CHAPTER XII

_One Tumultuous Night_

I come now with very little more to record.

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.

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.

"Your modern world is very aggressive, Charlie. I would not want to

chance having my mechanism duplicated--a conquering army coming in

here."

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.

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.

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.

An inexplicable tragedy. Why should anyone believe that they were the

three crimson nobles whom Derek attacked with his strange ray?

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.

The Stolen Mind

By M. L. Staley

[Illustration: _The structure, pivoting downward, plunged Quest to his

waist in the osmotic solution._]

[Sidenote: What would you do, if, like Quest, you were tricked, and your

very Mind and Will stolen from your body?]

"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.

"Why does any man apply for a job?" he bristled.

Keane Clason gave an impatient smile.

"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."

"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."

"Good," said Clason. "And you feel that you have all the necessary

qualifications?"

"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."

Clason smiled his approval.

"You say you need money. How much immediately?"

Quest was unprepared for the question.

"A thousand dollars," he ventured.

Without hesitation Clason counted out ten one-hundred-dollar notes from

his wallet and laid them on the table.

"There's your advance fee. You're ready to go to work immediately, I

hope?"

"Certainly," stammered Quest.

Stunned by the swiftness of the transaction, he sat staring at the money

that lay untouched before him.

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.

* * * * *

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.

"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 _de_structive weapon known to man. The other I consider the most

_con_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.

"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.

"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!"

"How?" demanded Quest "I've heard of a device called the Death Ray. Is

this it?"

"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.

"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.

"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."

* * * * *

"Have you ever proved it?" demanded Quest skeptically.

"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!

"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."

"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."

"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.

"But this other invention, our Osmotic Liberator, makes it possible for

me to gain control of Philip and actually _change his mind_, 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."

* * * * *

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.

"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."

Clason gave a short laugh.

"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."

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.

"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.

* * * * *

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

* * * * *

"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."

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.

"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."

* * * * *

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.

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?

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:

6 stroke 4--9:45A--Hired. If no report in 48 hours, clamp down

hard.

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?

"We must act instantly," hissed the inventor. "Philip plans to close the

transaction within a day."

In spite of himself, Quest jumped upright in his chair. Clason tapped

him on the shoulder reassuringly.

"It's all right," he smiled, "I'm ready for him. We'll make our move

this afternoon and beat him by eighteen hours.

"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.

"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?"

* * * * *

"I think so," said Quest slowly. "But what becomes of me after you have

frustrated Philip's plot?"

"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."

"You're sure you can?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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."

"All right, sir," nodded Quest, so dazed by the glittering light that he

was hardly conscious of what he said.

* * * * *

"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.

"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."

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.

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.

"No need to stay here," he said in sudden irritation. "I understand

perfectly what I am to do."

"I'm testing my own acrobatic ability," grunted Clason amiably. "Just a

minute now."

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.

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.

"What floor?" asked the latter, with an excitement which Quest felt

instantly was pure pretense. "Are you sure they haven't spirited him

away?"

"Don't worry," replied the leader of the detectives. "The alley and roof

are covered. We'll take care of the rest ourselves."

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.

On the top landing Burke, the leader, paused to count the doors from

front to rear.

"This is it," he whispered to the bull-necked fellow just behind him.

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.

* * * * *

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.

"Here he is!" someone shouted.

"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.

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.

"What time is it?" he demanded with an air of alarm.

"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?"

"No," grunted Philip, "just lamed up. I'll be as fit as ever by

to-morrow."

"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?"

* * * * *

Philip frowned and shook his head.

"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."

"You mean the ship was gliding down to land?"

"No, no. I was dangling from a parachute.... By the way, where am I

now?"

"In a Munson Avenue loft."

"In Chicago?"

Burke nodded.

"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."

"And they were all strangers to you?"

"Yes--those that I saw."

"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."

"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?"

Philip gave a frightened start. Then he was on his feet, clutching at

his brother's arm.

"Keane!" he pleaded, "Keane! What's happened? I know, I know! It's the

Projector."

"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!"

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.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

The younger of Burke's aides stood fascinated, his mouth agape. The

other spoke guardedly to his superior:

"Dope, eh!"

"Nah!" replied Burke, shrugging himself out of his trance. "Shock."

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.

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.

"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."

* * * * *

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.

"I'm badly done up, Keane," he said with Philip's lips as the car got

under way.

"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.

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

"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?"

Quest could find no words. With Philip's head he nodded meekly. Just

then the car stopped and the chauffeur threw open the door.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

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!

"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!"

* * * * *

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.

"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."

"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."

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.

"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.

"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."

"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."

* * * * *

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.

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.

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:

"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."

"A question occurs to me," said the Doctor: "will others be able to

manipulate the machine as successfully as you can?"

"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."

"Very well," shrugged Nukharin. "I only want to be sure that no

unforeseen difficulties may arise in an emergency."

"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."

"And is there no danger of the machine going wrong--of destroying itself

and us?" suggested Nukharin.

"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.

"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."

"Please proceed," said Nukharin grimly.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Come," said Philip in a triumphant tone to Nukharin, "and I will show

you that Clason inventions perform as well as they sound."

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.

"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!"

The only response was a gurgling sound that issued from Nukharin's

throat.

"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."

"Enough of this," croaked Nukharin in horror. "The deal is closed."

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.

"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."

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.

* * * * *

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.

"Hello!", he said in a hoarse voice.

"Get the hell out here to the factory!" rasped Keane, and the crash of

the receiver emphasized the command.

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.

Then he was face to face with Keane, reeling dizzily at the hatred that

blazed from the latter's accusing eyes.

"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!"

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:

DOOM LAUNCH ADRIFT ON LAKE

Physician Baffled by Condition of Five Bodies Found in Craft

Blighted Area on Shore Said to Have Bearing on Tragedy

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.

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.

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.

Philip faced his brother with eyes that were dull with agony.

"You have made me a murderer!" Quest forced out the words in painful

gasps.

But Keane snapped back at him like a rabid dog.

"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!"

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.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

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!

* * * * *

A sudden rushing sound filled the air with a sense of action and alarm.

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.

"Come on!" he spat at Philip as he snatched back the rug and threw open

the trap door.

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.

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.

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?

Thud, thud! Then came a series of sharp reports. Outside, they were

trying to shoot away the deep-sunk disk hinges.

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.

* * * * *

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!

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:

"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."

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.

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.

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.

"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!"

* * * * *

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.

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.

"Quick!" gasped Keane. "Move! I say. Carry me out."

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.

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.

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.

Then Philip was clinging desperately to the ladder, his strength gone,

his body shivering as if with ague.

"Go on up!" came a strange, impatient voice from below him. "For

heaven's sake let me out of here!"

* * * * *

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.

"Philip!" he urged. "Philip! Can you walk?"

The tattoo on the battered door helped to revive the older man.

"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?"

Philip nodded dazedly.

"Hurry!" puffed Quest, thrusting him through the opening that Keane had

reserved for his own escape, and sliding the panel back into place.

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.

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.

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.

"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?"

Quest turned toward the platform, expecting to see Keane.

"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!"

* * * * *

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.

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.

Compensation

By C. V. Tench

[Illustration: _Good God! Was I going mad? Surely this was some awful

nightmare!_]

[Sidenote: Professor Wroxton had disappeared--but in the bottom of the

mysterious crystal cage lay the diamond from his ring.]

"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.

"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."

"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.

Hastily shedding my outer things, I bade him again be seated, sat down

facing him, and asked him to explain.

"'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."

"Why--" I began.

"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."

* * * * *

"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."

"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."

"Go on," I urged, seeing he was not finished.

"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--"

"Recluse," I suggested.

"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."

"Go on," I again urged, some of his perturbation communicating itself to

me.

"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."

"And after that?" I asked, now feeling decidedly uneasy.

"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."

"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."

"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."

"You mean to suggest then," I shot at him, "that two full grown men have

completely vanished? It's absurd, John, absurd!"

* * * * *

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.

"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."

"I hope to Heaven, sir, that you're right." With that we left the

building and entered my car.

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.

"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."

In spite of myself a chill shook my whole body. Gently handing her to

John, I strode up the steps.

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.

* * * * *

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.

Even now, as I gazed into the dimly-lighted hallway, the air seemed

charged with that same malignant something I cannot describe.

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

* * * * *

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!"

"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."

"It's his diamond, sir," intoned the old man, dully. "I know it is."

Then a sudden unreasoning terror filled me. I shrank away from that

shining box. It seemed to be mocking me, gloatingly, malevolently.

"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!

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.

"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."

* * * * *

He suddenly straightened up in his seat, and pointed at me a thick

forefinger.

"How long have you known Professor Wroxton?"

"About ten years," I answered.

"What was he trying to invent?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"And yet you had his confidence in other matters?"

"But what has all this to do with finding out what has become of my

friend?" I blurted out. "Perhaps every moment counts."

"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?"

"I can't say." I shifted uneasily under that direct stare. "Somehow I

_feel_ that something dreadful has happened to my friend."

"We do not go by _feelings_." 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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.

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."

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.

With calculating gaze the chief slowly took in every detail of the stone

apartment. He turned to me.

"What is there here to be afraid of?" I pointed hesitatingly towards the

crystalline cage. The chief and his men strode across to it.

"You don't know how to open this?" the chief shot at me after a brief

examination.

"No," I replied. "It was not here on my last visit."

"When was that?"

"Some two or three months ago", I answered. "My work occasions much

traveling on my part."

* * * * *

The chief and his men turned again to the cage, talking in undertones.

He turned again to me.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"It's the professor's," I choked, crowding close to him.

"How'd you know?" he shot back. "All unset stones look pretty much

alike."

"I just know," was all I could falter.

"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!"

* * * * *

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?

"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.

"Professor Wroxton was a wealthy man without kith or kin?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the nature of his will?"

"Yes." Chilled to the heart, I felt the circumstantial net tightening.

"What is its nature?"

"This house and an annuity to John and his wife," I explained. "The

residue of his wealth to me."

"Humph!" The chief stared at me piercingly. "And how has business been

with you lately?"

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.

"For the past year," I replied, "business has been very poor. In fact,

the professor advanced me some money."

"Humph!" Again that irritating, non-committal grunt.

* * * * *

The chief turned in his seat and stared thoughtfully at the crystalline

cage.

"And you don't know what the professor was trying to invent?"

"Only its nature," I began.

"Ah! That's better. Why didn't you tell me that before?" The chief

leaned forward.

"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."

"Ah!"

"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."

"And exactly what is an absolute zero?" The chief's eyes never left

mine.

"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."

"And exactly what is an absolute zero?"

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.

"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."

* * * * *

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.

"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 _container_."

"Why?" Those eyes continued to bore into mine.

"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.

"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:

"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."

"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.

"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."

"Without unlocking any doors or taking a car, eh?

"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?"

"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."

"And he didn't." Every word condemned me, and roused me to retaliate.

"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.

* * * * *

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.

He interrupted my thoughts.

"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."

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.

"Mr. Thornton," the chief said, "I have serious news for you. I have

positive proof your friend is dead."

"Dear God!" The exclamation was wrung from me as recollection returned

with a rush. "Where? You can't have!"

"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."

Last night! Surely it was years.

"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.

* * * * *

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:

Dear Thornton:

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.

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!

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.

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 _the inside of the cage_.

Please destroy the cage. It will have brought compensation to me

before you read this.

Good-by, dear friend!

Wroxton.

"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.

Tanks

_By Murray Leinster_

... The deciding battle of the War of 1932 was the first in which

the use of infantry was practically discontinued ...

--History of the U.S., 1920-1945 (Gregg-Harley).

[Illustration: _Row after row of the monsters roared by, going greedily

with hungry guns into battle._]

[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.]

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Gimme a drag o' that, Pete," he suggested. "I'll slip y' some butts in

a minute."

* * * * *

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.

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.

"Hey!" said Corporal Wallis in alarm.

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.

"When y' ain't got much time," said Sergeant Coffee amiably, "that's a

quick smoke."

Corporal Wallis regarded the ruins of his cigarette with a woeful air.

"Hell!" said Corporal Wallis gloomily. But he smoked what was left.

"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."

He hung up, gloomily, and turned to Corporal Wallis.

"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."

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.

"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."

* * * * *

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.

"What we got to do?" he asked, watching as Sergeant Coffee divided the

treasure-trove into two scrupulously exact portions.

"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'."

Corporal Wallis gloated over one-fourth of a sack of tobacco and stowed

it away.

"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."

"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."

Corporal Wallis followed as he emerged from the little round cone of

the pill-box.

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.

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.

"Cast around," said Coffee gloomily. "Maybe we'll find a shell, or

tracks of a tank or somethin' that chucked the gas here."

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.

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.

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.

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.

* * * * *

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.

"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--"

"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."

"Gas," said the general, noting the spot. "Their new gas, of course. It

must go through masks or sag-paste, or both."

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.

"Captain Harvey," said the general, "you are sure that dead spot has not

been bombarded with gas-shells?"

"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."

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.