to help
find the professor, and they had only blundered around and asked a lot
of stupid questions. The chief had practically accused me of
murder—something I knew he could not prove, yet feared he might.
Because I had told the chief of the locked doors and unused cars, he had
confined his investigations to the house itself.</p>
<p>He interrupted my thoughts.</p>
<p>"Mr. Thornton, I am going back to town. You will remain here with my
men. I advise you to get some sleep, as I shall not be able to carry out
certain investigations until the morning. One of my men will spend his
time searching the house and patrolling the grounds, the other one will
stay here with you."</p>
<p>He turned away, whispered some instructions to his men, and, followed by
one of them, silently left the laboratory. I started to protest, tried
to follow him; the man at the door stopped me. Silently, almost grimly,
he indicated a narrow cot at one end of the room. For a moment I
hesitated, feeling the man's eyes upon me.</p>
<p>Sleep on my dead—I felt sure he was dead—friend's cot! Sleep in that
fearful place! My whole being crawled with horror. I turned again to the
man. His features were unyielding. Perhaps this was more third degree.
Limp with weakness and weariness, I dragged my lagging feet towards the
cot.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>As long as I live I shall never forget my awakening. A uniformed figure,
the chief, shaking me by the shoulder. Two other uniformed men silently
watching. I sat up and gazed about me, dazedly. Bright sunlight streamed
through the windows. A stray gleam struck the cage. I shrank back,
trembling. And yet I had slept soundly.</p>
<p>"Mr. Thornton," the chief said, "I have serious news for you. I have
positive proof your friend is dead."</p>
<p>"Dear God!" The exclamation was wrung from me as recollection returned
with a rush. "Where? You can't have!"</p>
<p>"Here." He thrust a bundle of letters into my hands. "You acted so
strangely last night you caused me to suspect you of a serious crime.
Also, you overlooked several important points. You got back from a trip
only last night."</p>
<p>Last night! Surely it was years.</p>
<p>"You had left instructions to have your mail forwarded," the level voice
went on. "These letters were evidently one day behind you. I picked them
up at your rooms this morning. I took the liberty of opening them. Read
this one." He selected it.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>With trembling fingers I extracted from the envelope a single written
page. I recognized the handwriting as the professor's. I read with
feverish intensity, each single word burning itself into my
consciousness:</p>
<blockquote><p>Dear Thornton:</p>
<p>I am writing this in anticipation. I will see that it is mailed
when my plans are completed. Too late, dear friend, for you to
attempt, with the best intentions in the world, to frustrate them.</p>
<p>You will, perhaps, recall that many years ago, when I gave you my
full confidence, I told you that I felt sure that the law of
compensation would atone in some measure for my loss. Thornton, old
friend, I believe that, in more ways than one, my hour has arrived.
Two days ago I completed the absolute zero. But even better!</p>
<p>A man called here to-day. Although he did not recognize me, I saw
through the veneer of added years with ease. Fate, call it what you
will, my visitor is the man who wrecked my happiness.</p>
<p>Under pretext I shall detain him. I shall induce him to enter the
crystalline cage. I have already arranged a dual control which the
power will destroy when I apply it from <i>the inside of the cage</i>.</p>
<p>Please destroy the cage. It will have brought compensation to me
before you read this.</p>
<p>Good-by, dear friend!</p>
<p style="margin-left: 75%;">Wroxton.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>"I apologize, Mr. Thornton." The chief offered a hand which I clutched
in mingled sorrow and relief. The world had lost a genius. I had lost a
dear friend. But he was right. It was compensation.</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="Tanks" id="Tanks"></SPAN>Tanks</h2>
<h2><i>By Murray Leinster</i></h2>
<blockquote>
<p>... The deciding battle of the War of 1932 was the first in which the
use of infantry was practically discontinued ...</p>
<p style="margin-left: 40%;">—History of the U.S., 1920-1945 (Gregg-Harley).</p>
</blockquote>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus6.jpg" alt=""/></div>
<h3><i>Row after row of the monsters roared by, going greedily with hungry guns into battle.</i></h3>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="sidenote">Two miles of American front had gone dead. And on two lone
infantrymen, lost in the menace of the fog-gas and the tanks, depended
the outcome of the war of 1932.</div>
<p>The persistent, oily smell of fog-gas was everywhere, even in the little
pill-box. Outside, all the world was blotted out by the thick gray mist
that went rolling slowly across country with the breeze. The noises that
came through it were curiously muted—fog-gas mutes all noises
somewhat—but somewhere to the right artillery was pounding something
with H E shell, and there were those little spitting under-current
explosions that told of tanks in action. To the right there was a
distant rolling of machine-gun fire. In between was an utter, solemn
silence.</p>
<p>Sergeant Coffee, disreputable to look at and disrespectful of mien, was
sprawling over one of the gunners' seats and talking into a field
telephone while mud dripped from him. Corporal Wallis, equally muddy and
still more disreputable, was painstakingly manufacturing one complete
cigarette from the pinched-out butts of four others. Both were
rifle-infantry. Neither had any right or reason to be occupying a
definitely machine-gun-section post. The fact that the machine-gun crew
was all dead did not seem to make much difference to sector H.Q. at the
other end of the telephone wire, judging from the questions that were
being asked.</p>
<p>"I tell you," drawled Sergeant Coffee, "they're dead.... Yeah, all dead.
Just as dead as when I told you the firs' time, maybe even deader....
Gas, o'course. I don't know what kind.... Yeh. They got their masks
on."</p>
<p>He waited, looking speculatively at the cigarette Corporal Wallis had in
manufacture. It began to look imposing. Corporal Wallis regarded it
affectionately. Sergeant Coffee put his hand over the mouthpiece, and
looked intently at his companion.</p>
<p>"Gimme a drag o' that, Pete," he suggested. "I'll slip y' some butts in
a minute."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Corporal Wallis nodded, and proceeded to light the cigarette with
infinite artistry. He puffed delicately upon it, inhaled it with the
care a man learns when he has just so much tobacco and never expects to
get any more, and reluctantly handed it to Sergeant Coffee.</p>
<p>Sergeant Coffee emptied his lungs in a sigh of anticipation. He put the
cigarette to his lips. It burned brightly as he drew upon it. Its tip
became brighter and brighter until it was white-hot, and the paper
crackled as the line of fire crept up the tube.</p>
<p>"Hey!" said Corporal Wallis in alarm.</p>
<p>Sergeant Coffee waved him aside, and his chest expanded to the fullest
limit of his blouse. When his lungs could hold no more he ceased to
draw, grandly returned about one-fourth of the cigarette to Corporal
Wallis, and blew out a cloud of smoke in small driblets until he had to
gasp for breath.</p>
<p>"When y' ain't got much time," said Sergeant Coffee amiably, "that's a
quick smoke."</p>
<p>Corporal Wallis regarded the ruins of his cigarette with a woeful air.</p>
<p>"Hell!" said Corporal Wallis gloomily. But he smoked what was left.</p>
<p>"Yeah," said Sergeant Coffee suddenly, into the field telephone, "I'm
still here, an' they're still dead.... Listen, Mr. Officer, I got me a
black eye an' numerous contusions. Also my gas-mask is busted. I called
y'up to do y' a favor. I aim to head for distant parts.... Hell's bells!
Ain't there anybody else in the army—" He stopped, and resentment died
out in wide-eyed amazement. "Yeh.... Yeh.... Yeh.... I gotcha, Loot.
A'right, I'll see what I c'n do. Yeh.... Wish y'd see my insurance gets
paid. Yeh."</p>
<p>He hung up, gloomily, and turned to Corporal Wallis.</p>
<p>"We' got to be heroes," he announced bitterly. "Sit out here in th'
stinkin' fog an' wait for a tank t' come along an' wipe us out. We' the
only listenin' post in two miles of front. That new gas o' theirs wiped
out all the rest without report."</p>
<p>He surveyed the crumpled figures, which had been the original occupants
of the pill-box. They wore the same uniform as himself and when he took
the gas-mask off of one of them the man's face was strangely peaceful.</p>
<p>"Hell of a war," said Sergeant Coffee bitterly. "Here our gang gets
wiped out by a helicopter. I ain't seen sunlight in a week, an' I got
just four butts left. Lucky I started savin' 'em." He rummaged shrewdly.
"This guy's got half a sack o' makin's. Say, that was Loot'n't Madison
on the line, then. Transferred from our gang a coupla months back. They
cut him in the line to listen in on me an' make sure I was who I said I
was. He recognized my voice."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Corporal Wallis, after smoking to the last and ultimate puff, pinched
out his cigarette and put the fragments of a butt back in his pocket.</p>
<p>"What we got to do?" he asked, watching as Sergeant Coffee divided the
treasure-trove into two scrupulously exact portions.</p>
<p>"Nothin'," said Coffee bitterly, "except find out how this gang got
wiped out, an' a few little things like that. Half th' front line is in
th' air, the planes can't see anything, o'course, an' nobody dares cut
th' fog-gas to look. He didn't say much, but he said for Gawd's sake
find out somethin'."</p>
<p>Corporal Wallis gloated over one-fourth of a sack of tobacco and stowed
it away.</p>
<p>"Th' infantry always gets th' dirty end of the stick," he said gloomily.
"I'm goin' to roll me a whole one, pre-war, an' smoke it, presently."</p>
<p>"Hell yes," said Coffee. He examined his gas-mask from force of habit
before stepping out into the fog once more, then contemptuously threw it
aside. "Gas-masks, hell! Ain't worth havin'. Come on."</p>
<p>Corporal Wallis followed as he emerged from the little round cone of
the pill-box.</p>
<p>The gray mist that was fog-gas hung over everything. There was a
definite breeze blowing, but the mist was so dense that it did not seem
to move. It was far enough from the fog-flares for the last least trace
of striation to have vanished. Fifteen miles to the north the fog-flares
were placed, ranged by hundreds and by thousands, burning one after
another as the fog service set them off, and sending out their
incredible masses of thick gray vapor in long threads that spread out
before the wind, coalesced, and made a smoke-screen to which the puny
efforts of the last war—the war that was to make the world safe for
democracy—were as nothing.</p>
<p>Here, fifteen miles down wind from the flares, it was possible to see
clearly in a circle approximately five feet in diameter. At the edge of
that circle outlines began to blur. At ten feet all shapes were the
faintest of bulks, the dimmest of outlines. At fifteen feet all was
invisible, hidden behind a screen of mist.</p>
<p>"Cast around," said Coffee gloomily. "Maybe we'll find a shell, or
tracks of a tank or somethin' that chucked the gas here."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>It was rather ludicrous to go searching for anything in that mass of
vapor. At three yards distance they could make each other out as dim
outlines, no more. But it did not even occur to them to deplore the
mist. The war which had already been christened, by the politicians at
home, the last war, was always fought in a mist. Infantry could not
stand against tanks, tanks could not live under aircraft-directed
artillery fire—not when forty guns fired salvos for the aircraft to
spot—and neither artillery nor aircraft could take any advantage of a
victory which either, under special conditions, might win. The general
staffs of both the United States and the prominent nation—let us say
the Yellow Empire—at war with it had come to a single conclusion.
Tanks or infantry were needed for the use of victories. Infantry could
be destroyed by tanks. But tanks could be hidden from aerial spotters by
smoke-screens.</p>
<p>The result was fog-gas, which was being used by both sides in the most
modern fashion when, their own unit wiped out and themselves wandering
aimlessly in the general direction of the American rear, Sergeant Coffee
and Corporal Wallis stumbled upon an American pill-box with its small
garrison lying dead. For forty miles in one direction and perhaps thirty
in the other, the vapor lay upon the earth. It was being blown by the
wind, of course, but it was sufficiently heavier than air to cling to
the ground level, and the industries of two nations were straining every
nerve to supply the demands of their respective armies for its material.</p>
<p>The fog-bank was nowhere less than a hundred feet thick—a cloud of
impalpable particles impenetrable to any eye or any camera, however
shrewdly filtered. And under that mattress of pale opacity the tanks
crawled heavily. They lurched and rumbled upon their deadly errands,
uncouth and barbarous, listening for each other by a myriad of devices,
locked in desperate, short-range conflict when they came upon each
other, and emitting clouds of deadly vapor, against which gas-masks were
no protection, when they came upon opposing infantry.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The infantrymen, though, were few. Their principal purpose was the
reporting of the approach or passage of tanks, and trenches were of no
service to them. They occupied unarmed little listening-posts with field
telephones, small wireless or ground buzzer sets for reporting the enemy
before he overwhelmed them. They held small pill-boxes, fitted with
anti-tank guns which sometimes—if rarely—managed to get home a shell,
aimed largely by sound, before the tank rolled over gun and gunners
alike.</p>
<p>And now Sergeant Coffee and Corporal Wallis groped about in that
blinding mist. There had been two systems of listening-posts hidden in
it, each of admittedly little fighting value, but each one deep and
composed of an infinity of little pin-point posts where two or three men
were stationed. The American posts, by their reports, had assured the
command that all enemy tanks were on the other side of a certain
definite line. Their own tanks, receiving recognition signals, passed
and repassed among them, prowling in quest of invaders. The enemy tanks
crawled upon the same grisly patrol on their own side.</p>
<p>But two miles of the American front had suddenly gone silent. A hundred
telephones had ceased to make reports along the line nearest the enemy.
As Coffee and Wallis stumbled about the little pill-box, looking for
some inkling of the way in which the original occupants of the small
strong-point had been wiped out, the second line of observation-posts
began to go dead.</p>
<p>Now one, now another abruptly ceased to communicate. Half a dozen were
in actual conversation with their sector headquarters, and broke off
between words. The wires remained intact. But in fifteen nerve-racking
minutes a second hundred posts ceased to make reports and ceased to
answer the inquiry-signal. G.H.Q. was demanding explanations in crisp
accents that told the matter was being taken very seriously indeed. And
then, as the officer in command of the second-line sector headquarters
was explaining frenziedly that he was doing all any man could do, he
stopped short between two words and thereafter he, also, ceased to
communicate.</p>
<p>Front-line sector headquarters seemed inexplicably to have escaped
whatever fate had overtaken all its posts, but it could only report that
they had apparently gone out of existence without warning. American
tanks, prowling in the area that had gone dead, announced that no enemy
tanks had been seen. G-81, stumbling on a pill-box no more than ten
minutes after it had gone silent, offered to investigate. A member of
her crew, in a gas-mask, stepped out of the port doorway. Immediately
thereafter G-81's wireless reports stopped coming in.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The situation was clearly shown in the huge tank that had been built to
serve as G.H.Q. That tank was seventy feet long, and lay hidden in the
mist with a brood of other, smaller tanks clustered near it, from each
of which a cable ran to the telephones and instruments of the greater
monster. Farther off in the fog, of course, were other tanks, hundreds
of them, fighting machines all, silent and motionless now, but
infinitely ready to protect the brain of the army.</p>
<p>The G.H.Q. maneuver-board showed the battle as no single observer could
ever have seen it. A map lay spread out on a monster board, under a
pitiless white light. It was a map of the whole battlefield. Tiny sparks
crawled here and there under the map, and there were hundreds of little
pins with different-colored heads to mark the position of this thing and
that. The crawling sparks were the reported positions of American tanks,
made visible as positions of moving trains had been made visible for
years on the electric charts of railroads in dispatcher's offices. Where
the tiny bulbs glowed under the map, there a tank crawled under the fog.
As the tank moved, the first bulb went out and another flashed into
light.</p>
<p>The general watched broodingly as the crawling sparks moved from this
place to that place, as varicolored lights flashed up and vanished, as a
steady hand reached down to shift tiny pins and place new ones. The
general moved rarely, and spoke hardly at all. His whole air was that of
a man absorbed in a game of chess—a game on which the fate of a nation
depended.</p>
<p>He was thus absorbed. The great board, illuminated from above by the
glaring bulb, and speckled with little white sparks from below by the
tiny bulbs beneath, showed the situation clearly at every instant. The
crawling white sparks were his own tanks, each in its present position.
Flashing blue sparks noted the last report of enemy tanks. Two staff
officers stood behind the general, and each spoke from time to time into
a strapped-on telephone transmitter. They were giving routine orders,
heading the nearest American patrol-tanks toward the location of the
latest reported enemies.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The general reached out his hand suddenly and marked off an area with
his fingers. They were long fingers, and slender ones: an artist's
fingers.</p>
<p>"Our outposts are dead in this space," he observed meditatively. The use
of the word "outposts" dated him many years back as a soldier, back to
the old days of open warfare, which had only now come about again.
"Penetration of two miles—"</p>
<p>"Tank, sir," said the man of the steady fingers, putting a black pin in
position within that area, "let a man out in a gas-mask to examine a
pill-box. The tank does not report or reply, sir."</p>
<p>"Gas," said the general, noting the spot. "Their new gas, of course. It
must go through masks or sag-paste, or both."</p>
<p>He looked up to one of a row of officers seated opposite him, each man
with headphones strapped to his ears and a transmitter before his lips,
and each man with a map-pad on his knees, on which from time to time he
made notations and shifted pins absorbedly.</p>
<p>"Captain Harvey," said the general, "you are sure that dead spot has not
been bombarded with gas-shells?"</p>
<p>"Yes, General. There has been no artillery fire heavy enough to put more
than a fraction of those posts out of action, and all that fire, sir,
has been accounted for elsewhere."</p>
<p>The officer looked up, saw the general's eyes shift, and bent to his map
again, on which he was marking areas from which spotting aircraft
reported flashes as of heavy guns beneath the mist.</p>
<p>"Their aircraft have not been dropping bombs, positively?"</p>
<p>A second officer glanced up from his own map.</p>
<p>"Our planes cover all that space, sir, and have for some time."</p>
<p>"They either have a noiseless tank," observed the general meditatively,
"or...."</p>
<p>The steady fingers placed a red pin at a certain spot.</p>
<p>"One observation-post, sir, has reopened communication. Two infantrymen,
separated from their command, came upon it and found the machine-gun
crew dead, with gas-masks adjusted. No tanks or tracks. They are
identified, sir, and are now looking for tank tracks or shells."</p>
<p>The general nodded emotionlessly.</p>
<p>"Let me know immediately."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>He fell back to the ceaseless study of the board with its crawling
sparks and sudden flashes of light. Over at the left, there were four
white sparks crawling toward a spot where a blue flash had showed a
little while since. A red light glowed suddenly where one of the white
sparks crawled. One of the two officers behind the general spoke
crisply. Instantly, it seemed, the other three white sparks changed
their direction of movement. They swung toward the red flash—the point
where a wireless from the tank represented by the first white flash had
reported, contact with the enemy.</p>
<p>"Enemy tank destroyed here, sir," said the voice above the steady
fingers.</p>
<p>"Wiped out three of our observation posts," murmured the general, "His
side knows it. That's an opportunity. Have those posts reoccupied."</p>
<p>"Orders given, sir," said a staff officer from behind. "No reports as
yet."</p>
<p>The general's eyes went back to the space two miles wide and two miles
deep in which there was only a single observation-post functioning, and
that in charge of two strayed infantrymen. The battle in the fog was in
a formative stage, now, and the general himself had to watch the whole,
because it was by small and trivial indications that the enemy's plans
would be disclosed. The dead area was no triviality, however. Half a
dozen tanks were crawling through it, reporting monotonously that no
sign of the enemy could be found. One of the little sparks representing
those tanks abruptly went out.</p>
<p>"Tank here, sir, no longer reports."</p>
<p>The general watched with lack-luster eyes, his mind withdrawn in
thought.</p>
<p>"Send four helicopters," he said slowly, "to sweep that space. We'll see
what the enemy does."</p>
<p>One of the seated officers opposite him spoke swiftly. Far away a
roaring set up and was stilled. The helicopters were taking off.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>They would rush across the blanket of fog, their vertical propellers
sending blasts of air straight downward. For most of their sweep they
would keep a good height, but above the questionable ground they would
swoop down to barely above the fog-blanket. There their monstrous screws
would blow holes in the fog until the ground below was visible. If any
tanks crawled there, in the spaces the helicopters swept clear, they
would be visible at once and would be shelled by batteries miles away,
batteries invisible under the artificial cloud-bank.</p>
<p>No other noises came through the walls of the monster tank. There was a
faint, monotonous murmur of the electric generator. There were the
quiet, crisp orders of the officers behind the general, giving the
routine commands that kept the fighting a stalemate.</p>
<p>The aircraft officer lifted his head, pressing his headphones tightly
against his ears, as if to hear mores clearly.</p>
<p>"The enemy, sir, has sent sixty fighting machines to attack our
helicopters. We sent forty single-seaters as escort."</p>
<p>"Let them fight enough," said the general absently, "to cause the enemy
to think us desperate for information. Then draw them off."</p>
<p>There was silence again. The steady fingers put pins here and there. An
enemy tank destroyed here. An American tank encountered an enemy and
ceased to report further. The enemy sent four helicopters in a wide
sweep behind the American lines, escorted by fifty fighting planes. They
uncovered a squadron of four tanks, which scattered like insects
disturbed by the overturning of a stone. Instantly after their
disclosure a hundred and fifty guns, four miles away, were pouring
shells about the place where they had been seen. Two of the tanks ceased
to report.</p>
<p>The general's attention was called to a telephone instrument with its
call-light glowing.</p>
<p>"Ah," said the general absently. "They want publicity matter."</p>
<p>The telephone was connected to the rear, and from there to the Capital.
A much-worried cabinet waited for news, and arrangements were made and
had been used, to broadcast suitably arranged reports from the front,
the voice of the commander-in-chief in the field going to every
workshop, every gathering-place, and even being bellowed by
loud-speakers in the city streets.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The general took the phone. The President of the United States was at
the other end of the wire, this time.</p>
<p>"General?"</p>
<p>"Still in a preliminary stage, sir," said the general, without haste.
"The enemy is preparing a break-through effort, possibly aimed at our
machine-shops and supplies. Of course, if he gets them we will have to
retreat. An hour ago he paralyzed our radios, not being aware, I
suppose, of our tuned earth-induction wireless sets. I daresay he is
puzzled that our communications have not fallen to pieces."</p>
<p>"But what are our chances?" The voice of the President was steady, but
it was strained.</p>
<p>"His tanks outnumber ours two to one, of course, sir," said the general
calmly. "Unless we can divide his fleet and destroy a part of it, of
course we will be crushed in a general combat. But we are naturally
trying to make sure that any such action will take place within
point-blank range of our artillery, which may help a little. We will cut
the fog to secure that help, risking everything, if a general engagement
occurs."</p>
<p>There was silence.</p>
<p>The President's voice, when it came, was more strained still.</p>
<p>"Will you speak to the public, General?"</p>
<p>"Three sentences. I have no time for more."</p>
<p>There were little clickings on the line, while the general's eyes
returned to the board that was the battlefield in miniature. He
indicated a spot with his finger.</p>
<p>"Concentrate our reserve-tanks here," he said meditatively. "Our
fighting aircraft here. At once."</p>
<p>The two spots were at nearly opposite ends of the battle field. The
chief of staff, checking the general's judgment with the alert suspicion
that was the latest addition to his duties, protested sharply.</p>
<p>"But sir, our tanks will have no protection against helicopters!"</p>
<p>"I am quite aware of it," said the general mildly.</p>
<p>He turned to the transmitter. A thin voice had just announced at the
other end of the wire, "The commander-in-chief of the army in the field
will make a statement."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The general spoke unhurriedly.</p>
<p>"We are in contact with the enemy, have been for some hours. We have
lost forty tanks and the enemy, we think, sixty or more. No general
engagement has yet taken place, but we think decisive action on the
enemy's part will be attempted within two hours. The tanks in the field
need now, as always, ammunition, spare tanks, and the special supplies
for modern warfare. In particular, we require ever-increasing quantities
of fog-gas. I appeal to your patriotism for reinforcements of material
and men."</p>
<p>He hung up the receiver and returned to his survey of the board.</p>
<p>"Those three listening-posts," he said abruptly, indicating a place near
where an enemy tank had been destroyed. "Have they been reoccupied?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir. Just reported. The tank they reported rolled over them,
destroying the placement. They are digging in."</p>
<p>"Tell me," said the general, "when they cease to report again. They
will."</p>
<p>He watched the board again and without lifting his eyes from it, spoke
again.</p>
<p>"That listening-post in the dead sector, with the two strayed
infantrymen in it. Was it reported?"</p>
<p>"Not yet, sir."</p>
<p>"Tell me immediately it does."</p>
<p>The general leaned back in his chair and deliberately relaxed. He
lighted a cigar and puffed at it, his hands quite steady. Other
officers, scenting the smoke, glanced up enviously. But the general was
the only man who might smoke. The enemy's gases, like the American ones,
could go through any gas-mask if in sufficient concentration. The tanks
were sealed like so many submarines, and opened their interiors to the
outer air only after that air had been thoroughly tested and proven
safe. Only the general might use up more than a man's allowance for
breathing.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The general gazed about him, letting his mind rest from its intense
strain against the greater strain that would come on it in a few
minutes. He looked at a tall blond man who was surveying the board
intently, moving away, and returning again, his forehead creased in
thought.</p>
<p>The general smiled quizzically. That man was the officer appointed to I.
I. duty—interpretative intelligence—chosen from a thousand officers
because the most exhaustive psychological tests had proven that his
brain worked as nearly as possible like that of the enemy commander. His
task was to take the place of the enemy commander, to reconstruct from
the enemy movements reported and the enemy movements known as nearly as
possible the enemy plans.</p>
<p>"Well, Harlin," said the general, "Where will he strike?"</p>
<p>"He's tricky, sir," said Harlin. "That gap in our listening-posts looks,
of course, like preparation for a massing of his tanks inside our lines.
And it would be logical that he fought off our helicopters to keep them
from discovering his tanks massing in that area."</p>
<p>The general nodded.</p>
<p>"Quite true," he admitted. "Quite true."</p>
<p>"But," said Harlin eagerly. "He'd know we could figure that out. And he
may have wiped out listening posts to make us think he was planning just
so. He may have fought off our helicopters, not to keep them from
discovering his tanks in there, but to keep them from discovering that
there were no tanks in there!"</p>
<p>"My own idea exactly," said the general meditatively. "But again, it
looks so much like a feint that it may be a serious blow. I dare not
risk assuming it to be a feint only."</p>
<p>He turned back to the board.</p>
<p>"Have those two strayed infantrymen reported yet?" he asked sharply.</p>
<p>"Not yet, sir."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The general drummed on the table. There were four red flashes glowing at
different points of the board—four points where American tanks or
groups of tanks were locked in conflict with the enemy. Somewhere off
in the enveloping fog that made all the world a gray chaos, lumbering,
crawling monsters rammed and battered at each other at infinitely short
range. They fought blindly, their guns swinging menacingly and belching
lurid flames into the semi-darkness, while from all about them dropped
the liquids that meant death to any man who breathed their vapor. Those
gases penetrated any gas-mask, and would even strike through the
sag-pastes that had made the vesicatory gases of 1918 futile.</p>
<p>With tanks by thousands hidden in the fog, four small combats were kept
up, four only. Battles fought with tanks as the main arm are necessarily
battles of movement, more nearly akin to cavalry battles than any other
unless it be fleet actions. When the main bodies come into contact, the
issue is decided quickly. There can be no long drawn-out stalemates such
as infantry trenches produced in years past. The fighting that had
taken place so far, both under the fog and aloft in the air, was
outpost skirmishing only. When the main body of the enemy came into
action it would be like a whirlwind, and the battle would be won or lost
in a matter of minutes only.</p>
<p>The general paid no attention to those four conflicts, or their possible
meaning.</p>
<p>"I want to hear from those two strayed infantrymen," he said quietly, "I
must base my orders on what they report. The whole battle, I believe,
hinges on what they have to say."</p>
<p>He fell silent, watching the board without the tense preoccupation he
had shown before. He knew the moves he had to make in any of three
eventualities. He watched the board to make sure he would not have to
make those moves before he was ready. His whole air was that of waiting:
the commander-in-chief of the army of the United States, waiting to hear
what he would be told by two strayed infantrymen, lost in the fog that
covered a battlefield.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The fog was neither more dense nor any lighter where Corporal Wallis
paused to roll his pre-war cigarette. The tobacco came from the gassed
machine-gunner in the pill-box a few yards off. Sergeant Coffee, three
yards distant, was a blurred figure. Corporal Wallis put his cigarette
into his mouth, struck his match, and puffed delicately.</p>
<p>"Ah!" said Corporal Wallis, and cheered considerably. He thought he saw
Sergeant Coffee moving toward him and ungenerously hid his cigarette's
glow.</p>
<p>Overhead, a machine-gun suddenly burst into a rattling roar, the sound
sweeping above them with incredible speed. Another gun answered it.
Abruptly, the whole sky above them was an inferno of such tearing noises
and immediately after they began a multitudinous bellowing set up.
Airplanes on patrol ordinarily kept their engines muffled, in hopes of
locating a tank below them by its noise. But in actual fighting there
was too much power to be gained by cutting out the muffler for any minor
motive to take effect. A hundred aircraft above the heads of the two
strayed infantrymen were fighting madly about five helicopters. Two
hundred yards away, one fell to the earth with a crash, and immediately
afterward there was a hollow boom. For an instant even the mist was
tinged with yellow from the exploded gasoline tank. But the roaring
above continued—not mounting, as in a battle between opposing patrols
of fighting planes, when each side finds height a decisive advantage,
but keeping nearly to the same level, little above the bank of cloud.</p>
<p>Something came down, roaring, and struck the earth no more than fifty
yards away. The impact was terrific, but after it there was dead silence
while the thunder above kept on.</p>
<p>Sergeant Coffee came leaping to Corporal Wallis' side.</p>
<p>"Helicopters!" he barked. "Huntin' tanks an' pill-boxes! Lay down!"</p>
<p>He flung himself down to the earth.</p>
<p>Wind beat on them suddenly, then an outrageous blast of icy air from
above. For an instant the sky lightened. They saw a hole in the mist,
saw the little pill-box clearly, saw a huge framework of supporting
screws sweeping swiftly overhead with figures in it watching the ground
through wind-angle glasses, and machine-gunners firing madly at dancing
things in the air. Then it was gone.</p>
<p>"One o' ours," shouted Coffee in Wallis' ear. "They' tryin' to find th'
Yellows' tanks!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The center of the roaring seemed to shift, perhaps to the north. Then a
roaring drowned out all the other roarings. This one was lower down and
approaching in a rush. Something swooped from the south, a dark blotch
in the lighter mist above. It was an airplane flying in the mist, a
plane that had dived into the fog as into oblivion. It appeared, was
gone—and there was a terrific crash. A shattering roar drowned out even
the droning tumult of a hundred aircraft engines. A sheet of flame
flashed up, and a thunderous detonation.</p>
<p>"Hit a tree," panted Coffee, scrambling to his feet again. "Suicide
club, aimin' for our helicopter."</p>
<p>Corporal Wallis was pointing, his lips drawn back in a snarl.</p>
<p>"Shut up!" he whispered. "I saw a shadow against that flash! Yeller
infantryman! Le's get 'im!"</p>
<p>"Y'crazy," said Sergeant Coffee, but he strained his eyes and more
especially his ears.</p>
<p>It was Coffee who clutched Corporal Wallis' wrist and pointed. Wallis
could see nothing, but he followed as Coffee moved silently through the
gray mist. Presently he too, straining his eyes, saw an indistinct
movement.</p>
<p>The roaring of motors died away suddenly. The fighting had stopped, a
long way off, apparently because the helicopters had been withdrawn.
Except for the booming of artillery a very long distance away, firing
unseen at an unseen target, there was no noise at all.</p>
<p>"Aimin' for our pill-box," whispered Coffee.</p>
<p>They saw the dim shape, moving noiselessly, halt. The dim figure seemed
to be casting about for something. It went down on hands and knees and
crawled forward. The two infantrymen crept after it. It stopped, and
turned around. The two dodged to one side in haste. The enemy
infantryman crawled off in another direction, the two Americans
following him as closely as they dared.</p>
<p>He halted once more, a dim and grotesque figure in the fog. They saw him
fumbling in his belt. He threw something, suddenly. There was a little
tap as of a fountain pen dropped upon concrete. Then a hissing sound.
That was all, but the enemy infantryman waited, as if listening....</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The two Americans fell upon him as one individual. They bore him to the
earth and Coffee dragged at his gas-mask, good tactics in a battle where
every man carries gas-grenades. He gasped and fought desperately, in a
seeming frenzy of terror.</p>
<p>They squatted over him, finally, having taken away his automatics, and
Coffee worked painstakingly to get off his gas-mask while Wallis went
poking about in quest of tobacco.</p>
<p>"Dawggone!" said Coffee. "This mask is intricate."</p>
<p>"He ain't got any pockets," mourned Wallis.</p>
<p>Then they examined him more closely.</p>
<p>"It's a whole suit," explained Coffee. "H-m.... He don't have to bother
with sag-paste. He's got him on a land diving-suit."</p>
<p>"S-s-say," gasped the prisoner, his language utterly colloquial in spite
of the beady eyes and coarse black hair that marked him racially as of
the enemy, "say, don't take off my mask! Don't take off my mask!"</p>
<p>"He talks an' everything," observed Coffee in mild amazement. He
inspected the mask again and painstakingly smashed the goggles. "Now,
big boy, you take your chance with th' rest of us. What' you doin'
around here?"</p>
<p>The prisoner set his teeth, though deathly pale, and did not reply.</p>
<p>"H'm-m...." said Coffee meditatively. "Let's take him in the pill-box
an' let Loot'n't Madison tell us what to do with him."</p>
<p>They picked him up.</p>
<p>"No! No! For Gawd's sake, no!" cried the prisoner shrilly. "I just
gassed it!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The two halted. Coffee scratched his nose.</p>
<p>"Reckon he's lyin', Pete?" he asked.</p>
<p>Corporal Wallis shrugged gloomily.</p>
<p>"He ain't got any tobacco," he said morosely. "Let's chuck him in first
an' see."</p>
<p>The prisoner wriggled until Coffee put his own automatic in the small of
his back.</p>
<p>"How long does that gas last?" he asked, frowning. "Loot'n't Madison
wants us to report. There's some fellers in there, all gassed up, but we
were in there a while back an' it didn't hurt us. How long does it
last?"</p>
<p>"Fur-fifteen minutes, maybe twenty," chattered the prisoner. "Don't put
me in there!"</p>
<p>Coffee scratched his nose again and looked at his wrist-watch.</p>
<p>"A'right," he conceded, "we give you twenty minutes. Then we chuck you
down inside. That is, if you act real agreeable until then. Got anything
to smoke?"</p>
<p>The prisoner agonizedly opened a zipper slip in his costume and brought
out tobacco, even tailor-made cigarettes. Coffee pounced on them one
second before Wallis. Then he divided them with absorbed and scrupulous
fairness.</p>
<p>"Right," said Sergeant Coffee comfortably. He lighted up. "Say, you, if
y' want to smoke, here's one o' your pills. Let's see the gas stuff.
How' y' use it?"</p>
<p>Wallis had stripped off a heavy belt about the prisoner's waist and it
was trailing over his arm. He inspected it now. There were twenty or
thirty little sticks in it, each one barely larger than a lead pencil,
of dirty gray color, and each one securely nested in a tube of
flannel-lined papier-mache.</p>
<p>"These things?" asked Wallis contentedly. He was inhaling deeply with
that luxurious enjoyment a tailor-made cigarette can give a man who had
been remaking butts into smokes for days past.</p>
<p>"Don't touch 'em," warned the prisoner nervously. "You broke my goggles.
You throw 'em, and they light and catch fire, and that scatters the
gas."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Coffee touched the prisoner, indicating the ground, and sat down,
comfortably smoking one of the prisoner's cigarettes. By his air, he
began to approve of his captive.</p>
<p>"Say, you," he said curiously, "you talk English pretty good. How'd you
learn it?"</p>
<p>"I was a waiter," the prisoner explained. "New York. Corner Forty-eighth
and Sixth."</p>
<p>"My Gawd!" said Coffee. "Me, I used to be a movie operator along there.
Forty-ninth. Projection room stuff, you know. Say, you know Heine's
place?"</p>
<p>"Sure," said the prisoner. "I used to buy Scotch from that blond feller
in the back room. With a benzine label for a prescription?"</p>
<p>Coffee lay back and slapped his knee.</p>
<p>"Ain't it a small world?" he demanded. "Pete, here, he ain't never been
in any town bigger than Chicago. Ever in Chicago?"</p>
<p>"Hell," said Wallis, morose yet comfortable with a tailor-made
cigarette. "If you guys want to start a extra war, go to knockin'
Chicago. That's all."</p>
<p>Coffee looked at his wrist-watch again.</p>
<p>"Got ten minutes yet," he observed. "Say, you must know Pete Hanfry—"</p>
<p>"Sure I know him," said the enemy prisoner, scornfully. "I waited on
him. One day, just before us reserves were called back home...."</p>
<p>In the monster tank that was headquarters the general tapped his fingers
on his knees. The pale white light flickered a little as it shone on the
board where the bright sparks crawled. White sparks were American tanks.
Blue flashes were for enemy tanks sighted and reported, usually in the
three-second interval between their identification and the annihilation
of the observation-post that had reported them. Red glows showed
encounters between American and enemy tanks. There were a dozen red
glows visible, with from one to a dozen white sparks hovering about
them. It seemed as if the whole front line were about to burst into a
glare of red, were about to become one long lane of conflicts in
impenetrable obscurity, where metal monsters roared and rumbled and
clanked one against the other, bellowing and belching flame and ramming
each other savagely, while from them dripped the liquids that made their
breath mean death. There were nightmarish conflicts in progress under
the blanket of fog, unparalleled save perhaps in the undersea battles
between submarines in the previous European war.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The chief of staff looked up; his face drawn.</p>
<p>"General," he said harshly, "it looks like a frontal attack all along
our line."</p>
<p>The general's cigar had gone out. He was pale, but calm with an iron
composure.</p>
<p>"Yes," he conceded. "But you forget that blank spot in our line. We do
not know what is happening there."</p>
<p>"I am not forgetting it. But the enemy outnumbers us two to one—"</p>
<p>"I am waiting," said the general, "to hear from those two infantrymen
who reported some time ago from a listen-post in the dead area."</p>
<p>The chief of staff pointed to the outline formed by the red glows where
tanks were battling.</p>
<p>"Those fights are keeping up too long!" he said sharply. "General, don't
you see, they're driving back our line, but they aren't driving it back
as fast as if they were throwing their whole weight on it! If they were
making a frontal attack there, they'd wipe out the tanks we have facing
them; they'd roll right over them! That's a feint! They're concentrating
in the dead space—"</p>
<p>"I am waiting," said the general softly, "to hear from those two
infantrymen." He looked at the board again and said quietly, "Have the
call-signal sent them. They may answer."</p>
<p>He struck a match to relight his dead cigar. His fingers barely quivered
as they held the match. It might have been excitement—but it might have
been foreboding, too.</p>
<p>"By the way," he said, holding the match clear, "have our machine-shops
and supply-tanks ready to move. Every plane is, of course, ready to take
the air on signal. But get the aircraft ground personnel in their
traveling tanks immediately."</p>
<p>Voices began to murmur orders as the general puffed. He watched the
board steadily.</p>
<p>"Let me know if anything is heard from these infantrymen...."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>There was a definite air of strain within the tank that was
headquarters. It was a sort of tensity that seemed to emanate from the
general himself.</p>
<p>Where Coffee and Wallis and the prisoner squatted on the ground,
however, there was no sign of strain at all. There was a steady gabble
of voices.</p>
<p>"What kinda rations they give you?" asked Coffee interestedly.</p>
<p>The enemy prisoner listed them, with profane side-comments.</p>
<p>"Hell," said Wallis gloomily. "Y'ought to see what we get! Las' week
they fed us worse'n dogs. An' th' canteen stuff—"</p>
<p>"Your tank men, they get treated fancy?" asked the prisoner.</p>
<p>Coffee made a reply consisting almost exclusively of high powered
expletives.</p>
<p>"—and the infantry gets it in the neck every time," he finished
savagely. "We do the work—"</p>
<p>Guns began to boom, far away. Wallis cocked his ears.</p>
<p>"Tanks gettin' together," he judged, gloomily. "If they'd all blow each
other to hell an' let us infantry fight this battle—"</p>
<p>"Damn the tanks!" said the enemy prisoner viciously. "Look here, you
fellers. Look at me. They sent a battalion of us out, in two waves. We
hike along by compass through the fog, supposed to be five paces apart.
We come on a pill-box or listenin' post, we gas it an' go on. We try not
to make a noise. We try not to get seen before we use our gas. We go on,
deep in your lines as we can. We hear one of your tanks, we dodge it if
we can, so we don't get seen at all. O'course we give it a dose of gas
in passing, just in case. But we don't get any orders about how far to
go or how to come back. We ask for recognition signals for our own
tanks, an' they grin an' say we won't see none of our tanks till the
battle's over. They say 'Re-form an' march back when the fog is out.'
Ain't that pretty for you?"</p>
<p>"You second wave?" asked Coffee, with interest.</p>
<p>The prisoner nodded.</p>
<p>"Mopping up," he said bitterly, "what the first wave left. No fun in
that! We go along gassin' dead men, an' all the time your tanks is
ravin' around to find out what's happenin' to their listenin'-posts.
They run into us—"</p>
<p>Coffee nodded sympathetically.</p>
<p>"The infantry always gets the dirty end of the stick," said Wallis
morosely.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Somewhere, something blew up with a violent explosion. The noise of
battle in the distance became heavier and heavier.</p>
<p>"Goin' it strong," said the prisoner, listening.</p>
<p>"Yeh," said Coffee. He looked at his wrist-watch. "Say, that twenty
minutes is up. You go down in there first, big boy."</p>
<p>They stood beside the little pill-box. The prisoner's knees shook.</p>
<p>"Say, fellers," he said pleadingly, "they told us that stuff would
scatter in twenty minutes, but you busted my mask. Yours ain't any good
against this gas. I'll have to go down in there if you fellers make me,
but—"</p>
<p>Coffee lighted another of the prisoner's tailor-made cigarettes.</p>
<p>"Give you five minutes more," he said graciously. "I don't suppose it'll
ruin the war."</p>
<p>They sat down relievedly again, while the fog-gas made all the earth
invisible behind a pall of grayness, a grayness from which the noises of
battle came.</p>
<p>In the tank that was headquarters, the air of strain was pronounced. The
maneuver-board showed the situation as close to desperation, now. The
reserve-tank positions had been switched on the board, dim orange glows,
massed in curiously precise blocks. And little squares of green showed
there that the supply and machine-shop tanks were massed. They were
moving slowly across the maneuver-board. But the principal change lay in
the front-line indications.</p>
<p>The red glows that showed where tank battles were in progress formed an
irregularly curved line, now. There were twenty or more such isolated
battles in progress, varying from single combats between single tanks to
greater conflicts where twenty to thirty tanks to a side were engaged.
And the positions of those conflicts were changing constantly, and
invariably the American tanks were being pushed back.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The two staff officers behind the general were nearly silent. There were
few sparks crawling within the American lines now. Nearly every one had
been diverted into the front-line battles. The two men watched the board
with feverish intensity, watching the red glows moving back, and
back....</p>
<p>The chief of staff was shaking like a leaf, watching the American line
stretched, and stretched....</p>
<p>The general looked at him with a twisted smile.</p>
<p>"I know my opponent," he said suddenly. "I had lunch with him once in
Vienna. We were attending a disarmament conference." He seemed to be
amused at the ironic statement. "We talked war and battles, of course.
And he showed me, drawing on the tablecloth, the tactical scheme that
should have been used at Cambrai, back in 1917. It was a singularly
perfect plan. It was a beautiful one."</p>
<p>"General," burst out one of the two staff officers behind him. "I need
twenty tanks from the reserves."</p>
<p>"Take them," said the general. He went on, addressing his chief of
staff. "It was an utterly flawless plan. I talked to other men. We were
all pretty busy estimating each other there, we soldiers. We discussed
each other with some freedom, I may say. And I formed the opinion that
the man who is in command of the enemy is an artist: a soldier with the
spirit of an amateur. He's a very skilful fencer, by the way. Doesn't
that suggest anything?"</p>
<p>The chief of staff had his eyes glued to the board.</p>
<p>"That is a feint, sir. A strong feint, yes, but he has his force
concentrated in the dead area."</p>
<p>"You are not listening, sir," said the general, reprovingly. "I am
saying that my opponent is an artist, an amateur, the sort of person who
delights in the delicate work of fencing. I, sir, would thank God for
the chance to defeat my enemy. He has twice my force, but he will not
be content merely to defeat me. He will want to defeat me by a plan of
consummate artistry, which will arouse admiration among soldiers for
years to come."</p>
<p>"But General, every minute, every second—"</p>
<p>"We are losing men, of whom we have plenty, and tanks, of which we have
not enough. True, very true," conceded the general. "But I am waiting to
hear from two strayed infantrymen. When they report, I will speak to
them myself."</p>
<p>"But, sir," cried the chief of staff, withheld only by the iron habit of
discipline from violent action and the taking over of command himself,
"they may be dead! You can't risk this battle waiting for them! You
can't risk it, sir! You can't!"</p>
<p>"They are not dead," said the general coolly. "They cannot be dead.
Sometimes, sir, we must obey the motto on our coins. Our country needs
this battle to be won. We have got to win it, sir! And the only way to
win it—"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The signal-light at his telephone glowed. The general snatched it up,
his hands quivering. But his voice, was steady and deliberate as he
spoke.</p>
<p>"Hello, Sergeant—Sergeant Coffee, is it?... Very well, Sergeant. Tell
me what you've found out.... Your prisoner objects to his rations, eh?
Very well, go on.... How did he gas our listening-posts?... He did, eh?
He got turned around and you caught him wandering about?... Oh, he was
second wave! They weren't taking any chances on any of our
listening-posts reporting their tanks, eh?... Say that again, Sergeant
Coffee!" The general's tone had changed indescribably. "Your prisoner
has no recognition signals for his own tanks? They told him he wouldn't
see any of them until the battle was over?... Thank you, Sergeant. One
of our tanks will stop for you. This is the commanding general
speaking."</p>
<p>He rang off, his eyes blazing. Relaxation was gone. He was a dynamo,
snapping orders.</p>
<p>"Supply tanks, machine-shop tanks, ground forces of the air service,
concentrate here!" His finger rested on a spot in the middle of the dead
area. "Reserve tanks take position behind them. Draw off every tank
we've got—take 'em out of action!—and mass them in front, on a line
with our former first line of outposts. Every airplane and helicopter
take the air and engage in general combat with the enemy, wherever the
enemy may be found and in whatever force. And our tanks move straight
through here!"</p>
<p>Orders were snapping into telephone transmitters. The commands had been
relayed before their import was fully realized. Then there was a gasp.</p>
<p>"General!" cried the chief of staff. "If the enemy is massed there,
he'll destroy our forces in detail as they take position!"</p>
<p>"He isn't massed there," said the general, his eyes blazing. "The
infantrymen who were gassing our listening-posts were given no
recognition signals for their tanks. Sergeant Coffee's prisoner has his
gas-mask broken and is in deadly fear. The enemy commander is foolish in
many ways, perhaps, but not foolish enough to break down morale by
refusing recognition signals to his own men who will need them. And look
at the beautiful plan he's got."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>He sketched half a dozen lines with his fingers, moving them in
lightning gestures as his orders took effect.</p>
<p>"His main force is here, behind those skirmishes that look like a feint.
As fast as we reinforce our skirmishing-line, he reinforces his—just
enough to drive our tanks back slowly. It looks like a strong feint, but
it's a trap! This dead space is empty. He thinks we are concentrating to
face it. When he is sure of it—his helicopters will sweep across any
minute, now, to see—he'll throw his whole force on our front line.
It'll crumple up. His whole fighting force will smash through to take
us, facing the dead space, in the rear! With twice our numbers, he'll
drive us before him."</p>
<p>"But general! You're ordering a concentration there! You're falling in
with his plans!"</p>
<p>The general laughed.</p>
<p>"I had lunch with the general in command over there, once upon a time.
He is an artist. He won't be content with a defeat like that! He'll want
to make his battle a masterpiece, a work of art! There's just one touch
he can add. He has to have reserves to protect his supply-tanks and
machine-shops. They're fixed. The ideal touch, the perfect tactical
fillip, will be—Here! Look. He expects to smash in our rear, here. The
heaviest blow will fall here. He will swing around our right wing, drive
us out of the dead area into his own lines—and drive us on his
reserves! Do you see it? He'll use every tank he's got in one beautiful
final blow. We'll be outwitted, out-numbered, out-flanked and finally
caught between his main body and his reserves and pounded to bits. It is
a perfect, a masterly bit of work!"</p>
<p>He watched the board, hawklike.</p>
<p>"We'll concentrate, but our machine-shops and supplies will concentrate
with us. Before he has time to take us in rear we'll drive ahead, in
just the line he plans for us! We don't wait to be driven into his
reserves. We roll into them and over them! We smash his supplies! We
destroy his shops! And then we can advance along his line of
communication and destroy it, our own depots being blown up—give the
orders when necessary—and leaving him stranded with motor-driven tanks,
motorized artillery, and nothing to run his motors with! He'll be
marooned beyond help in the middle of our country, and we will have him
at our mercy when his tanks run out of fuel. As a matter of fact, I
shall expect him to surrender in three days."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The little blocks of green and yellow that had showed the position of
the reserve and supply-tanks, changed abruptly to white, and began to
crawl across the maneuver-board. Other little white sparks turned about.
Every white spark upon the maneuver-board suddenly took to itself a new
direction.</p>
<p>"Disconnect cables," said the general, crisply. "We move with our tanks,
in the lead!"</p>
<p>The monotonous humming of the electric generator was drowned out in a
thunderous uproar that was muffled as an air-tight door was shut
abruptly. Fifteen seconds later there was a violent lurch, and the
colossal tank was on the move in the midst of a crawling, thundering
horde of metal monsters whose lumbering progress shook the earth.</p>
<p>Sergeant Coffee, still blinking his amazement, absent-mindedly lighted
the last of his share of the cigarettes looted from the prisoner.</p>
<p>"The big guy himself!" he said, still stunned. "My Gawd! The big guy
himself!"</p>
<p>A distant thunder began, a deep-toned rumbling that seemed to come from
the rear. It came nearer and grew louder. A peculiar quivering seemed to
set up in the earth. The noise was tanks moving through the fog, not one
tank or two tanks, or twenty tanks, but all the tanks in creation
rumbling and lurching at their topmost speed in serried array.</p>
<p>Corporal Wallis heard, and turned pale. The prisoner heard, and his
knees caved in.</p>
<p>"Hell," said Corporal Wallis dispairingly. "They can't see us, an' they
couldn't dodge us if they did!"</p>
<p>The prisoner wailed, and slumped to the floor.</p>
<p>Coffee picked him up by the collar and jerked him out of the pill-box.</p>
<p>"C'mon Pete," he ordered briefly. "They ain't givin' us a infantryman's
chance, but maybe we can do some dodgin'!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Then the roar of engines, of metal treads crushing upon earth and
clinking upon their joints, drowned out all possible other sounds.
Before the three men beside the pill-box could have moved a muscle,
monster shapes loomed up, rushing, rolling, lurching, squeaking. They
thundered past, and the hot fumes of their exhausts enveloped the trio.</p>
<p>Coffee growled and put himself in a position of defiance, his feet
braced against the concrete of the pill-box dome. His expression was
snarling and angry but, surreptitiously, he crossed himself. He heard
the fellows of the two tanks that had roared by him, thundering along in
alignment to right and left. A twenty-yard space, and a second row of
the monsters came hurtling on, gun muzzles gaping, gas-tubes elevated,
spitting smoke from their exhausts that was even thicker than the fog. A
third row, a fourth, a fifth....</p>
<p>The universe was a monster uproar. One could not think in this volume of
sound. It seemed that there was fighting overhead. Crackling noises came
feebly through the reverberating uproar that was the army of the United
States in full charge. Something came whirling down through the
overhanging mist and exploded in a lurid flare that for a second or two
cast the grotesque shadows of a row of tanks clearly before the trio of
shaken infantrymen.</p>
<p>Still the tanks came on and roared past. Twenty tanks, twenty-one ...
twenty-two.... Coffee lost count, dazed and almost stunned by the sheer
noise. It rose from the earth and seemed to be echoed back from the
topmost limit of the skies. It was a colossal din, an incredible uproar,
a sustained thunder that beat at the eardrums like the reiterated
concussions of a thousand guns that fired without ceasing. There was no
intermission, no cessation of the tumult. Row after row after row of the
monsters roared by, beaked and armed, going greedily with hungry guns
into battle.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>And then, for a space of seconds, no tanks passed. Through the
pandemonium of their going, however, the sound of firing somehow seemed
to creep. It was gunfire of incredible intensity, and it came from the
direction in which the front-rank tanks were heading.</p>
<p>"Forty-eight, forty-nine, forty-ten, forty-'leven," muttered Coffee
dazedly, his senses beaten down almost to unconsciousness by the ordeal
of sound. "Gawd! The whole army went by!"</p>
<p>The roaring of the fighting-tanks was less, but it was still a monstrous
din. Through it, however, came now a series of concussions that were so
close together that they were inseparable, and so violent that they were
like slaps upon the chest.</p>
<p>Then came other noises, louder only because nearer. These were different
noises, too, from those the fighting-tanks had made. Lighter noises. The
curious, misshapen service tanks began to rush by, of all sizes and all
shapes. Fuel-carrier tanks. Machine-shop tanks, huge ones, these.
Commissary tanks....</p>
<p>Something enormous and glistening stopped short. A door opened. A voice
roared an order. The three men, beaten and whipped by noise, stared
dumbly.</p>
<p>"Sergeant Coffee!" roared the voice. "Bring your men! Quick!"</p>
<p>Coffee dragged himself back to a semblance of life. Corporal Wallis
moved forward, sagging. The two of them loaded their prisoner into the
door and tumbled in. They were instantly sent into a heap as the tank
took up its progress again with a sudden sharp leap.</p>
<p>"Good man," grinned a sooty-faced officer, clinging to a handhold. "The
general sent special orders you were to be picked up. Said you'd won the
battle. It isn't finished yet, but when the general says that—"</p>
<p>"Battle?" said Coffee dully. "This ain't my battle. It's a parade of a
lot of damn tanks!"</p>
<p>There was a howl of joy from somewhere above. Discipline in the
machine-shop tanks was strict enough, but vastly different in kind from
the formality of the fighting-machines.</p>
<p>"Contact!" roared the voice again. "General wireless is going again! Our
fellows have rolled over their reserves and are smashing their
machine-shops and supplies!"</p>
<p>Yells reverberated deafeningly inside the steel walls, already filled
with tumult from the running motors and rumbling treads.</p>
<p>"Smashed 'em up!" shrieked the voice above, insane with joy. "Smashed
'em! Smashed 'em! Smashed 'em! We've wiped out their whole reserve
and—" A series of detonations came through even the steel shell of the
lurching tank. Detonations so violent, so monstrous, that even through
the springs and treads of the tank the earth-concussion could be felt.
"There goes their ammunition! We set off all their dumps!"</p>
<p>There was sheer pandemonium inside the service-tank, speeding behind the
fighting force with only a thin skin of reserve-tanks between it and a
panic-stricken, mechanically pursuing enemy.</p>
<p>"Yell, you birds!" screamed the voice. "The general says we've won the
battle! Thanks to the fighting force! We're to go on and wipe out the
enemy line of communications, letting him chase us till his gas gives
out! Then we come back and pound him to bits! Our tanks have wiped him
out!"</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Coffee managed to find something to hold on to. He struggled to his
feet. Corporal Wallis, recovering from the certainty of death and the
torture of sound, was being very sea-sick from the tank's motion. The
prisoner moved away from him on the steel floor. He looked gloomily up
at Coffee.</p>
<p>"Listen to 'em," said Coffee bitterly. "Tanks! Tanks! Tanks! Hell! If
they'd given us infantry a chance—"</p>
<p>"You said it," said the prisoner savagely. "This is a hell of a way to
fight a war."</p>
<p>Corporal Wallis turned a greenish face to them.</p>
<p>"The infantry always gets the dirty end of the stick," he gasped. "Now
they—now they' makin' infantry ride in tanks! Hell!"</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2><SPAN name="Invisible_Death" id="Invisible_Death"></SPAN>Invisible Death</h2>
<h2><i>By Anthony Pelcher</i></h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus7.jpg" alt=""/></div>
<h3><i>Wildly racing through the night, missing other cars by a breath, the visible car continued its pursuit of—what?</i></h3>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<div class="sidenote">On Lees' quick and clever action depended the life of "Old
Perk" Ferguson, the millionaire manufacturer threatened by the uncanny,
invisible killer.</div>
<p>The inquest into the mysterious death of Darius Darrow, savant,
inventor, recluse and eccentric, resembled a scientific convention. Men
and women of high scientific attainment, and, in some instances, world
fame, attended to hear first hand the strange, uncanny, unbelievable
circumstances as hinted by the newspapers.</p>
<p>Mrs. Susan Darrow, the widow, was the paramount witness. She appeared a
quaint figure as she took the stand. Tearful, yet alert, this little
woman betrayed the intelligence that had made her one of the world's
foremost chemists. She gave her age as fifty-eight, but if it had not
been for her snowy hair she would have looked much younger. She was
small but not frail, and had expressive blue eyes. She had a firm little
nose and chin, and was garbed in black silk garments of a fashion
evidently dating back a decade.</p>
<p>Although not modern in dress, her answers to questions regarding
scientific and business affairs involved in the mysterious case, proved
she was thoroughly abreast of the times in all other particulars.</p>
<p>"You believe your husband was murdered?" bluntly asked the examiner at
one stage.</p>
<p>"That is my opinion," she said, then added: "It might have been some
scientific accident, the nature of which I cannot fathom. We were
confidential in all matters except my husband's work. He reserved the
right to be secretive about the scientific problems on which he was
working."</p>
<p>"Can you throw any light on a motive for such a crime?"</p>
<p>"The motive seems self-evident. He was working on an invention that he
said would do away with war and would make the owner of the device a
practical world dictator, should he choose to exercise such power. The
device was completed. The murderer killed him to secure his device. That
all seems plain enough."</p>
<p>"Was anything else of value taken?"</p>
<p>"We had nothing else of value about the place. I was never given to
jewelry. The furnishings and equipment were undisturbed. It is quite
evident, I think, that the thief was no ordinary petty burglar."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The attorney interposed: "I believe we had better let Mrs. Darrow tell
this story from the beginning in her own way. There are only two really
important witnesses. Whatever she can remember to recite might be of
value to the authorities. Now, Mrs. Darrow, how long had you lived at
Brooknook? Begin there and just let your story unfold. Try to control
your nerves and emotions."</p>
<p>"I am not emotional. I am not nervous," said the quaint little woman,
bravely. "My heart hurts, that is all.</p>
<p>"The place was named by my father. We inherited it at his death, thirty
years ago, and moved in. My two children were born and died there. At
first we kept the servants and maintained all of the thirty-two rooms.
But after the children were gone, we both gave ourselves over to study
and we began to close one room after another, releasing the servants one
by one."</p>
<p>"How many rooms do you occupy now?"</p>
<p>"We lived in three, a living-room, kitchen and bedroom. The two big
parlors were turned into a laboratory. We both worked there. It was
there my husband met his death at his work. Sometimes we worked
together, sometimes independently. I did all my own housework, except
the laundry, which I sent out. We had no visitors. We lived for each
other and our work."</p>
<p>"Tell us about the rooms that were not occupied."</p>
<p>"We left them just as they always had been. I have not been in any of
these rooms for twenty years. Once I looked into the little girl's
room—my daughter's room. It was dusty and cobwebby, but undisturbed by
human hand. My husband peered in over my shoulder. I closed the door. We
turned away in each other's arms."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Here the little old woman fell to weeping softly into her lace
handkerchief. Minutes lapsed as the court waited, respecting her grief.</p>
<p>"Were these rooms locked?" asked the attorney finally.</p>
<p>"No," said the widow, recovering, as she dabbed at her eyes. "We feared
no one. All the rooms were closed, but not locked. The outside doors
were seldom locked. We lived in our own world. For appearance sake we
kept up the grounds. Peck, the gardener, kept the grounds, as you know.
He called in outside help when necessary. This was his affair. We never
bothered him. He lived probably a half mile up the road. The first of
each month he would come for his pay. He was practically our only
visitor.</p>
<p>"When it was necessary to see our attorney or other connections, Peck
would drive us. At first he used to drive our horses. Ten years ago we
pastured the horses for life and bought the small car. We seldom went
out. We have no close friends and no relatives nearer than the Pacific
coast. They are distant cousins. You see, we were rather alone in the
world since the children went away—we never spoke of them as being
dead."</p>
<p>Again the court was hushed. The coroner and the attorney took occasion
to blow their noses rather violently.</p>
<p>"On May 27th, the day your husband died, what happened, as you
re-remember it?" asked the attorney.</p>
<p>"We arose and had breakfast as usual. I was puttering about the rooms.
My husband kissed me and started for the laboratory. I was in the
kitchen. It was about ten o'clock when I finished in the kitchen and
went into the living room which adjoins the laboratory. I had been
rather fretted, something unusual for me. It seemed I dimly sensed the
presence of someone near me, someone I did not know, an outsider. I
thought it was foolish of me and buckled up.</p>
<p>"But when I went into the living room, it seemed as if some invisible
presence were following me. I could hear the low hum of my husband's
device. The door of the laboratory was open. He called to me and said:</p>
<p>"'Sue dear, it seems strange, but I made two models of this set and now
I can find only one. You could not have misplaced the other by any
chance, could you?'</p>
<p>"I assured him I knew nothing of it and he said, 'Hum-m, that's funny.'
Then he went back into the library and closed the door. The humming
continued. I was more annoyed than ever, but I did not want to bother my
husband. Then a queer thing happened. I saw the door of the laboratory
open and close, but I did not see anyone. The next instant, I heard my
husband's outcry. It was more a groan than a scream.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"I rushed into the laboratory. My husband was lying by his slate-topped
table. The device, I noticed, was gone. It was no bigger than a
coffee-mill, I thought, as I bent over my husband. Strange how such a
thought could have crowded in at such a time.</p>
<p>"My husband's head was bleeding. It was cut, a long gash over the ear,
just below the bald spot. It must have been a frightful blow. I looked
in his eyes. My nurse's and pharmaceutical course gave me knowledge
which sent a chill to my heart. He was dead. I must have fainted.</p>
<p>"When I recovered I ran for Peck. I found him near the house, coming my
way and holding his right eye.</p>
<p>"'Something struck me,' he said. Then, seeing me so pale, he said, 'My
God! Mrs. Darrow, what has happened?'</p>
<p>"'Run for the doctor,' I said. When the doctor came he called the police
and coroner. They told me not to disturb the body. Later they took it
away, and the gardener told me—"</p>
<p>"Never mind what Peck told you," interrupted the attorney. "We will let
him tell it. Is that all you can tell us about the death itself?"</p>
<p>But the widow was weeping now, so violently that the court ordered her
excused.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The gardener was called and took the stand displaying a big, black eye,
which offered comedy relief to a pathetic situation.</p>
<p>"On the main road to the east," he began after preliminary questioning,
"was a small car which had been parked there all morning. I noticed it
because it had no license plates. It was visible from the inside of the
grounds, but was hidden from the road by a hedge. It made me wonder
because it was just inside our grounds.</p>
<p>"I had some very special red flags which I planted as a border back of
pink geraniums. They were doing fine. I got them from the Fabrish seed
house. There are no plants like Fabrish's—I wouldn't give a snap of my
finger for all the other—"</p>
<p>"Just a minute," interrupted the attorney. He told the gardener to never
mind the geraniums and flags, but to tell just what happened.</p>
<p>"Well, I was bending over the border bed when I heard sounds like
someone running along the gravel path towards me. I heard a humming like
a bumble bee and I jumped to my feet. Just then something hit me in the
eye and knocked me down. Yes sir, knocked me plumb down, and—"</p>
<p>"Then what happened? Never mind the asides, the extras—tell us just the
simple facts," instructed the attorney.</p>
<p>"Well, you won't believe it, but I heard the footsteps leave the road.
The geraniums were badly trampled. I looked at the parked automobile and
could hear the hum coming from there.</p>
<p>"The machine started and turned into the road—"</p>
<p>"Did you notice anyone at the wheel?"</p>
<p>"That's what you're not going to believe. There wasn't anybody in that
auto at all. I didn't see anyone at any time. The auto started itself,
and what is more, that auto only went about a hundred yards when it
disappeared altogether—like that—like a flash."</p>
<p>"Did it turn off the road?"</p>
<p>"I didn't turn anywhere. It was in the middle of the road. It just
disappeared right in the middle of the road. It started without a
driver, it turned north without a driver, and went on by itself for
about a hundred yards. Then it vanished in the middle of the road. Just
dropped out of sight."</p>
<p>The court-room was hushed. The audience and court attaches were awe
stricken and looked their incredulity.</p>
<p>"Do you mean to tell us that auto drove itself?" asked the court
sternly.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The witness was completely confused. The attorney came to his rescue,
looked at the court, and said:</p>
<p>"He has told that same story a hundred times, and he will stick to it.
It seems impossible, but has not Mrs. Darrow told us she heard this
humming and saw nothing? With the purely perfunctory recitals of the
doctor and the constabulary this court and the jury have heard all there
is to hear. We have no more witnesses. That is all there is.</p>
<p>"The jury will have to decide from the evidence whether this case is
accident or murder. The doctor and two experts have reported that the
wound appeared to have been made by some blunt instrument, swung
powerfully. The skull under the wound and back of the ear was simply
crushed. Death was instantaneous. It all happened in broad daylight."</p>
<p>After an hour's deliberation the jury decided the savant came to his
death in his laboratory from a blow on the skull received in some manner
unknown.</p>
<p>The crowd filed out, spiritedly discussing the unusual crime. In the
crowd was Perkins Ferguson, known as "Old Perk," head of the Schefert
Engineering Corporation, who paid royalty on some of the Darrow patents.
With him was Damon Farnsworth, his first vice-president.</p>
<p>"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Farnsworth, biting into a black
cigar.</p>
<p>"Damned weird, isn't it?" replied "Old Perk." "I have my own theory,
however," he added, "but I am going to know a whole lot more about this
case before I venture it." The pair climbed into Ferguson's car
discussing the Darrow death case with furrowed brows.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>What might be termed an extraordinary meeting of the directors of the
Schefert Engineering Corporation, was held a few days later in a big
building in the financial district.</p>
<p>The rich furnishings of the directors' room indicated, better than
Bradstreet's, the great wealth of the corporation. Uniformed pages stood
at attention at each end of the long, mahogany table at which were
seated the fourteen directors of the company. All were men of wealth,
standing and engineering knowledge. The departed Darrow often had been
summoned to such meetings, and at this one there was a hush because of
his recent demise.</p>
<p>After a batch of preliminary business had been transacted, Ferguson
arose and cleared his throat. The directors leaned forward in their
chairs expectantly. The page boys lost their mechanical attitude for the
instant and fairly craned their necks around the bulks of the forms in
front of them.</p>
<p>"The Darrow case has taken a sudden and sinister turn," said the
president. "I have a letter. I will read it:</p>
<blockquote><p>"Old Perk: Get wise to yourself. We are in a position to destroy
you and all the pot-bellies in the Wall Street crowd. If you want
to die of old age, remember what happened to Darrow and begin
declaring us in on Wall Street dividends. If you do not you will
follow Darrow in the same way.</p>
<p>"Our first demand is for $100,000. Leave this amount in hundreds
and fifties in the rubbish can at the corner of 50th Street and
Broadway at 10 A. M. next Thursday. If you fail we will break your
damned neck. Bring the police with you if you like.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 70%;">Invisible Death.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Ferguson passed the letter around for inspection. It was painstakingly
printed, evidently from the type in a rubber stamp set such as is sold
in toy stores.</p>
<p>"I have decided," said Perkins at length, "to give this case to Walter
Lees. He has never failed us in mechanical, chemical, or any form of
scientific problem. I hope he will not fail in this. He will work
independently of the police, who have requested that we keep the
appointment at 50th Street and Broadway at the hour named. We will
deposit a roll of newspapers, around which has been wrapped a fifty
dollar bill and then we will stand by while the awaiting detectives do
their duty."</p>
<p>"You do not think anyone is going to call for any supposed package of
money at one of the most congested corners in the world in broad
daylight?" asked a director at the end of the table.</p>
<p>"Why not?" asked Ferguson. "A seedy individual could pick a package from
a rubbish bin at that corner without attracting the least attention."</p>
<p>"I guess you're right," agreed the doubting one.</p>
<p>"I know I'm right," said the president. And he usually was.</p>
<p>"I have already arranged to have Lees instructed in his work," Ferguson
volunteered as a pause came in the buzz of conversation about the table.
"Lees is young, but he is capable." There was general discussion of the
strange case of Darius Darrow; the room filled with the blue haze of
many cigars.</p>
<p>Suddenly a low, humming sound was heard in the room.</p>
<p>Papers on the directors' table were bunched as if by unseen hands, and
thrown to the ceiling, from which they descended like flakes of snow and
scattered about the room.</p>
<p>A book of minutes was torn from the hands of a secretary. It was raised
and brought down on vice-president Farnsworth's head. A chair was pulled
out from under another director and he was deposited in an undignified
heap on the floor.</p>
<p>Another director acted as though he had been tripped, and he fell on top
of Farnsworth. Two big vases crashed to the floor in bits. Other
decorative objects were scattered about.</p>
<p>The directors who had been hurtled to the floor stood up with
expressions of comical surprise on their features. Their chairs
catapulted into a far corner of the room, one after the other.</p>
<p>Startled expressions resounded from the group.</p>
<p>A small bookcase fell on its front with a crash of glass. Ferguson's
cane jumped in the air and crashed a window pane.</p>
<p>The humming ceased suddenly.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The room was a wreck. The assembled men stood aghast. They were simply
nonplussed. Finally they phoned for the police.</p>
<p>After hearing the strange recital from so many highly reputable
witnesses, a detective sergeant, who had responded to the call with
others, reported to headquarters.</p>
<p>A uniformed police guard was sent to the place with instructions to
remain on duty until relieved.</p>
<p>Ferguson sent for Walter Lees, the young engineer of whom he had spoken
to the directorate. Assigned to the task of unraveling the Darrow death
mystery, Lees ran true to form by getting busy at once. This was at
midnight of the day of the surprising directors' meeting. Lees owned a
big car; he piled into it and started for the scene of the crime.</p>
<p>Daybreak found him examining every inch of the road around the Darrow
estate. Then he searched the hedge along the east road, where the
phantom auto had disappeared after the crime. The brush along the
opposite side of the thoroughfare was also gone over.</p>
<p>Passing autos had stopped to ask the meaning of his flashlight. Lees
explained he had lost a pocketbook. It was as good an excuse as any and
served to keep him from drawing a crowd. He found nothing to reward his
long and painstaking efforts.</p>
<p>At seven A. M. he decided to interview the Darrow widow, and found her
already up and about her kitchen, weeping softly as she worked.</p>
<p>She bade him be seated in the living room.</p>
<p>"No, I am not afraid to stay here alone," she said in reply to Lees'
first question. "Whoever killed my husband did so to get possession of
his second model. They had already stolen the first. I have thought
since that they were afraid that the finding of the second model after
his death would aid in their detection. For some reason they had to have
both models."</p>
<p>She agreed to tell all she knew of the case. Lees listened to the long
recital as already recorded at the coroner's inquest. By adroit
questioning Lees gained just one new fact. Mrs. Darrow remembered that
she had called her husband, just before he retired to his laboratory, to
fix a towel hanger in the kitchen. "He found the pivot needed oiling,"
explained the widow. "That was all. He oiled it and went into the
laboratory."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The idea of one of the world's greatest mechanical engineers stopping
his work to oil a towel hanger caused Lees to smile, but Mrs. Darrow did
not smile.</p>
<p>"My husband was a genius at repairing about the house," she said, in all
seriousness.</p>
<p>"I can imagine so," agreed Lees.</p>
<p>The conversation ceased. Lees sat for a few minutes with his head in his
hands, thinking deeply. Finally he said:</p>
<p>"I am convinced that someone who was well aware of your husband's habits
committed this crime. Do you believe, positively, that the gardener is
above suspicion?"</p>
<p>"Oh, it couldn't have been Peck," insisted Mrs. Darrow. "I had seen him
down near the gate from the window. He was too far from the house, and
besides, he was devoted to us both."</p>
<p>"Then it was somebody from the neighborhood," said Lees.</p>
<p>"Maybe so," replied Mrs. Darrow, noncommittally.</p>
<p>"Who lives in the next house south?"</p>
<p>"That is towards the city," mused the widow. "There are no houses south
on either side of the road for a little further than a mile, when you
reach the town limits of Farsdale. The town line is about half-way
between, and marks the southern end of this estate."</p>
<p>"Who lives in the first house to the north?"</p>
<p>"That is the cottage of Peck, the gardener."</p>
<p>"How near is the next house?"</p>
<p>"That was the parcel my father sold. It is about three acres, and in the
center, or about the center, is the house built by Adolph Jouret, who
bought the land. He lives there with his daughter. They built a
magnificent place. The brook that traverses our grounds rises at a
spring back of his house. Save for two West Indian servants, they are
alone. The servants live in Farsdale and motor back and forth."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"What do you know of this—what's his name?" queried Lees, who had
assumed the role of examiner.</p>
<p>"Jouret? Very little. He is some sort of a circus man or showman, or was
before he retired. He once had wealth, but my husband, some weeks ago,
said that because of ill-advised investments he was not so well rated as
formerly. I had the feeling that he might be forced to give up the
place. I just felt that. I never heard it. I am so sorry because of the
daughter. She is a beautiful girl, and seemed kindly, the one time I saw
her. She was about twelve then. I do not like to say it, but she seemed
a little dazed or slow witted, but really beautiful." Mrs. Darrow fell
to smoothing out the folds in her house apron as Lees asked:</p>
<p>"When was the only time you saw her?"</p>
<p>"Ten years ago, about. Just after my father's death. They called on us.
We did not care to continue the friendship, as Jouret seemed a little
flamboyant—his circus nature, I suppose. Anyway, we were quiet folks,
and there was no need of close association with neighbors.</p>
<p>"I remember," continued the widow, after a pause, "that Jouret, when he
heard my husband was a scientist, simulated an interest in science. He
did have a smattering knowledge of science, but he was plainly affected,
so we decided to just let him drop. No ill-feeling. We just—well, we
were not interested."</p>
<p>"You do not approve of circus people?"</p>
<p>"It is not that. Any honest work is honorable. It seems commendable to
furnish amusement for the public. I know little about people of his
profession but I am sure they are perfectly all right. It was Jouret,
personally. He seemed noisy and insincere. The girl was nice. I loved
her."</p>
<p>"That is all you know of the Jourets?"</p>
<p>"That is all."</p>
<p>"Mrs. Darrow, I wish to go through this house from attic to basement.
Have you any objections?"</p>
<p>"None whatever. Make yourself free, but do not attach any significance
to what appears to be a secret passageway and cave. My father was a
biological chemist. He used to experiment much with small animals. He
had a cave where he stored chemicals, and I believe you will find old
chemicals stored down there now. I disturbed nothing."</p>
<p>The widow forced a smile to her lips. "Will you excuse me?" she
concluded. "I am trying to carry on."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Lees, carrying a flashlight, began a systematic search of the premises.
He made his way up a winding staircase, through dust and cobwebs to the
attic. He found the top story filled with trunks and bits of furniture
of a previous generation. All was in order, but dust-covered and
cobwebby.</p>
<p>"Someone has been here before me," he said to himself, brushing a mist
of cobwebs from his coat sleeves. "There is a path brushed through the
spiderwebs." Turning his flashlight on the floor, he exclaimed:</p>
<p>"And here are footprints in the dust. Well I'll be—!"</p>
<p>Then, after some study, he mused:</p>
<p>"Of course there has been someone here. The killer of Darrow probably
has been here to see what he could see. It was no great task. The doors
were never locked. The footprints are of no value except to give me the
size of his shoes."</p>
<p>He measured the footprints carefully. Then he went downstairs and phoned
the measurements to a local shoe dealer, asking him to give him the
trade size of shoes which would make such prints.</p>
<p>"They are number nines," decided the shoe dealer.</p>
<p>Lees then returned to resume his search in the rooms and corridors.</p>
<p>"Wonder if Jouret wears nines," he questioned himself. "But what if he
does? I couldn't convict him on that score. However, it might help."</p>
<p>Then he fell to searching through the old trunks. He found old
photographs, articles of apparel, knicknacks—grandmother's and
grandfather's belongings all of them, and some children's clothes of the
days when little boys wore ruffles about their necks and little girls'
pantalettes reached to their ankles.</p>
<p>Carefully each article was replaced. He made his way down to the third
and then the second floor. Through cobwebby corridors and bedchambers he
searched, but found nothing further to aid his case.</p>
<p>In the unused rooms on the first floor he found an old spinning-wheel,
candle moulds and utensils used in cooking in the days when housewives
cooked over an open fire.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>He did not find the "secret" passageway until Mrs. Darrow came to his
aid. Leading from the basement was a coal chute. This shoot was formed
in a triangle with the point under a trap. It was man-high at the cellar
opening and its floor was a slide for fuel. It had been in use,
evidently, quite recently.</p>
<p>At the cellar wall of this chute, Mrs. Darrow pressed what appeared to
be a knot in the old timber and pushed open a door.</p>
<p>A dank odor issued forth as the door was opened. Lees entered the
passage and Mrs. Darrow returned upstairs.</p>
<p>Following the underground passageway, Lees came onto a cave about 14 by
14 feet in size with a ceiling and walls of arched brick. It had
evidently been built before the days of cement construction.</p>
<p>A long bench and shelves with carboys and jars of chemicals were the
only furnishings. Lees sounded all the walls, but found nothing further
to interest him.</p>
<p>Lees returned to town at the urgent call of "Old Perk," who had arranged
with great care to keep the appointment at 50th street and Broadway,
where the decoy package was to be left. He had snipers in nearby
windows. He had detectives, dressed in the gay garb of the habitues of
the neighborhood, patrolling the corner, and he and his own guard parked
an automobile, against all traffic rule, at the curb near the rubbish
can.</p>
<p>An office boy sauntered up to the rubbish can, threw in the decoy
package, and sauntered away.</p>
<p>A second later there was a low humming sound. The decoy package fairly
jumped out of the rubbish can and disappeared in thin air.</p>
<p>The humming sound seemed to round the corner into 50th Street.
Detectives followed on the jump. The humming approached an auto at the
curb and the auto's self starter began to function. As the police stood
near by, enough to have jumped into the auto, the whole machine, a big
touring car, actually disappeared before their eyes.</p>
<p>Consternation is a mild word when used to describe the result.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>All forces set to trap the extortionists gathered in a group, and in
their surprise and disappointment began discussing the queer case in
loud tones. A crowd was gathering which was blocking traffic.</p>
<p>"Old Perk" was the first to recover from his surprise.</p>
<p>"Get the hell out of this neighborhood," he yelled to his working
forces. "All of you get down to my office!"</p>
<p>The working force dissolved and "Old Perk" drove away.</p>
<p>At "Old Perk's" office shortly afterward a conference of the defeated
forces of the law and of science was held.</p>
<p>"Old Perk" stormed and raged and the detective captain in charge fumed
and fussed, but nothing came of it all. One was as powerless as another.
Finally the conference adjourned.</p>
<p>The next morning in the mail, Perkins Ferguson, president of Schefert
Engineering Corporation, received a letter carefully printed in rubber
type. It read:</p>
<blockquote><p>Thanks for the $50 bill. You cheated us by $99,950. This will never
do. Don't be like that. You poor fools, you make us increase our
demand. We double it. Leave $200,000 for us on your desk and leave
the desk unlocked. We will get it. Every time you ignore one of our
demands, one of your number will die. Better take this matter
seriously. Last warning.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 70%;">Invisible Death.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>"Not another dime will they get out of me," mused Ferguson.</p>
<p>He started opening the rest of his mail.</p>
<p>A clerk entered and handed him a telegram. It read:</p>
<blockquote><p>"Damon Farnsworth struck down at breakfast table. Family heard
humming sound as he fell from his chair. Removed to Medical Center.
Skull reported fractured. May die.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 40%;">"William Devins, Chief of Police, Larchmont."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Ferguson wildly seized the telephone. "Get me Farnsworth's house at
Larchmont!" he shouted to his operator.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The phone was answered by Jones, the butler.</p>
<p>"This is Ferguson."</p>
<p>An agitated voice replied:</p>
<p>"'Ow sir, yes sir. It's true, sir. 'E was bleeding at the 'ead, sir.
Something 'it 'im."</p>
<p>"Let me talk to Mrs. Farnsworth."</p>
<p>"They are at the 'ospital, sir."</p>
<p>"One of the boys."</p>
<p>"Both are at the 'ospital, sir."</p>
<p>"Do you think he will live?"</p>
<p>"An' 'ow could I say, sir?"</p>
<p>Ferguson called the Medical Center. They permitted him to talk to a
doctor and a nurse. The nurse referred him to the doctor, who said:</p>
<p>"He is unconscious. There is a wicked fracture at the base of the brain.
He was struck from the back—a club, I believe. He may die without
regaining consciousness. I am hoping he will rally and that he will be
all right."</p>
<p>Ferguson ordered his car and, with Lees at his heels, jumped in the
tonneau. He heard a humming sound back of him. He looked back and saw
nothing. Both he and Lees were too impressed for words.</p>
<p>"Step on it," Ferguson ordered the chauffeur. "Drive us to the Medical
Center."</p>
<p>At the world's largest group of hospitals, Ferguson's worst fears were
confirmed. The patient was reported sinking.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Ferguson, giant of Wall Street, was a low spirited man as he drove back
down town to his office. With Lees he passed through the outer offices,
buzzing with business and the click of typewriters. Not a head was
raised from a desk or machine. It was a well-drilled force.</p>
<p>Into his private sanctum he walked or rather dragged himself, and
wearily he sat down. He pushed a pile of papers from him and ran his
hand over his hot brow.</p>
<p>Blood pounded at his temples.</p>
<p>For the first time in his life he faced a situation which was too deep
for his understanding.</p>
<p>Over and over again he reviewed the uncanny events as Lees sat awaiting
orders.</p>
<p>"I cannot have them killing off my friends like that," he mused finally.</p>
<p>He called a clerk.</p>
<p>"Go to the bank and get $200,000 in fifties and one hundreds," he
commanded.</p>
<p>When the clerk returned with the money he laid the package on his desk
and left the desk open. "This might appear cowardly, but it will give us
time," he said. Lees did not offer an opinion.</p>
<p>Ferguson drew a personal note for $200,000 and sent it to the Schefert
Corporation's attorneys. This amount represented a large part of
Ferguson's personal assets, not involved with any company with which he
was connected. He told Lees to go about his further investigations. Then
he left the office and started for his home. "I'll bank my life Lees
will have those crooks lined up within a week," he assured himself as he
lolled in his auto, bound homeward. But his voice sounded hollow, and
the blood still pounded at his temples.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Reaching home, he found a call from the western plant, at Chicago. He
phoned the superintendent with a foreboding that all was not well.</p>
<p>"This you, Perk?" sounded the voice on the wire.</p>
<p>"Yes, what's up?"</p>
<p>"I had not intended bothering you with this, but in the light of all
that has happened I guess you had better know that one of our engineers
went stark mad out here about three weeks ago. He was a very brainy man
but his reason snapped. He first appeared queer when he began talking of
anarchy and cursing capitalists. Then one afternoon he struck a shop
foreman down with a heavy wrench and rushed out of the plant. We have
not seen him since. The police have been looking for him, but he is
still at large."</p>
<p>"That explains a lot of things," said "Old Perk." "Tell the police to
keep after him. We'll look for him here. File me a complete detailed
report of the incident by telegraph," he instructed. Then he asked:</p>
<p>"How is the foreman? Badly hurt?"</p>
<p>"He dodged; it was a glancing blow. The foreman was back to work in a
week. But he is nervous and has armed himself. We have put on extra
guards."</p>
<p>"Good," commended Ferguson. "Don't hesitate to spend tolls to keep me
advised of any developments."</p>
<p>An hour and a half later, Ferguson phoned the chief clerk in his
offices:</p>
<p>"Go into my private office," he ordered, "and see if there is a package
on my desk. It is a bank package."</p>
<p>The clerk returned in a few moments.</p>
<p>"There is no package on your desk, Mr. Ferguson."</p>
<p>"That is all I wanted to know," said Ferguson, and hung up the receiver.</p>
<p>Then Ferguson called up the Darrow home and tried to get in touch with
Lees, but was unable to do so, as Mrs. Darrow said she had not seen him
since he had been called back to the office.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The reason Ferguson could not reach Lees was because Lees had decided to
learn once and for all if Jouret wore number nine shoes. He had started
for Jouret's in his own car. It was a beautiful country he was
traversing, but he had no time to note that the tree branches almost met
over his head and that his way was bordered with a profusion of wild
flowers, displaying a rainbow of colors.</p>
<p>The house of Jouret, the retired circus performer, sat back far from the
road, against the side of a beautiful hill, and was surrounded by
poplars. The landscape was wilder and more natural than that of the
Darrow place adjoining.</p>
<p>The door was opened by a Porto Rican boy. Lees lost no time. He said
bluntly:</p>
<p>"Tell your master that a gentleman is here to see him on very particular
business."</p>
<p>Jouret, himself, came back with the boy.</p>
<p>"What is it?" he asked, smiling a welcome.</p>
<p>"I am working on the case of the death of Mr. Darrow, your neighbor. I
believed you might have seen something. I thought you might aid me."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Jouret betrayed no surprise.</p>
<p>"Come in," he said. He led the way to a large reception room and asked
his visitor to be seated. He was the soul of affability. Short, husky
and florid. His eyes large, black and staring. His hair black, quite
long and curling upward at the ears. He was dressed in black, and he had
the appearance of a big, fat crow.</p>
<p>"I am glad you came," he greeted his guest, "for I have far too few
callers." He switched on a big electric bunch-light in the center of the
room, for it was dusk.</p>
<p>"We have been told that you are a retired circus man," said Lees, in his
usual frank manner.</p>
<p>"Not exactly," said Jouret. "I traveled on the continent, finally
journeying to Australia and then to the States. I crossed the country
from San Francisco and settled down here. I was known as 'Elias, the
Great.' I had my own company and property. It was a magic show. It was
not a circus, although we did carry two elephants, three camels, some
ponies, snakes, and birds and smaller animals. That's where the circus
report came from.</p>
<p>"When I retired I sold my stock to a circus. The newspapers regarded it
as funny, and one of them printed a half page story with pictures about
the public sale. It was very much exaggerated. They mentioned giraffes,
hyenas, and a lot of other animals I never possessed. Odd, wasn't it,
getting so much publicity after I was through needing it? However I
never, in those days, dodged the limelight." Jouret ended his speech
with a loud and hearty guffaw.</p>
<p>"I will call my daughter," Jouret appended. "She will be glad to meet
you." He left the room.</p>
<p>Lees had taken occasion to note the size of Jouret's feet. They were
small, almost effeminate. More likely fives or sixes than nines.</p>
<p>Soon Jouret returned with a girl in her early twenties. She was blond
and radiantly beautiful.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Doris Jouret bowed and smiled in a perfectly friendly manner. Lees noted
that there was something about her eyes that made her appear dazed.</p>
<p>Jouret monopolized the conversation, giving no one a chance to edge in a
word.</p>
<p>"This gentleman desires information in connection with the death of our
neighbor Mr., or is it Dr., Darrow? I want you to assure him, as I will,
that we have seen or noted nothing that could possibly throw light on
the strange case."</p>
<p>The girl nodded, it seemed a little wearily, and Jouret was off on
another conversational flight:</p>
<p>"I too am a man of scientific attainments," he chattered. "I am a
biologist, toxicologist, doctor of medicine, a geologist, metalurgist,
mineralogist, and somewhat of a mechanic and electrician. I have given
long hours to the study of strange sciences in meta-physics, to which
you men give too little attention. There are sciences which transcend
any of this sphere. There is a higher astronomy. I neglected to say that
I am an astronomer."</p>
<p>"Yes?" drawled Lees.</p>
<p>"Yes!" said Jouret emphatically.</p>
<p>The girl had adopted rather a theatrical pose, which disclosed
considerable of her nether charms, and said nothing at all.</p>
<p>"When you find your man," volunteered Jouret, "you will find a madman."
He said this ponderously and with a gesture meant evidently to be
impressive.</p>
<p>"You believe a madman did it?" asked Lees, as Jouret paused, expecting a
question.</p>
<p>"Undoubtedly. It was a paranoic with delusions of money, grandeur and a
strongly developed homicidal mania. To me, that is the only sensible
solution. I am quite sure that I am correct."</p>
<p>Lees arose to go and Jouret did not urge him to stay. He bowed Lees out
and Doris bowed with him.</p>
<p>"She is a beautiful girl," mused Lees once he was outside.</p>
<p>Lees ran over in his mind the circumstances of his visit to Jouret.
There was no doubt in his mind that Jouret's shoes were too small to be
number nines, and he reasoned that that fact might tend to eliminate
Jouret. But he was not satisfied.</p>
<p>"I am going to get some gas," he told himself, "and then I am going to
get two private detectives to assist me, for I'm going right back there.
For the first time in my life I am going to be a Peeping Tom.</p>
<p>"There is no moon. The poplars will give us a view of all three floors
of that house, if they leave their blinds up enough, and three of us can
watch all three floors at once."</p>
<p>He phoned Ferguson that he might be busy for days, joined his pair of
operatives from the detective agency and for some time the three
operated on a well conceived plan.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>It was probably a week later that Lees rendered a report to Perkins
Ferguson, which for a time proved one of the strangest documents in the
weird case. It read:</p>
<p>"You will probably think I am crazy, and for this reason I am having
this report subscribed and sworn to, jointly and severally. With my two
detectives I have seen Miss Jouret, the girl I told you about over the
phone, in three places at one and the same time. Not once but twice this
has happened.</p>
<p>"Looking through the windows of the Jouret place at night, we saw the
girl on the first, second and third floor of the house. We believed this
due to a clever arrangement of mirrors. But figure this out:</p>
<p>"The next day she drove a car to town. We followed. She got out at one
theater and entered. She did not come back, that we could see, but the
car drove off. There was no chauffeur, and we thought we had discovered
the driverless auto, until we looked and saw Miss Jouret still at the
wheel.</p>
<p>"She got out and entered another theater. She did not come back, but the
car drove off with her still at the wheel. She entered a third theater
after parking the car and this time the driver's seat and the tonneau
was empty.</p>
<p>"Reverse the reel and you will see her coming out of three theaters and
driving home. That is what happened. There must be three of her, all
identical, but only one shows at a time. If it's some of Jouret's
far-famed magic, I'll say he's some conjurer. The explanation is not yet
forthcoming. We want to shadow Jouret, but he never goes anywhere. The
girl has only been out the one time when she attended three matinees as
described. Believe it or not.</p>
<p>"The next night we each—the two detectives and I—tried to steal a
march on one another and called her up and asked her to go out. To our
individual surprise, she agreed in each case. To our collective
surprise, she kept all three dates on the same night. She walked
through the trees in this vicinity with me. She also drove down the road
in the auto with one of my detectives, and she went dancing with the
other. She was in three places miles apart at one and the same time.</p>
<p>"We each brought her home within a half hour of the other and we are
swearing to that. Either we are all hypnotized or else there are three
identical Misses Jouret.</p>
<p>"Jouret himself treats us all wonderfully, gives us the run of the
house, and tries to talk us to death."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>The strange document was subscribed by Lees and the two detectives and
was held by Ferguson pending developments.</p>
<p>The next report from Lees read:</p>
<p>"I had a chance to prowl around the Jouret house a little while waiting
for Miss Jouret to dress. I met her twice in my ramblings and a few
minutes later she met me again, this time in a different costume.</p>
<p>"I got a chance to search the woods back of Jouret's house in the
evening. I found a spot where the earth had been disturbed, and dug up a
pair of shoes. They were number nines."</p>
<p>A fourth report from him read:</p>
<p>"We found the body of the crazed engineer. He had drowned himself in a
lake. This eliminates him as a murder suspect."</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Two weeks passed with no new developments in the "Invisible Death" case
except for the arrival of a letter demanding $1,000,000 and threatening
the life of Perkins Ferguson if the demand was ignored. It was ignored,
and only served to spur Lees and his detectives on to decisive action.</p>
<p>They decided to rush the Jouret house and kidnap Jouret with the idea of
holding him until he agreed to explain the presence of the number nine
shoes buried back of his house.</p>
<p>A low moon hung over the poplars when Lees rang the Jouret front door
bell. One detective was guarding a side door and the other a back door.</p>
<p>Suddenly Jouret was seen to jump from a second-story window. As he did,
a car driven by one of his Porto Ricans came along the drive and he
leaped into it. Lees, first to see Jouret, called his detectives. They
came running. Their car was waiting in the road.</p>
<p>The Porto Rican was seen to jump from the Jouret car just as it started
south towards New York.</p>
<p>Lees took up the race. Both cars had plenty of power, but the Jouret car
suddenly disappeared as a low humming noise began to break the stillness
of the night.</p>
<p>One of the detectives was at the wheel. Lees, as usual, was giving
orders:</p>
<p>"Keep close to that hum. Never mind that you cannot <i>see</i> the car. It is
there all right. If you can gain on it enough, drive right into it."</p>
<p>"Righto!" shouted the detective. "We're wise to him now."</p>
<p>The humming noise was taking on speed with every second. So was Lees'
car. Soon Lees' car was making sixty miles an hour with the hum just
ahead and barely audible.</p>
<p>Past traffic lights, over bridges and grade crossings the mad chase of
the phantom continued.</p>
<p>Wildly racing through the night, missing other cars by a breath, the
big, visible auto continued its pursuit of—what?</p>
<p>Careening, Lees' car rounded a curve, and, above the hum just ahead,
they heard the shouted curses of their quarry. But he could not be seen.
Lees could only see the road marked by his lights.</p>
<p>Mile after mile the wild, uncanny chase of the phantom continued.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Soon the lights of New York could be seen in the distance. The cars were
forced to slow down somewhat. Suddenly there was a thundering crash
ahead. A car was twisted in a mass of tangled wreckage.</p>
<p>Feminine and masculine shrieks blended as Lees' car piled up on the
wrecked heap. A third car, becoming suddenly visible, rolled over and
brought up at the edge of the road. From this car emerged the limping,
cursing form of Jouret.</p>
<p>From the wreckage three painfully injured young men dragged and tore
themselves. Then they leaped—ignoring their hurts—at the limping
figure.</p>
<p>The fight was on. Jouret was heavy and powerful and proved an obstinate
fighter, for he knew he was fighting for his life. He bit and clawed. He
kicked with one uninjured leg and butted with his massive head.</p>
<p>Lees and his detectives were fighting with no respect for the rules.
Lees managed to get his two hands on the bull-neck of Jouret just as one
detective connected a duet of blows to the man's wind.</p>
<p>Lees' hands closed in a steely grip, and soon Jouret was limp and
helpless.</p>
<p>They held him there. An ambulance arrived. A few minutes later a police
auto with reserves came on the scene. The police shackled Jouret.</p>
<p>The car that had been hit by the phantom was a light sedan. It was
occupied by two women. Their bodies were drawn from the wreckage. Both
were dead—innocents sacrificed to the blood madness of a maniac.</p>
<p>Jouret was right about himself. He was a paranoic with a strongly
developed homicidal mania.</p>
<p>In the wreckage was found a package containing $200,000 and also two
twisted and broken mechanisms. One of these was about the size of an
ordinary kitchen coffee-mill, and the other slightly larger.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>Regarding these machines, Lees wrote in a report:</p>
<p>"While making a fourth search of Darrow's laboratory, I found the
equations, specifications and what I believe to be the full plans for
the last invention of the ingenious Darius Darrow.</p>
<p>"Many of the most astounding inventions and discoveries have resulted
from theories which were laughed to scorn at the time they were
advanced. Roebling's plans for the Brooklyn Bridge resulted in a meeting
of the foremost engineers of the day. All agreed that the plans were
built on a false premise. They argued that the bridge would fall of its
own weight. Then they all had a good laugh. The bridge still stands.</p>
<p>"Watching smoke float over a hill from army camp fires caused an early
French scientist to dream of filling a bag full of smoke and riding with
it over the hill. The first balloon was the answer to this dream.</p>
<p>"James Watt is said to have gotten his idea for a steam engine from
watching a lid on a tea-kettle dance under steam pressure.</p>
<p>"When Langley was flying his man-carrying kites the Wright brothers
dreamed of hitching an engine and a propeller to a giant kite. The
airplane was the result of these experiments.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"Darrow got his idea from watching a rapidly revolving wheel. He noticed
that the spokes and rim blended into a blurred disc when a certain speed
was reached. The entire wheel was practically invisible, under certain
lighting conditions, when a higher speed was attained.</p>
<p>"Darrow went further and reached the conclusion that there was a rate of
vibration that would produce invisibility. This was accepted in
practically all engineering research plants, long before it was
perfected by Darrow.</p>
<p>"The facts are that any rapidly vibrating object becomes more and more
difficult to outline as its rate of vibration increases. All that was
left for Darrow was to arrive at the exact mathematical time, tone, or
rate of vibration producing invisibility and to construct a vibrator
tuned to produce this condition.</p>
<p>"His first machine produced the vibrations of invisibility in a field
with a three-foot radius in all directions. That is, it caused every
solid object, within this atmospheric field, to vibrate at the rate,
tone, or speed of invisibility. This machine was in no sense rotary. It
departed from the original example of a revolving wheel and entered
instead into general vibration in a given or measured field.</p>
<p>"The pulsations or vibrations of an ordinary automobile engine will
cause every ounce of metal, or solid, in the automobile—including the
driver—to vibrate at the same rate or momentum. This is a known fact,
and it provided the basis for Darrow's experiments.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"Darrow built two machines. The first had a field with a radius of three
feet on all sides. This was used by the killer in his murders. Jouret
stole this machine first, thus paving his way for the second robbery.</p>
<p>"With the first machine in his possession, Jouret was able to commit the
Darrow murder without being seen. He had to have the second and larger
machine, however, to make his auto disappear. He stole the larger
machine at the time of the Darrow murder, and with it he had his auto
vanish, as the gardener testified.</p>
<p>"Both machines were hopelessly smashed in the wreck, but with Darrow's
documents at hand, we might be able to construct another and a larger
model. A machine built on the proper scale will make a plane or a
battleship invisible and should, as Darrow said, make war against this
country impossible.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>"Digging into Jouret's history we found that the 'Misses Jouret' were
one-cell triplets. Their mother, Mrs. Doris Nettleton, an English woman,
was a member of Jouret's troupe, as was the father.</p>
<p>"The mother died at the birth of the triplets. The father died a few
years later. The company was touring Australia at the time. Jouret and
the father had the birth of only one baby recorded. She was named Doris,
after the mother. The other girls also used this one name. They now have
only one name among them until the court gives them individual names.</p>
<p>"Jouret never let but one girl be seen at a time. The reason was that he
and the father had planned to use the girls, when grown, to create a
surprising stage illusion. In this illusion, one girl was to act as the
earthly body and the other girls as the astral bodies of the same
purported individual.</p>
<p>"The father died, and Jouret retired before he ever got around to
staging the illusion. Jouret continued the deception, however, because
it appealed to his showman's nature.</p>
<p>"The girls, at all times, were under the hypnotic control of Jouret,
and, of course, knew nothing of his crazed intellect or crimes. Upon his
arrest Jouret released the girls from the spell of years.</p>
<p>"The Misses Nettleton say that Jouret was always kind to them and was an
ethical showman until his mind gave way.</p>
<p>"I told the triplets that I might find them employment with our concern,
but they prefer to follow in the footsteps of their mother and father,
and return to the stage."</p>
<p>Ferguson, quite his normal self once more, since Farnsworth was
recovering slowly, twitted Lees about being in love with one of the
triplets. Lees admitted they were most gorgeous blondes, but insisted he
preferred one brunette.</p>
<p>"Then another thing," added Lees. "Any man who falls in love with one of
the Nettleton triplets will never be sure just which one he fell in love
with."</p>
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