"We are all here now, Nestor. And all very anxious to hear what you
have to say. What is this invention that can have such effects?"
demanded Fordham. The big, gray-haired ruddy-faced man looked nervous,
and worried.
"Atomic energy," said Nestor shortly. The three men started, and gasped
slightly.
"Are you sure?" asked Ringman in a slightly unsteady voice.
"Atkill was working on it for me, and in the meantime Warren did the
job. Three of my men brought back tales of some of the things he could
do." Briefly he told them of Atkill's report, and the men's stories.
There was a long silence as the men thought of the meaning of this.
"Then--then he can put us out of business," said Benholt heavily.
"Without even a battle. He can sell mega-watt hours for what you sell
watt hours. He can make airships that don't use engines, just tiny
spots of that fire. We're ruined if that invention is sold. That is, if
it is sold by him," he added with a sly look.
"Yes, if he sold it to some company--"
"But on the other hand," Nestor interrupted, "If he should
unfortunately die, why perhaps his heirs would not display his acumen.
He has no brother, nor sister, no near relative. I have investigated,
and the only relative I have located is a second cousin once-removed.
He is a teller in a country bank, and his name is--James Oswell Jessop.
Mr. Jessop has a wife and three children, he is about forty-five years
of age, and I am sure, would consider fifty thousand an enormous
fortune."
"If Pacific Coast Power Lines fail, I lose three hundred millions, and
the other investors lose another billion and three quarters," said
Ringman. His voice was shaky. The temptation was great--and he knew
what Nestor meant.
"What could we do with the patent if we had it, that we could not do by
buying it?" demanded Fordham.
"Cover it up," snapped Nestor.
"Why couldn't we do the same if we bought it?"
"Do you think for a second he'd let you? He'd sell you the power
rights, yes, but he wouldn't sell you the other rights that it
involves."
"Why not buy it and use it ourselves?" asked Benholt doubtfully.
"Because," said Nestor with a deadly quiet in his voice, "Because there
won't be any power companies after that is on the market. Don't you
fools see that they won't need an outside plant for generating power?
Don't you see that trains, factories, small towns, apartments, and
perhaps homes even, will simply use an individual plant. Why is a big
plant used to-day? Because it's near a waterfall, near a coal mine or
near a number of big towns, and because a big plant is more efficient
than a small one. And because they require skilled supervision.
"Atkill says this can be developed so that it will need no supervision.
And it certainly needs _no_ wisdom to see that no fuel is needed save a
tiny bit of matter, iron evidently. Who cares for efficiency? Why worry?
"Warren won't sell power--he'll sell power plants!
"Now, do you see why you can't let that invention become public."
"And where do you come in, Nestor?" asked Fordham softly.
"He'd ruin my aircraft business in an instant; he'd ruin every industry
I have a touch in, except the iron and steel industry.
"And I couldn't buy him over before he completed his discovery."
Fordham smiled bleakly. "And what would you have done had you been able
to get it?" he asked.
"Used it myself, naturally," replied Nestor. "And what would you have
done in my position?" He looked shrewdly and frankly at the bigger,
younger man.
"Well, what are we going to do?" asked Ringman, raising his head from
his hands.
"Wait. I think that we will know as soon as Warren gets his patents
filed. At present he has only a half-dozen sealed envelopes of Process
Discovery. When he's completed his research and not before, he'll turn
in his patents. In case we could discover anything, his filed patents
would prevent our using it.
"On the other hand, if we wait, and he were--to die--why we could buy
the completed patents from his heir, Jessop in this case."
"And what do you want of us?" demanded Fordham.
"Your help," replied Nestor. Then rapidly he outlined his plan to them.
* * * * *
"Lord, Putt, there're more things, more angles to this than a fly has
eyes. We certainly can't test all these things here on earth. The
explosive for instance--the disintegrating field. Half a dozen of these
things can't possibly be tested here on earth, and the only answer
is--go try it on an asteroid. We'll have to build a flying laboratory,"
said Warren.
"I agree--for more reasons than one. Now what sort of a thing had you
in mind?"
"A dirigible-shaped ship, about two hundred feet long, and perhaps
thirty-five feet diameter. We'd mount several big energy centers in the
exact middle of the ship. We have found the gravity-field secret, and
can use that. The walls of the ship could be made of beryllium, perhaps
eight inches thick for emergencies--"
"Beryllium--eight inches for emergencies," exclaimed Putney. "Lord,
beryllium is so--I forget. It's impossible to buy, but we can make all
we need. All we need is a sufficient amount of some other element! But
then, eight inches for emergencies! That's no more than a good wall in
space," protested Putney.
"Uhuh--that's why it's an emergency fixture. We won't use material
walls, we'll keep a permanent wall of force. The X-573 field.
Meteors--nothing will pass that."
"Right. Much better. And then how do we drive it?"
"Well, we could drive it ahead by simply moving the wall along. Since
that is determined in space by the coordinates of our control, all
we'd have to do is advance them. But why not use the gravity-field as
well? For high accelerations it would be a lot better. We couldn't use
it here on earth, or on any planet, but once free, we'd get a lot more
acceleration, because we wouldn't feel it."[1]
[Footnote 1: The wall of force known as field X-573 was created at
any point the operator wished, by merely setting the controls. The
coordinates so selected ruled the placing of the field in space. Thus
by placing it at one point, and advancing the controls gradually, it
simply moved through space, any force its movement applied, reacting
directly on space, not on its source of energy. This apparent "lifting
by the bootstraps" seems to defy the third law of motion, but actually
the reaction is taken up by space, by the intertwined fields of a
million millions suns. Similarly, if the gravitational field was
fixed in space, then the ship would fall into it, and changing its
coordinates would move it along as did the force-field.]
"Good. Now those ideas--say I like this whole thing. We'll design that
ship here and now, and Hultman can put the thing on paper for us."
They started then to plan the ship. "_Prometheus_" they called it, for
it bore the torch of the everlasting fire that would light man's way
henceforth.
* * * * *
The grey concrete walls of the laboratory seemed bursting with the
great lustrous thing that lay on the floor of the long, bare room. It
was a shining, iridescent dirigible of metal, with long streaks of
windows set in its side; curious projectors and little ports, that
seemed to open outward, studded the bow and stern.
But it was a beautiful thing, what one could see of it. The half-score
of men who stood below and looked up at it now seemed mightily pleased
with the great machine, over two hundred feet of shining, tapering
metal. Across the bow, above the narrow streak of window, gleaming,
golden letters a foot high stood out on the background of polished
beryllium, "PROMETHEUS."
"She works, Ran, she's magnificent." Putney's voice was low, and tense
with excitement. "Around the Moon! In an hour we did what it took
Sanderson six months to do! And old McCarthy finished those castings,
and assembled her in three months!"
"It ain't a 'she', it's a 'he'," grinned Warren. "Can't you read?"
"All right, heathen. The patents came through to-day," Putney added
irrelevantly.
"There'll be more after we've finished experimenting. I think we'd
better wait till we have everything, before we try to sell anything,
don't you?"
"I agree, Ran. Well, we ought to find plenty.
"In the meantime--let's turn in. We can start to-morrow. The ship's
stocked, ready, and waiting. One of you men want to volunteer for----"
A Raid Foiled
The men started, and looked quickly toward a switchboard, half
dismantled at one side of the room. A loud, humming note came from it,
and a light blinked rapidly, more and more rapidly--and then there was
a sudden terrific explosion. A huge crack appeared across one side of
the room, the wall reeled, staggered, and collapsed with a terrific
crash. Simultaneously the lights went out, and only a ghostly light
came from a small flame, a clear white flame burning steadily on the
top of a small block of iron, the size of a match box.
"Air raid--they're trying to kill us!" gasped Warren.
"Damn--into the ship!" roared Putney. The men leaped in at his heels.
Putney whirled, and raced down a long corridor toward the nose, up
a flight of metal steps, two at a time, and flung himself into the
control room. Flying fingers clicked over half a dozen tumblers,
low thuds of closing plunger switches came from behind, and then a
shimmering in the air about the ship, just as the second bomb flashed
down. The great mass of concrete that was the west wall seemed tired.
It began to lie down. Something seemed to stop it half a dozen feet
from the wall of the ship, and it slid down on some invisible surface.
A perfect rain of bombs pulverised it and every part of the building,
before it completed its fall.
Something began to glow through the dust of the fallen building. It
glowed white and clear, and seemed brightening rapidly. The dust
had gone now, and a clear light shone over the scarred grounds, and
the great ship shone like a heliograph. The light grew, and grew,
the ground began to melt, the rocks commenced to glow bright as the
awful flame increased in volume. A terrific roar of air grew louder
and louder. Trees bent over, bent toward that spot where a draft of
white-hot air was rushing up, the wind grew, and the trees toppled,
rolled--and burst into terrific flaming gas.
"The little flare--the everlasting flame--it's broken free, and going
faster!" somebody cried from the rear of the ship.
"Putt--quick--we haven't tried it before, but we'll have to. X-785!
Settings, take them: X-54-235, Y-87-452, X-32-81 and T-68 plus 436."
Warren's voice rang out sharply, as he read from the notebook he had
snapped out as he saw the flare growing. It was growing beyond bounds
now----
Setting the Control Dials
Putney's flying fingers set the dials, then turned the little tumbler
switch that threw the collossal power of the main burner into the
field, a glowing ball of light ten feet in diameter, feeding on an
eleven ton ingot of iron.
There was a sigh, a soft, gentle sigh from all about them, and
something wrenched at them, tore them apart, and hurled the separate
individual atoms each in a different direction with an awful speed. The
awful blaze of light was gone. The lights of the ship were gone--they
were gone themselves, in an utter blankness.
* * * * *
Six giant airplanes had come rumbling across the sky, their eighteen
powerful gasoline turbines whispering softly to themselves, the fuel
pumps chuckling gently, maliciously. Two pilots, one navigator, one
bomber rode each plane, and with them went a huge cargo of high
explosives, dressed in neat steel jackets. In all, there were thirty
tons of highly explosive nitrogen compounds aboard the six planes.
They slipped through the air with scarcely a sound, specially silenced
propellors, specially designed wings that merely rustled through the
air even at two hundred and fifty miles an hour, and already nearly
noiseless turbines. There was no sound, and practically no light. Only
a faint glow from each plane, that was projected slightly upward.
They could be seen only from above, and the leading plane was lowest.
They were far from the lighted air routes here, and far from towns or
houses, other than the dimly seen laboratory seven thousand feet below.
"Ready, Bert. Drop your first three," said the navigator of the leading
plane. Three darkly shining ovals slid down through the starlight. They
disappeared, then suddenly there was a tremendous flash of flame, and
a roaring explosion a few seconds later. It was immediately followed
by the detonation of the three bombs of the next ship, then the next,
and the next. The buildings had opened out, and a great patch of light
showed on the rocky hills. The second explosion darkened this suddenly,
but in that instant, a gleam of metal had stood out in the lighted
building, a great sheet of polished metal.
Bombings from the Air
It was gone when the lights blinked out. Six heavy detonations,
eighteen separate bombs, followed. Then silence as the planes turned
for a second try.
Something began to glow down there. A fire had started perhaps? It grew
swiftly brighter, a white, unwinking light that could not be a fire, it
was too steady, too white and changeless, save for a rapid increase in
brightness. The heaped ruins of the laboratory were already beginning
to glow slightly, then brighter and brighter. They slumped, and a globe
of white fire lit the landscape, and threw a brilliant stabbing light
to the heavens that made the planes stand out brilliantly.
"Damn--searchlights--turn and drop everything you've got," ordered the
leading pilot. Five other pilots heard his orders over their radio. The
planes swooped, and turned. Twenty-four tons of explosives rained down
toward the white light. They went off in the air as they approached,
the terrific heat set the bombs glowing when they were fifty feet away,
and exploded them instantly.
Suddenly the white died down, it flared brilliantly, blindingly
violet-blue--the pilots screamed in agony, the entire planes turned
red, and shooting flames sprang from the gas-tanks. The turbines
shrieked suddenly as though in agony, and burst with popping explosions.
Six flaming, white-hot planes dropped earth-ward. They dropped toward
a pit of white-hot rock half a mile across that heaved and boiled, and
spewed forth great volumes of gas.
There was nothing else there. The ball of violet flame was gone, the
laboratory was gone--and the six bombing planes were vanishing in blobs
of white-hot gas.
The Putney and Warren Research Laboratories had vanished.
Next dawn a crowd of men were watching the still-glowing rock, and
flights of airplanes wheeled slowly overhead. Newsplanes were taking
pictures, telenews planes were projecting the view on ten thousand
screens in New York and New Jersey. Beyond local interest, an
explanation of the slight earth-tremor that had shaken the district, it
had no meaning.
And a certain up-state bank cashier, one James Oswell Jessop, was
visited by a lawyer from the firm of Powers and Mulroony, who informed
him he was sole heir of Randolph Warren, who had unfortunately died in
an accident in his laboratory the preceding evening. Mr. Warren was a
scientist. Had he heard of him? Mr. Jessop had not. Had Dr. Warren left
anything? Yes, a little something. A few patents. Would he like to sell
them? Gladly--how much could he get?
A Sale of Patents at a Trivial Price
Three weeks later he received the enormous sum of thirty thousand
dollars for the patents that could have remade the world, blasted a
thousand industries, and brought every nation of the earth trembling to
submission before their owner!