CHAPTER XI

_To the Death_

The emergency steadied Keith's fingers. He got the door open and

motioned Graham and six men inside the water chamber. The passage took

but a minute. Then he sent the rest of the crew in, being himself the

last to enter. When the chamber was finally empty, and Wells had

stepped through the inner door onto the lower deck of the _NX-1_, a

great sigh of relief broke from him. Never before had anything looked

so good as that brilliantly lit deck with its familiar maze of

machinery and bulkheads.

"Thank God," he said simply, and his joy was shared by the whole crew.

A new feeling had come over them. Back home--in their own submarine,

their own element--they had at least a fighting chance with the

octopi. But Keith let them waste no time. He knew that a final,

desperate duel to the death with their foe still was ahead. "Above to

the control room," he ordered. "Fast!"

They lumbered up the connecting ramp. A disheveled, wild-eyed form met

them. Keith couldn't help chuckling as he passed the now much thinner

and paler cook, with the arsenal handy at his waist. On the deck of

the control room lay a huge tentacled body, metal-scaled, with its

dome of glass shattered and its great cold eyes staring unseeingly

away. "I killed him," stammered McKegnie pridefully; "but Mr.

Wells--look at that red light, sir!"

Keith glanced rapidly at the location chart, ripping off his sea-suit

as he did. The fateful red stud was moving swiftly down on the

motionless green one. The men had surrounded McKegnie, laughing and

slapping him on the back, but the commander's terse orders jerked them

abruptly back to action.

"The rectifiers, Graham: clean out this stale air. Sea-suits off; at

emergency posts. Take the helm, Craig; you, Wetherby, trim the ship.

No, no, Cook--keep away from the controls!"

The _NX-1_ balanced herself; fresh air came rushing in, sweeping out

the stale. Keith stared at the location chart, waiting for the

submarine to be ready. The red light was almost upon them.

"Right!" he roared at last. "Diving rudder controls, Graham! Full

speed for the tunnel!"

* * * * *

At that moment the octopi ship swept into view, its full battery of

offensive weapons flaring forth. The paralyzing ray tingled again and

again over the control room. Someone laughed at its uselessness. The

violet heat ray leveled full at them, but the commander avoided it

with "Port ten, starboard ten! Maintain zigzag course to the tunnel."

He understood the enemy's weapons now; he was throbbing with the

fierce thrill of action. This duel was to be the climax of their whole

adventure. "And, by heaven," he promised, "it's going to be a fight!"

The other craft seemed to realize the _NX-1_ was now in expert hands.

She raced along to starboard for some minutes, her heat ray trying

vainly to steady on the American's weaving form. Wells wondered if the

king of the octopi was aboard her, in command; he thought perhaps the

ship had postponed her chase of McKegnie to pick him up. "I hope he

is!" the commander breathed, and fingered the torpedo lever. He had

some debts to pay.

The _NX-1_, engines working smoothly, proceeded on a desperate dash

for the tunnel that led to the outer sea. But the octopi ship

apparently knew what Keith intended, for she abandoned her offensive

rays, changed course a few degrees and slowly but steadily pulled

ahead. "Damn!" Keith exclaimed. "She'll get there before us!"

The dim shape dwindled on the screen, and before long her bulk had

disappeared entirely. Wells then could watch her swift, straight

progress only on the location chart.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later the funnel-like opening of the tunnel loomed on the

teleview, and squarely in front, blocking it, was the waiting form of

the octopi submarine.

"Quarter speed!" Keith snapped. "Hold her steady, Graham; I'm going to

try a bow torpedo. I think we're beyond their ray."

Sighting his range on the telescopic range-finder, he worked the

_NX-1_ slowly into position. He noticed that his first officer was

staring oddly at him. He was bothered by the queer look. "What's

wrong?" he asked impatiently.

"But--what about Hemmy Bowman?"

Bowman! In the rush of action and suspense, Keith Wells had completely

forgotten his officer in the enemy submarine. "Oh, God!" he groaned.

The cruel situation that had stayed his hand once before had again

come to falter his course of action. The men were watching him; Graham

had a question in his eyes. They all knew what had to be decided....

Keith shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. It was his greater duty to

destroy the octopi submarine. And yet--

"Fish for Hemmy, Sparks," he ordered. "Craig, keep present distance

from enemy. Full stop."

A moment later the radio operator looked up. "Mr. Bowman on the

phones, sir." With a heavy weight on his heart the commander clipped

on the extension headphones.

"Hemmy?"

"Keith? Keith? Thank God you're alive!" Bowman's voice shook with

gladness. "You're all back on the _NX-1_, Keith? The whole crew's with

you? Oh, Lord, it's good to hear you again!"

"Yes. We got back all right, Hemmy--a miracle. They've still got you

prisoner?"

"Yes.... Keith--you're trying to dodge out of the tunnel, aren't you?"

* * * * *

Wells smiled bitterly, and as he paused to frame an answer Bowman

spoke again.

"I want you to blow up this submarine, Keith," he said quickly. "A

favor to me."

He cut Wells short when the commander started to interrupt. "Wait! Let

me finish," he pleaded. "I want to explain. I'd been hoping--but never

mind that.... Keith, a while ago I managed to work loose. I lost my

head completely and tackled these devils. It was a foolish thing to

do; they overcame me, naturally. But, in the struggle, they tore my

sea-suit."

"What!"

"Oh, just a tiny tear, or I wouldn't have lasted till now. But a leak

all the same--in the right leg. Since then I've been gripping the

edges of the fabric as tightly as I can--but I couldn't keep the water

inside this ship from seeping through. It came in slowly at first,

then faster as my hands grew numb. It's up to my neck now, Keith ...

and--it won't be long! I've just a few minutes left...."

The faint words tapered into silence.

"No!" roared Keith in a great rush of emotion. But Hemmy's eager

voice came right back:

"Oh yes, you must! It would be a mercy to kill me, Keith."

There were tears in the commander's eyes. "Are you sure, Hemmy?" he

asked. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes. It would be a mercy."

Wells' lips formed a straight grim line. His words squeezed through it

tightly. "All right, Hemmy. Thanks. Thanks. I--I'll go after them now,

old man. I'll try and keep in touch with you through the duel, but

I--I can't promise--"

He could almost see Hemingway Bowman give his old familiar smile as he

answered:

"Then so long, Keith!"

* * * * *

Commander Keith Wells studied the teleview screen. The men were half

afraid to look at his strained blanched face.

Repeatedly the violet beam speared through the water, reaching for the

_NX-1's_ bow.

"Turn ship. Line up for stern torpedoes," the commander ordered

harshly. He realized he could not hold his submarine steady to obtain

a perfect sight, for the heat ray needed only thirty seconds to melt

through their shell. He would have to swing the ship slowly about;

and, as the shape of the enemy crossed the hair-lines on the

range-finder, unleash his torpedoes and gamble on hitting the moving

target.

The _NX-1_ swung around, always maintaining a slight forward motion

and zigzagging constantly to nullify the heat beam. Wells watched the

range-finder closely. The octopi ship slanted downwards, the deadly

violet ray stabbing from her bow. Slowly the black dot that

represented her appeared on the dial, and slowly it dropped towards

the crossed lines that showed the perfect firing point.

Keith grasped the torpedo lever. The _NX-1's_ stern was towards her

target. Dead silence hung in the control room. The _NX-1_ swung

slightly. The octopi craft appeared directly in the middle of the

dial.

Wells pulled back the lever.

The hiss of compressed air sprang from her stern. He had fired two

tubes, his whole stock of stern torpedoes. The pair of dreadful

weapons leaped out and settled on their course. Keith shot his gaze to

the teleview.

The torpedoes missed. Only by feet, but a miss all the same. They

raced on past the octopi submarine and, with a tremendous, ear-numbing

explosion, burst on the wall of the cavern beyond. Both ships reeled

from the shock. Graham swore viciously, but Wells' masklike face

showed no slightest change of expression....

A voice rang in Keith's headphones. "Tough, Keith! Better luck next

time!" Then the commander winced. He simply could not answer Hemmy

Bowman; could not answer that fine, brave voice....

* * * * *

The stern torpedoes were gone. The tubes could not be reloaded, for

the paralyzing ray bound the men to the control room. That left them

two torpedoes in the bow.

The violet heat ray kept fingering hungrily on their outer hull, and

every man knew that the plates were weakening under the steady strain,

which was only lessened by the _NX-1's_ constant zigzagging. The

control room was very hot. Both ships were now a full mile from the

tunnel entrance. Keith plunged the _NX-1_ down, swung her around, to

bring his bow tubes to bear, and zigzagged upwards.

It was obvious that the octopi craft had been alarmed by the terrific

explosion. They now adopted tactics similar to the American ship's,

and for awhile both submarines circled cautiously, maneuvering for an

opening.

"If only we could keep the ship steady!" Graham muttered. "But then

that heat ray'd get us!"

The commander kept his eyes on the teleview. Again and again the

violet shaft pronged at them. The heat grew stifling. Sweat was

pouring from all the men's bodies. Every face was strained and taut.

"Starboard full!" Wells said suddenly. "A little up, Graham!" He had

seen a chance; the octopi craft was slightly above, and in a moment

would pass directly in the line of the bow tubes. The _NX-1_ stuck her

nose up, swung rapidly to the right. Keith pulled back the firing

lever, releasing one torpedo.

The long messenger of death hurtled straight for the enemy's hull.

They watched its course breathlessly....

"My God!" the first officer groaned. "Could they see it coming?" For

the octopi submarine had swung to one side, neatly dodging the

speeding tube of dynamite.

"One left!" he added bitterly. "One left!"

* * * * *

A desperate plan formed in Keith Wells' mind. His last torpedo simply

had to strike the mark; he could take no chances with it. He motioned

the haggard-faced Graham to him.

"There's only one thing left to do," he said quietly. "We've got to

deliberately face that heat ray; chance its puncturing our plates."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"Get in very close, so as to make our last torpedo sure to hit. We've

got to approach the enemy head-on at full speed. We'll corkscrew up to

them until we get within two hundred yards, then go straight forward

for ten or fifteen seconds, giving us the opportunity to sight the

remaining torpedo directly on them. The heat ray may break through

before I fire--but when I do fire it's a sure hit."

The men had heard every word. Quietly Wells ordered:

"Take the torpedo control, Graham. I'll take the helm."

The first officer obeyed without a word. Keith grasped the helm. The

plans were made for their last desperate attempt.

"Right," the commander said shortly. "Here we go."

* * * * *

There had been a taut silence before, but now, knowing that they were

deliberately offering themselves a perfect target for the heat ray in

order to get their last torpedo home, the intensity was almost

unbearable. The men felt like shrieking, jumping--doing anything to

break the awful hush. The air was charged with the same unnameable

something that heralds a typhoon.

Keith Wells was like a white statue at the helm, save for the

betraying trickles of sweat that coursed down his drawn cheeks. His

hands moved the wheel slowly from port to starboard; his eyes bored at

the screen before him. The ship was in command of a man of steel, a

man with but one purpose....

"Up--up," he ordered. "Hold--in trim--full speed forward!"

He had brought the _NX-1_ directly in line with the octopi ship. And

now the craft leaped forward under full power, while he shot the helm

back and forth ceaselessly. His ship was describing a corkscrewing

motion, weaving straight at the enemy. Grasping her opportunity, the

octopi submarine remained motionless, steadily dousing the approaching

American craft with her silent violet ray and driving the temperature

in the control room to even greater heights.

The distance between them rapidly lessened. Would the plates stand it?

Would the ray melt through the weakened steel before he could fire?

With an effort Keith drove these doubts from his mind ... but he could

not banish a certain dull, steady ache from his consciousness....

* * * * *

The range dwindled. The heat became intolerable. Everyone's clothing

was sopping wet. A man ripped off his shirt, gasping for air. Wells

kept his eyes on the screen, though half-blinded by smarting sweat.

The plates had to give soon, he knew.

The octopi submarine, beam on and dead ahead, began to move to port at

quickly increasing speed. At once Keith stopped swinging the helm, and

the _NX-1's_ corkscrewing motion of protection ceased. And then came

the real test, the gauntlet of seconds.

Right straight into the retreating violet beam they went, at top

speed. They gained rapidly. The heat was furnace-like. The commander,

watching the range-finder, kept moving the helm slightly over. A shaft

of violet heat spanned the two shells of metal. For ten seconds it had

held on the _NX-1_. The black dot of the enemy craft moved slowly to

exact center on the dial. Fifteen seconds ... twenty ...

twenty-three--

"Fire!"

Graham jammed the torpedo lever back.

"Crash dive!"

The deck tilted downward. And Wells' white lips formed the words, "So

long, Hemmy!"--and he tore the phones from his head.

Seconds later a titanic explosion sounded through the cavern; echoed

and re-echoed in vasty roars. The American craft's lights went

off--but not before her men had seen, in the teleview, a fire-shot

maelstrom where a moment before the octopi submarine had been.

"We got them!" yelled Graham.

* * * * *

A roar of exultation burst from every throat. The men flung their arms

out, jumped, yelled crazily. Faint emergency lights lit the scene.

"Below, at regular posts," Wells ordered. "Reload bow and stern tubes.

Graham, see to the lights." He himself remained at the helm. In a few

moments the submarine had climbed back to the level of the tunnel. At

quarter speed she nosed into the wide entrance, and slowly forged into

the dense, deceptive shadows.

The commander acted mechanically. Again by touch he steered his ship

through the black, ragged cleft. Fifteen minutes after leaving the

cavern of the octopi her bow poked through the weaving kelp into the

free, salty depths of the Atlantic Ocean.

There was one more task to perform, and Wells lost no time in doing

it. When two hundred yards away he halted the _NX-1_, steadied her and

sighted the stern tubes just above the dark tunnel hole. Quickly he

sent forth two torpedoes.

A huge roar rumbled through the water, whipping the beds of kelp to

mad convulsions. "Turn around," the commander ordered harshly. He

sighted his bow tubes and again let loose a bolt of two torpedoes.

Then he sent the submarine forward, and, through the teleview,

examined what his four weapons had done.

Huge chunks of rock had been tumbled down, completely closing the

tunnel.

"Well," said Graham, "it's over! Finished! They'll never get through

that!"

* * * * *

A full-throated cheer burst from the men below, a cheer that rang for

minutes as they realized they were free forever of the octopi, of the

cold underwater city, of the clutching tentacles. Graham grinned

broadly.

"Sound happy--eh?" he chuckled. "Say, Keith, it's good we've got those

two octopi our fighting cook killed. Knapp would never believe our

story without them!"

He stared curiously at his commander. Wells was standing quite still,

facing the teleview screen. A strange, far-away look was in his eyes.

"What's the matter, old man?" the first officer asked, smiling

straight at him. "Aren't you glad we won through?"

"Of course," answered Keith with a tired smile in return.

"But why did you look that way?" Graham persisted. And Keith Wells

told him:

"I was just wondering if Hemmy told the truth."

The Black Lamp

_By Captain S. P. Meek_

[Illustration: _"Look out!" He leaped to one side as he spoke._]

[Sidenote: Dr. Bird and his friend Carnes unravel another criminal web

of scientific mystery.]

"The clue, Carnes," said Dr. Bird slowly, "lies in those windows."

Operative Carnes of the United States Secret Service shook his head

before he glanced at the windows of the famous scientist's private

laboratory on the top floor of the Bureau of Standards.

"I usually defer to your knowledge, Doctor," he said, "but this time I

think you are off on the wrong foot. If the thieves came in through

the windows, what was their object in cutting that hole through the

roof? The marks are very plain and they indicate that the hole was cut

in some manner from the inside."

Dr. Bird smiled enigmatically.

"That is too evident for discussion," he replied. "I grant you that

the thieves entered from the roof through that hole. After they had

secured their booty they left by the same route. I presume that you

have noticed the marks on the roof where an aircraft of some sort,

probably a helicopter, landed and took off. A question of much greater

moment is that of what they did before they landed and cut the hole."

"I don't follow your reasoning, Doctor."

"Carnes, that hole was cut through the roof with a heavy saw. In

cutting it, the workers dislodged quite a little plaster which fell to

the floor and must have made a great deal of noise. Why wasn't that

noise heard?"

"It was heard. The watchman heard it, but knew that Lieutenant Breslau

was working here and he thought that he made the noise."

"Surely, but why didn't Breslau hear it?"

"How do we know that he didn't? He was taken to Walter Reed Hospital

this morning with his mind an absolute blank and with his tongue

paralyzed. He must have seen the thieves and they treated him in some

way to ensure his silence. When he is able to talk, if he ever is,

he'll probably give us a good description of them."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird shook his head.

"Too thin, Carney, old dear," he said. "Breslau is a very intelligent

young man. He was perfectly normal when I left him shortly after

midnight last night. He was working alone in here on a device of the

utmost military importance. On the desk is a push button which sets

ringing a dozen gongs in the building. Surely a man of that type would

have had sense enough when he heard and saw intruders cutting a hole

through the roof to sound an alarm which would have brought every

watchman on the grounds to his assistance. He must have been knocked

out before the hole was started, probably before the helicopter's

landing."

"How? Gas of some sort?"

"The windows were all closed and locked and I have already ascertained

that the gas and water lines have not been tampered with. Gas won't

penetrate through a solid roof in sufficient concentration to knock

out a man like that. It was something more subtle than gas."

"What was it?"

"I don't know yet. The clue to what it was lies, as I told you, in

those windows."

Carnes moved over and surveyed the windows closely.

"I see nothing unusual about them except that they need washing rather

badly."

"They were washed last Friday, but they do look rather dirty, don't

they? Suppose you take a rag and some scouring soap and clean up a

pane."

The detective took the proffered articles and started his task. He wet

a pane of glass, rubbed up a thick lather of scouring soap and applied

it and rubbed vigorously. With clear water he washed the glass and

then gave an exclamation of astonishment and examined it more closely.

"That isn't dirt, Doctor," he cried. "The glass seems to be fogged."

Dr. Bird chuckled.

"So it seems," he admitted. "Now look at the rest of the glass around

the laboratory."

Carnes looked around and then walked to a table littered with

apparatus and examined a dozen pieces carefully.

"It's all fogged in exactly the same way, Doctor," he said. "The only

piece of clear glass in the room is that piece of plate glass on your

desk."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird picked up a hammer and struck the plate on his desk a sharp

blow. Carnes ducked instinctively, but the hammer rebounded harmlessly

from the plate.

"That isn't glass, Carnes," said the doctor. "That plate is made of

vitrilene, a new product which I have developed. It looks like glass,

but it has entirely different properties. It is of enormous strength

and is quite insensitive to shock. It has one most peculiar property.

While ultra-violet and longer rays will penetrate it quite readily, it

is a perfect screen for X-rays and other rays of shorter wave length.

It appears to be the only piece of transparent substance in my

laboratory which has not been fogged, as you call it."

"Do short waves fog glass, Doctor?"

"Not so far as I know at present, but you must remember that very

little work has been done with the short wave-lengths. In the vast

range of waves whose lengths lie between zero and that of the X-ray,

only a few points have been investigated and definitely plotted. There

may be in that range a wave-length which will fog glass."

"Then your theory is that some sort of a ray machine was put in

operation before the helicopter landed?"

"It is too early to attempt any theorizing, Carnes. Let us confine

ourselves to the known facts. Lieutenant Breslau was normal at

midnight and was working in this room. Some time between then and

seven this morning he underwent certain mental and physical changes

which prevent him from telling us what he observed. During the same

period, a hole was cut in the roof and things of great importance

stolen. At the same time, all the glass in the laboratory became

semi-opaque. The problem is to determine what connection there is

between the three events. I will handle the scientific end here, but

there is some outside work to be done, and that will be your share."

* * * * *

"Give your orders, Doctor," said the detective briefly.

"To understand what I am driving at, I will have to tell you what has

been stolen. Naturally this is highly confidential. Some rumors have

leaked out as to my experiments with 'radite,' as I have named the

new radium-containing disintegrating explosive on which I have been

working, but no one short of the Secretary of War and the Chief of

Ordnance and certain of their selected subordinates knows that my

experiments have been successful and that the United States is in a

position to manufacture radite in almost unlimited quantities from the

pitchblende ore deposits of Wyoming and Nevada. The effects of radite

will be catastrophic on the unfortunate victim on whom it is first

used. The only thing left to do was to develop a gun from which radite

shells could be fired with safety and precision.

"Ordinary propellant powders are too variable for this purpose, but I

found that radite B, one form of my new explosive, can be used for

propelling the shells from a gun. The ordinary gun will last only two

or three rounds, due to the erosive action of the radite charge on the

barrel, and ordinary ordnance is heavier and more cumbersome than is

necessary. When this was found to be the case, the Chief of Ordnance

detailed Lieutenant Breslau, the army's greatest expert on gun design,

to work with me in an attempt to develop a suitable weapon. Breslau is

a wizard at that sort of work and he has made a miniature working

model of a gun with a vitrilene-lined barrel which is capable of being

fired with a miniature shell. The gun will stand up under the repeated

firing of radite charges and is very light and compact and gives an

accuracy of fire control heretofore deemed impossible. From this he

planned to construct a larger weapon which would fire a shell

containing an explosive charge of two and one-half ounces of radite at

a rate of fire of two hundred shots per minute. The destructive effect

of each shell will be greater than that of the ordinary high-explosive

shell fired from a sixteen-inch mortar, and all of the shells can be

landed inside a two-hundred foot circle at a range of fifteen miles.

The weight of the completed gun will be less than half a ton,

exclusive of the firing platform. It is Breslau's working model which

has been stolen."

* * * * *

Carnes whistled softly between his teeth.

"The matter will have to be handled pretty delicately to avoid

international complications," he said. "It's hard to tell just where

to look. There are a great many nations who would give any amount for

a model of such a weapon."

"The matter must be handled delicately and also in absolute secrecy,

Carnes. We are not yet ready to announce to the world the fact that we

have such a weapon in our armory. It is the plan of the President to

have a half dozen of these weapons manufactured and give a

demonstration of their terrible effectiveness to representatives of

the powers of the world. Think what an argument the existence of such

a weapon will be for the furtherance of his plans for disarmament and

universal peace! Public sentiment will force disarmament on the world,

for even the worst jingoist could no longer defend armaments in the

face of America's offer to scrap these super-engines of destruction

and to destroy the plans from which they were made. If the model has

fallen into the hands of any civilized power the damage is not

irreparable, for public opinion would force its surrender and return.

It is among the uncivilized powers that our search must first be

made."

"That makes the problem of where to start more complicated."

"On the contrary, it simplifies it immensely. At the head of the

uncivilized powers stands one which has the brains, the scientific

knowledge and the manufacturing facilities to make terrible use of

such a weapon. In addition, the aim of that power is to overthrow all

world governments and set up in their stead its own tyrannical

disorder. Need I name it?"

"You refer to Russia."

"Not to Russia, the great slumbering giant who will some day take her

place in the sun in fellowship with the other nations, but to

Bolsheviki, that empire within an empire, that horrible power which is

holding sleeping Russia in chains of steel and blood. It is there that

our search must first be made."

* * * * *

"Of course, they have no official representative in America."

"No, but the Young Labor Party is as much their accredited

representative as the British Ambassador is of imperial Britain. Your

first task will be to trail down and locate every leader of that group

and to investigate his present activities."

"I can tell you where most of them are without investigation. Denberg,

Semensky and Karuska are in Atlanta; Fedorovitch and Caspar are in

Leavenworth; Saranoff is dead--"

"Presumably."

"Why, Doctor, I saw with my own eyes the destruction of the submarine

in which he was riding!"

"Did you see his dead body?"

"No."

"Neither did I, and I will never be sure until I do. Once before we

were certain of his death, and he bobbed up with a new fiendish

device. We cannot eliminate Saranoff."

"I will include him in my plans."

"Do so. Besides a hypothetical Saranoff, there are a half dozen or

more of the old leaders of the gang who are alive and at liberty, so

far as we know. They fled the country after the Coast Guard broke up

their alien smuggling scheme, but some of them may have returned.

There are also thirty or forty underlings who should be located and

checked up on, and, in addition, we must not lose sight of the fact

that new heads of the organization may have been smuggled into the

United States. It is no simple task that I am setting you, Carnes, but

I know that you and Bolton will see it through if anyone can."

"Thanks, Doctor, we'll do our best. If I am not speaking out of turn,

what are you planning to do in the mean time?"

* * * * *

"I am going to start Taylor off on an ultra-short wave generator and

try a few experiments along that line. Breslau is at Walter Reed and

they are doing all they can for him, but until I can get some definite

information as to the underlying cause of his condition, they are more

or less shooting in the dark."

"How are they treating him?"

"By electric stimulations and vibratory treatments and by keeping him

in a darkened room. By the way, Carnes, if I am correct in my line of

thought, it would be well to have an extra guard put over Karuska. He

was the only real expert in ordnance that the Young Labor party had,

and if they have Breslau's model they'll need him to supervise the

construction of a gun."

"I'll attend to that at once, Doctor. Is there anything else?"

"Not that I know of. I am going out to Takoma Park this afternoon and

have another look at Breslau, but it is too soon to hope for any

change in his condition. Aside from the time I will be out there, you

can find me either here or at my home, in case anything develops."

"I'll get on the job at once, Doctor."

"Thanks, old dear. Remember that speed must be the keynote of your

work."

* * * * *

The telephone bell at the head of Dr. Bird's bed woke into noisy

activity. The doctor roused himself and took down the instrument

sleepily. A glance at the clock showed him that it was four in the

morning and he muttered a malediction on the one who had called him.

"Hello," he said into the receiver. "Dr. Bird speaking."

"Doctor," came a crisp voice over the wire, "wake up! This is Carnes

talking. Something has broken loose!"

All trace of sleep vanished from Dr. Bird's face and his eyes glowed

momentarily with a peculiar glitter which Carnes would at once have

recognized as indicative of the keenest interest.

"What has happened, Carnes?" he demanded.

"I telephoned Atlanta this morning and arranged to have an extra guard

put over Karuska as you suggested. The matter was simplified by the

fact that he and nine others were confined in the prison infirmary.

The warden agreed to do as I told him, and, in addition to the regular

guards, a special man was placed in the ward near Karuska's bed. At 2

A. M. the lights in the ward went out."

"Accidentally, or were they put out?"

"They haven't found out yet. At any rate they are all right now, but

Karuska and all of the other inmates and all the guards of that

particular ward have gone crazy."

"The dickens you say!"

"Not only that, they are also partially paralyzed. The description I

got over the telephone corresponds exactly with the condition of

Lieutenant Breslau as you described it to me. Here is the most

interesting part of the whole affair. The special guard over Karuska

was only lightly affected and has already recovered and is in a

position to tell you exactly what happened. I got a garbled account of

the affair from the warden, something about a goldfish bowl or

something like that, the warden wouldn't take it seriously enough to

give me details. I didn't press for them much for I knew that you

would rather get them at first hand."

"I certainly would. I'll be ready to leave for Atlanta in less than

ten minutes."

"I expected that, Doctor, and a car is already on its way to pick you

up. I'll meet you at Langley Field where a plane is already being

tuned up and will be ready to take off by the time we get there."

"Good work, Carnes. I'll see you at the field."

* * * * *

A car was waiting for Carnes and Dr. Bird when the Langley Field plane

slid down to a landing at Atlanta. At the penitentiary, Dr. Bird went

direct to the infirmary where Karuska had been confined. As he

entered, he shot a keen glance around and gave an exclamation of

satisfaction.

"Look at the windows, Carnes," he cried.

Carnes went over to the nearest window and moistened his finger tip

and applied it experimentally to the glass. The moisture produced no

effect, for the glass of the windows was permanently clouded as was

that of the doctor's laboratory.

"Whatever happened in my laboratory the night before last was repeated

here last night with a similar object," said the doctor. "The object

there was to steal a gun model; here it was to steal a man who could

construct a full-sized gun from the model. I understand that one of

the guards escaped the fate which overtook the rest of the persons in

the infirmary?"

"Not altogether, Doctor," replied the warden. "I think that his mind

is somewhat affected, for he tells a wild yarn and insists on trying

to wear a goldfish bowl on his head. I have him under observation in

the psychopathic ward."

Dr. Bird shot a scornful glance at the warden.

"'There are none so blind as those who will not see'," he murmured.

"By all means, I wish to see him," he went on aloud. "Will you have

him brought here at once, please?"

* * * * *

The warden nodded and spoke to one of the attendants. In a few moments

a tall, fair-haired young giant stood before the doctor. Dr. Bird

pushed back his unruly shock of black hair with his fingers, those

long slim mobile fingers which alone betrayed the artist in his

make-up, and shot a piercing glance from his black eyes into the blue

ones, which returned the gaze unabashed.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Bailley, sir."

"You were on guard here last night?"

"Yes, sir. I was detailed as a special guard over No. 9764."

"Tell me in your own words just what happened. Don't be afraid to

speak out; I'm not going to disbelieve you; and above all, tell me

everything, no matter how unimportant it may seem to you. I'll judge

the importance of things for myself. I'm Dr. Bird of the Bureau of

Standards."

The guard's face lighted up at the doctor's words.

"I've heard of you, Doctor," he said in a relieved tone, "and I'll be

glad to tell you everything. At ten o'clock last night, I relieved

Carragher as special guard over No. 9764. Carragher reported that the

prisoner was somewhat restless and hadn't been asleep as yet. I sat

down about fifteen feet from his bed and prepared to keep an eye on

him until I was relieved at six o'clock this morning.

"Nothing happened until about two o'clock. No. 9764 was restless as

Carragher had said, but toward midnight he quieted down and apparently

went to sleep. I was sleepy myself, and I got up and took a turn

around the room every five minutes to be sure that I kept awake.

That's how I am so sure of the time, sir."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird nodded.

"At five minutes to two, just as I got up, I heard a noise outside

like a big electric fan. It sounded like it came from directly

overhead and I went to the window and looked out. I couldn't see

anything, although I could hear it pretty plainly, and then I heard a

noise like something had fallen on the roof. Almost at the same time

there came a sort of high-pitched whine, a good deal like the noise an

electric motor makes when it is running at high speed.

"I thought of giving an alarm, but I didn't want to stir things up

unless I was sure that there was some necessity for it, so I started

for the door to ask one of the outside guards if he had heard

anything. As I turned toward No. 9764 I saw that he had been sitting

up in bed while my back was turned. As soon as he saw that I noticed

him, he lay back real quick and pulled the covers over his head. He

moved pretty quick, but not so quick that I couldn't see that he had

something that glittered like glass before his face. I started over

toward his bed to see what he was doing and then it was that the

lights started to get dim!"

"Go on!" said the doctor as Bailley paused. His eyes were glittering

brightly now.

"Well, sir, Doctor, I don't hardly know how to describe what happened

next. The lights were getting dim, but not as they ordinarily do when

the current starts to go off. The filaments were shining as bright as

they ever did, but the light didn't seem to be able to penetrate the

air. The whole room seemed to be filled with a blackness that stopped

the light. No, sir, it wasn't like fog; it was more like something

more powerful than the lights was in the room and was killing them.

* * * * *

"It wasn't only the lights which were affected, it was me as well.

This blackness, whatever it was, was getting into me as well as into

the room, and I couldn't seem to make myself think like I wanted to. I

tried to yell to give an alarm, and I found that I could hardly

whisper. I went toward the bed and then I saw No. 9764 sit up again.

He had a goldfish bowl pulled down over his head and it was evident

that it was keeping the blackness away, for I could see him plainly

and his eyes were as bright as ever.

"The nearer I got to him, the funnier I felt, and I began to be afraid

that I would go out. No. 9764 got up out of bed, and I could see him

grinning at me through the bowl. He reached up and adjusted that bowl,

and all of a sudden I realized that whatever was knocking me out was

not affecting him because he had that thing on. I jumped for him with

the idea of taking the bowl off and putting it on my own head. He saw

what I was up to and he fought like a cornered rat, but the blackness

hadn't affected my muscles. I'm a pretty big man, sir, and No. 9764 is

a little runt, and it didn't take me long to get the bowl off his head

and pulled on over mine. As soon as I did that, I seemed to be able to

think clearer. I was sitting on No. 9764 and was ready to tap him with

a persuader if he started anything, but I didn't have to. In a few

minutes he stopped struggling and lay perfectly quiet.

"The lights kept getting dimmer and dimmer until they went out

altogether and the room became pitch dark. It wasn't exactly as if the

lights had gone out, sir; I seemed to know that they were still there

and were burning as bright as ever, but they couldn't penetrate the

blackness in the room, if you understand what I mean."

* * * * *

"I think I do," said Dr. Bird slowly. "It was a good deal as if you

had seen a glass filled with a pale red liquid and someone had dumped

black ink into the fluid and hid the red color. You would know that

the red was still there, but you wouldn't be able to see it through

the black."

"That's exactly what it was like, Doctor; you have described it better

than I can. At any rate, after it got real dark I heard a low whistle

from the roof. No. 9764 made a struggle to get up for a moment and

then lay quiet again. The whistle sounded again and then I heard some

one call 'Caruso.' Everything was quiet for a while and then the same

voice called again and said some stuff in a foreign language that I

couldn't understand. I kept perfectly quiet to see what would happen.

"For about ten minutes the room remained perfectly dark, as I have

said, and all the while I could hear that whining noise. All of a

sudden it began to sound in a lower note and then I could see the

lights again, very dimly and like the black ink you spoke of was

fading out. The note got lower until it stopped altogether, and the

lights came on brighter until they were normal again. Then I heard a

scraping noise on the roof and the noise I had heard at first like a

big electric fan. I looked at the clock. It was two-twenty.

"For a few minutes I wasn't able to collect my wits. When I got up off

of No. 9764 at last he stared at me as though he didn't know a thing,

and I heaved him back into his bed and ran to the door to summon an

outside guard. I could still talk in a husky whisper, but not loud,

and I wasn't surprised when no one heard me. My orders were not to let

No. 9764 out of my sight, but this was an emergency, so I left the

ward and found a guard. It was Madigan and he was standing on his beat

staring at nothing. When I touched him he looked at me and there was

the same vacant look in his eyes that I had seen in the prisoner's. I

talked to him in a whisper, but he didn't seem to understand, so I

left him and went to a telephone and called for help. Mr. Lawson, the

warden, got here with guards in a couple of minutes and I tried to

tell him what had happened, but I couldn't talk loud, and I was afraid

to take the fish bowl off my head."

* * * * *

"What happened next?"

"Mr. Lawson took me to his office, and on the way we passed under an

arc light. As soon as I got under it I begin to feel better, and my

voice came stronger. I saw that it was doing me some good and I

stopped under it for an hour before my voice got back to normal. It

seemed to clear the fog from my brain, too, and I was able, about four

o'clock, to tell everything that had happened. Mr. Lawson seemed to

think that my brain was affected as well as the others' and he sent me

to the hospital. That's all, Doctor."

"Do you feel perfectly normal now?"

"Yes, sir."

"There is no need for confining this man longer, Mr. Lawson. He is as

well as he ever was. Carnes, get the Walter Reed Hospital on the

telephone and tell them that I said to treat Lieutenant Breslau with

light rays, rich in ultra-violet. Tell them to give him an overdose of

them and not to put goggles on him. Keep him in the sun all day and

under sun-ray arcs at night until further orders. Mr. Lawson, give the

same treatment to the men who were disabled last night. If you haven't

enough sun-ray arcs in your hospital, put them under an ordinary arc

light in the yard. Bailley, have you still got that goldfish bowl?"

"It is in my office, Doctor," said the warden.

"Good enough! Send for it at once. By the way, you have two more

communists here, Denberg and Semensky, haven't you?"

"I think so, although I will have to consult the records before I can

be positive."

"I am sure that you have. Look the matter up and let me know."

* * * * *

The warden hurried away to carry out the doctor's orders, and an

orderly appeared in a few moments with a hollow globe made of some

crystalline transparent substance. Despite its presence in the

infirmary the evening before, there was no trace of clouding apparent.

Dr. Bird took it and examined it critically. He rapped it with his

knuckles and then stepped to the door and hurled it violently down on

the concrete floor of the yard. The globe rebounded without injury and

he caught it.

"Vitrilene, or a good imitation of it," he remarked to Carnes. "After

you get through talking to the hospital, get Taylor on the wire. There

is plenty of loose vitrilene in the Bureau, and I want him to send

down about fifty square feet of it by a special plane at once."

As Carnes left the room, the warden reappeared.

"The men are all lying in the sun now, Doctor," he said. "I find that

we have the two men you mentioned confined here. They are both in Tier

A, Building 6."

"Is that an isolated building?"

"No, it is one wing of the old main building."

"On which floor?"

"The second floor. It is a six-story building."

"Have they been moved there recently?"

"They have been there for nearly a year."

* * * * *

"In that case there will be little chance of another attack of this

sort to-night. At the same time, I would advise you to station extra

guards there to-night and every night until I notify you otherwise.

Caution them to watch the lights carefully and to give an alarm at

once if they appear to get dim. In such a case, send men to the roof

with rifles with orders to shoot to kill anyone they find there. I am

going back to Washington and I am going to take Karuska, your No. 9764

with me. You had better have one of the guards in the corridor, where

Denberg and Semensky are, wear this goldfish bowl, as you call it. A

lot of plate glass--at least it will look like that--will come from

Washington by plane. Cut it into sheets a foot square and use

surgeon's plaster to make some temporary glass helmets for your men. I

want all your guards to wear them until I either settle this matter or

else send you some better helmets. Do you understand?"

"I understand all right, but I'm afraid that I can't do it. The

wearing of such appliances would interfere with the efficiency of my

men as guards."

"Brain and tongue paralysis would interfere rather more seriously, it

seems to me. In any event, I have sufficient authority to enforce my

request. If you are at all doubtful, call up the Attorney General and

ask him."

The warden hesitated.

"If you don't mind, I think I will call Washington, Doctor," he said.

"I will have to get authority to turn No. 9764 over to you in any

event."

"Call all you wish, Mr. Lawson. Mr. Carnes is talking to Washington

now and we'll have a clear line through for you in a few minutes.

Meanwhile, get a set of shackles on Karuska and get him ready to

travel by plane. He appears to be suffering from mental paralysis, but

I don't know how his case will develop. He may go violently insane at

any moment and I don't care to be aloft in a plane with an unbound

maniac."

* * * * *

Major Martin looked up from the prone figure of Karuska.

"His condition duplicates that of Lieutenant Breslau, Dr. Bird," he

said. "We received your telephoned message this afternoon and we kept

Breslau in a flood of sunlight until dusk, and then put him under

sun-ray lamps. I don't know how you got on to that treatment, but it

is having a very beneficial effect. He can already make inarticulate

sounds, and his eyes are not quite as vacant at they were. If he keeps

on improving as he has, he should be able to talk intelligently in a

few days. If you wish to question this man, why not give him the same

treatment?"

"I haven't time, Major. I must make him talk to-night if it is humanly

possible. I called you in because you are the most eminent authority

on the brain in the government service. Is there any way of

artificially stimulating this man's brain so that we can force the

secrets of his subconscious mind from him?"

The major sat for a moment in profound thought.

"There _is_ a way, Doctor," he said at length, "but it is a method

which I would not dare to use. By applying high frequency electrical

stimulations to the medulla oblongata, at the same time bathing the

cerebellum with ultra-violet, it might be done, but the chances are

that either death or insanity would result. I would not do it."

"Major Martin, this man is a reckless and dangerous international

criminal. If his gang carries out the plan which I fear they have

formed, the lives of thousands, yes, of millions, may pay for your

hesitation. I will assume full responsibility for the test if you will

make it, and I have the authority of the President of the United

States behind me."

"In that case, Doctor, I have no choice. The President is the

Commander-in-chief of the army, and if those are his orders the

experiment will be carried out. As a matter of form, I will ask that

your orders be reduced to writing."

"I will write them gladly, Major. Please proceed with the experiment

without delay."

* * * * *

Major Martin bowed and spoke to a waiting orderly. The prostrate

figure of Karuska was wheeled down a corridor into the electrical

laboratory, and with the aid of the laboratory technician the surgeon

made his preparations. The Moss lamp was arranged to throw a flood of

ultra-violet over the Russian's cranium while the leads from a deep

therapy X-ray tube was connected, one to the front of Karuska's throat

and the other to the base of his brain. At a signal from the major, a

nurse began to administer ether.

"I guarantee nothing, Dr. Bird," said the major. "The paralysis of the

vocal cords may be physical, in which case the victim will still be

unable to speak, regardless of the brain stimulation. If, however, the

evident paralysis is due to some obscure influence on the brain, it

may work."

"In any, event I will hold you blameless and thank you for your help,"

replied the doctor. "Please start the stimulation."

Major Martin closed a switch, and the hum of a high tension alternator

filled the laboratory. The Russian quivered for a moment and then lay

still. Major Martin nodded and Dr. Bird stepped to the side of the

operating table.

"Ivan Karuska," he said slowly and distinctly, "do you hear me?"

The Russian's lips quivered and an unintelligible murmur came from

them.

"Ivan Karuska," repeated Dr. Bird, "do you hear me?"

* * * * *

There was a momentary struggle on the part of the Russian and then a

surprisingly clear voice came from his lips.

"I do."

"Who is the present head of the Young Labor party?"

Again there was a pause before the name "Saranoff" came from the lips

of the insensible figure. Carnes gave a sharp exclamation but a

gesture from the doctor silenced him.

"Is Saranoff alive?"

"Yes."

"Is he in the United States?"

"No, he is in London."

"Is he coming to the United States?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"I don't know. Soon. As soon as we are ready for him."

"Where is he living in London?"

"I don't know."

"How did you get word that you were to be rescued from Atlanta?"

"A message was smuggled in to me by O'Grady, a guard in our pay."

"What was that vitrilene helmet for?"

"To protect me from the effects of the black lamp."

"What is the black lamp?"

"I don't know exactly. Saranoff invented it. It gives a black light

and it kills all other light except sunlight, and it paralyses the

brain."

"Did you know that the model of the Breslau gun had been stolen?"

"Yes."

"What were you going to do after you were rescued from jail?"

"I was going to make a full-sized gun. We have a disappearing gun

platform built in the swamps at the juncture of the Potomac and

Piscataway Creek. The gun was to be mounted there and we would shell

Washington and institute a reign of terror. It would be a signal for

uprisings all over the country."

"Is there a black lamp at that gun platform?"

"Yes. The black lamp will kill both the flash and the report."

"Where did you get the formula for radite?"

"We got it from one of Dr. Bird's assistants. His name--"

* * * * *

As he spoke the last few sentences, Karuska's voice had steadily risen

almost to a shriek. As he endeavored to give the name of the doctor's

treacherous helper his voice changed to an unintelligible screech and

then died away into silence. Major Martin stepped forward and bent

over the prone figure. Hurriedly he tore away the electrical

connections and placed a stethoscope over the Russian's heart. He

listened for a moment and then straightened up, his face pale.

"I hope that the information you obtained is worth a life, Dr. Bird,"

he said, his voice trembling slightly, "because it has cost one."

"It may easily save thousands of lives. I thank you, Major, and I will

see that no blame attaches to you for your actions. I only wish that

he had lived long enough to tell me the name of my assistant who has

sold me to Saranoff. However, we'll get that information in other

ways. Carnes, telephone Lawson at Atlanta to slam O'Grady into a cell

pending investigation while I get Camp Meade on the wire and order up

a couple of tanks. We are going to attack that gun emplacement at

daybreak."

The telephone bell in the laboratory jangled sharply. Major Martin

answered it and turned to Carnes.

"You're wanted on the telephone, Mr. Carnes."

The detective stepped forward and took the transmitter.

"Carnes speaking," he said. "Yes. Oh, hello, Bolton. Yes, we have

Karuska here, or rather his body. Yes, Dr. Bird is here right now.

You've what? Great Scott, wait a minute."

"Dr. Bird," he cried eagerly turning from the telephone, "Bolton has

located the Washington headquarters of the Young Labor party."

Dr. Bird sprang to the instrument.

"Bird speaking, Bolton," he cried. "You've located their headquarters?

Who's running it? Stanesky, eh? You're on the right track; he used to

be Saranoff's right hand man. Where is the place located? I don't seem

to recollect the spot. You have it well surrounded? Where are you

speaking from? All right, we'll join you as quickly as we can. Keep

your patrols out and don't let anyone get away."

He hung up the receiver and turned to Carnes.

"Did you have the car wait?" he asked. "Good enough; we'll jump for

the Bureau and pick up all the vitrilene laying around loose and then

join Bolton. He thinks that he has the whole outfit bottled up."

* * * * *

Bolton was waiting as the car rolled up and Dr. Bird leaped out.

"Where are they?" demanded the doctor eagerly.

"In an abandoned factory building about three hundred yards from

here," replied the Chief of the Secret Service. "I traced them through

New York. We have been watching the place ever since yesterday noon,

and I know that Stanesky is in there with half a dozen others. No one

has tried to leave since we set our watch. One funny thing has

happened. About an hour ago a peculiar red glow suffused the whole

building. It has died down a good deal since, but we can still see it

through the windows. Could you tell us what it means?"

"No. I couldn't, Bolton, but we'll find out. How many men have you?"

"I have sixteen stationed around."

"That's more than we'll need. I have only vitrilene shields and

helmets enough to equip six men. Pick out your three best men to go

with us and we'll make a try at entering."

Bolton strode off into the darkness and returned in a few moments with

three men at his heels. Dr. Bird spoke briefly to the operatives, all

of them men who had been his companions on other adventures. He

explained the need for the vitrilene helmets and shields, and without

comment the six donned their armor and followed Bolton as he strode

toward the building. As they approached, a dull red glow could be

plainly seen through the windows, and Dr. Bird paused and studied the

phenomenon for a moment.

"I don't know what that means, Bolton," he said softly, "but I don't

like the looks of it. Stanesky is up to some devilment or other. I

wouldn't be a bit surprised to find out that he knows all about your

pickets and is ready for a raid."

"We'd better rush the place, then," muttered Bolton.

* * * * *

Dr. Bird nodded agreement and with a sharp command to his men Bolton

broke into a run. Not a shot was fired as they approached, and the

front door gave readily to Bolton's touch. At it opened there came a

grating sound from the roof followed by the whir of a propeller. Dr.

Bird ran out of the building and glanced up.

"A helicopter!" he cried. "They were expecting us and have escaped!"

He drew his pistol and fired ineffectually at the great bird-like ship

which was rising almost noiselessly into the air. He cursed and turned

again to the building.

Bolton still stood in the room which they had first entered. His

flashlight showed it to be empty, but from under a door on the

opposite side a line of dull red light glowed evilly. With his pistol

ready in his hand, Bolton approached the door on hands and knees.

When he reached it he threw his shoulder against it and dropped flat

to the floor as the door swung open. No shot greeted him, and he

stared for a moment and then rose to his feet.

"Nothing in here but some glass statues," he announced.

Dr. Bird followed him into the room. As he looked at what Bolton had

called glass statues he gasped and shielded his eyes.

"God in Heaven!" he ejaculated. "Those were living men!"

* * * * *

Before them were three men or what had been three men. All stood in

strained attitudes with a look of horror frozen on their faces. The

thing that made the spectators shudder was that their bodies had, by

some diabolical method, been rendered semi-transparent. The dull red

light which suffused the room emanated from the three bodies. Dr. Bird

examined them closely, being careful not to touch them.

"The identity of my treacherous assistant is known," he said grimly as

he pointed at the middle figure. "It was Gerond. What is this?"

He took an envelope from the hand of the middle figure and opened it.

A sheet of paper fell out and he picked it up and read it.

"My dear Mr. Bolton," ran the note. "Your methods of tracing and

picketing my headquarters are so crude as to be almost laughable. This

base has served its purpose and we were ready to abandon it in any

event, but I couldn't resist the temptation to let you almost nab us.

The three men whom you will find here are agents who failed in their

duty. If you are interested in learning the method of their execution,

you might take to heart the words of your colleague, Dr. Bird: 'The

clue lies in those windows.'"

Carnes glanced at the windows and gave a cry of surprise. The glass

was opaque, as had been the glass in the doctor's laboratory and the

glass in the infirmary at Atlanta. The fogging however, was much more

pronounced, and the opaque glass gave faintly the same red effulgence

which came from the three bodies.

"What does it mean, Doctor?" he asked.

"I don't know, Carnes," said Dr. Bird slowly. "I foresee that I am

going to have to do a great deal of work on short wave-lengths soon.

It is doubtless the effect of some modification of the black lamp

which has done it. Look out!"

* * * * *

He leaped to one side as he spoke, drawing Bolton and Carnes with him.

A panel in the side of the wall opposite the doorway had slid silently

open and through the opening poured out a beam of fiery red. Full on

the three bodies it fell, and then spread out to fill the room. Dr.

Bird had drawn the two nearest men out of the direct beam, but one of

the secret service men stood full in its path. In the excitement of

entering he had dropped his vitrilene shield and the livid ray fell

full on his defenceless body. As they watched an expression of horror

spread over his face and he strove to move to one side, but he was

held helpless. Slowly he stiffened; and, as the ray bored through him,

his body became semi-transparent and the same dull red glow which

emanated from the three bodies they had found began to shine forth

from him. Bolton strove to break from the doctor's grasp and rush to

the rescue but Dr. Bird held him with a grip of iron.

"Too late," he said grimly. "Chalk up another murder to the arch fiend

who has committed the others. I don't know the nature of that ray and

vitrilene may not be an adequate defence against its full force. We

had better get out of here and attack the place from the rear."

Carefully edging their way around the sides of the room, the five men

made their way out through the door. Dr. Bird slammed the door shut

behind him and led the way out of the building and around to the

rear. A door loomed before them and he cautiously tried it. It gave to

his touch and he entered. As he set his foot on the threshold a

terrific explosion came from the interior of the building.

"Run!" he shouted as he led the way in retreat. "If that is a radite

explosion it will act for several seconds!"

From a safe distance they watched. One corner of the building had been

torn off by the force of the explosion, and as they watched the rest

of the building gradually collapsed and sank into a pile of ruins.

"They had planned on a visit from us all right," said Dr. Bolton

grimly. "They had a surprise for us any way we jumped. If we went in

the front door, that devil's ray was to finish us, and if we went in

the back door the whole place was arranged to blow up as we entered. I

only hope that Stanesky thinks that he has got us all and doesn't

expect an attack on his next base in the morning. If he doesn't, I

think we may give him a rather unpleasant surprise. Of course, that

lamp is smashed into atoms and buried under the debris, but I don't

know what other devil's contraptions that ruin holds. Bolton, have

your men picket it and allow no one near until I get back. I've got to

get to a telephone and get a couple of tanks from Meade and a plane or

two from Langley Field."

* * * * *

Two tanks made their way slowly across country. The front of each tank

was protected by a heavy sheet of vitrilene, while from the turrets of

the tanks projected the wicked looking muzzles of thirty-seven

millimeter guns. Overhead two airplanes from Langley Field soared,

scouting the country. Dr. Bird and Carnes rode in the leading tank.

"It ought to be somewhere near here, unless Karuska lied," said Carnes

as he swept the country with a pair of binoculars.

"He didn't lie," returned Dr. Bird. "It was his subconscious mind

that spoke and it never lies. He spoke of the gun emplacement as being

in a swamp and I have a strong idea that it is submersible. Of course,

it is bound to be well camouflaged, both from land and from air

observation."

The planes circled around again and again, quartering the air like a

pair of well-trained bird dogs will quarter a hunting field. First

high and then low they swooped back and forth, the tanks lumbering

slowly along in the same direction. Presently the occupants of the

leading tank saw one of the planes bank sharply and swing around. It

dropped to an altitude of only a few hundred feet and turned and went

back over the ground it had just crossed.

"I believe that fellow sees something!" exclaimed Carnes.

As he spoke, three green Very lights came from the cockpit of the

plane. The tank driver gave a grunt of satisfaction and turned the

nose of his vehicle in that direction. The second tank followed.

Hardly had they turned in the new direction before the ground began to

get soft under their tracks and the heavy vehicles began to sink. The

driver of the Doctor's tank forced it ahead, but the tank sank deeper

in the mire until water flowed in around the feet of the occupants.

"I reckon we'll have to get out and walk pretty soon, Doctor," said

the driver.

* * * * *

Dr. Bird grunted in acquiescence. The tank made its way forward a few

yards before the engine sputtered and died. The second tank stopped

when the first one did, fifty yards behind it. Donning vitrilene

helmets and taking vitrilene shields in their hands, the crews of both

tanks climbed out into the waist-deep water and gathered around the

Doctor for orders.

"Form a skirmish line at ten-pace intervals and cross the swamp," he

directed. "We may meet with no opposition, but if there is, the more

scattered we are, the safer we will be. You all have hand grenades as

well as your rifles?"

A murmur of assent answered him and the line formed and started across

the swamp. They had gone perhaps a hundred yards when three red lights

came from one of the planes circling overhead.

"Down!" cried the doctor, dropping to his knees in the muck.

Four hundred yards ahead of them a concrete platform emerged from the

marsh and rose slowly into the air. It was roofed with a dome of what

looked like plate glass, but which the doctor shrewdly suspected was

vitrilene. When the base of the platform was two-feet above the level

of the water the dome slid silently aside disclosing two men bending

over a tiny gun. Dr. Bird leveled his binoculars.

"That's the Breslau gun model that was stolen as sure as I'm a foot

high!" he cried. "They must have made some miniature shells and be

planning to fire it."

Slowly a pall of intense blackness rose from the marsh and enveloped

the platform and hid it from view. A whining noise came from overhead,

and then a crash like a thunderbolt. The blast of the explosion threw

the attackers face down in the swamp, and when they arose and looked

back there was merely a gaping hole where the leading tank had been.

The second tank suddenly seemed to rise in the air and fly into

millions of tiny fragments, and a second thunderous blast sent them

again to their knees.

"Radite!" bellowed Dr. Bird to Carnes. "Imagine the effect if that had

been a full charge fired from a completed Breslau gun! Watch the

planes, now. I think they are going to drop a few eggs on them."

* * * * *

The black mist cleared as if by magic and the platform was in plain

view. The big glass dome rolled back into place as the two planes

swept over at an elevation of two thousand feet. From each one a

small black cigar-shaped object was released and fell in a long

parabola toward the earth. The glass dome which had been closing over

the gun platform rolled quickly back and a long beam of intense

blackness pierced the heavens. First one and then the other of the

falling bombs disappeared from view into it, and then the black column

faded from view. The two bombs fell with increasing speed but the dome

closed over the platform before they struck. The two hit the dome at

almost the same instant and instead of the blinding crash they

expected, the watchers saw the bombs rebound from the dome and fall

harmlessly into the water.

"Stymied!" muttered the doctor. "I wonder what other properties that

confounded lamp has."

He resumed his advance, Carnes and the soldiers keeping abreast of

him. When they were within two hundred yards of the platform it rose

again and the transparent dome rolled back. A beam of black shot forth

over the swamp, searching them out and hiding them from view. First

one and then another felt the effects of the black beam; but the

vitrilene which the Doctor had provided stood them in good stead, and,

aside from a slight shortening of their breath, none of the attackers

felt any the worse.

"Come on, men!" cried the Doctor as his athletic figure plowed forward

through the breast-deep water. "That is their worst weapon and it is

harmless against us!"

Cheering, they fought their way toward the platform. It sunk for a

moment and then rose again. As the dome swung back a sharp crackle of

machine-gun fire sounded and the water before them was whipped into

foam by the plunging bullets. One of the soldiers gave a sharp cry and

slumped forward into the water.

"Fire at will!" shouted the lieutenant in command.

* * * * *

A crackle of rifle fire answered the tattoo of the machine-gun, and

the sharp ping of bullets striking on the dome could be plainly heard.

An occasional shot kicked up a spurt of white dust from the concrete,

but the machine-gun kept up a steady rattle of fire and the soldiers

kept their heads almost at the level of the water. There came the roar

of an airplane motor, and one of the planes swept over the platform, a

hundred yards in the air, with two machine-guns spraying streams of

bullets onto the platform. Two men abandoned their machine-gun and

crouched under the partially folded-back dome as the second plane

swept over, and Dr. Bird took advantage of the lull to advance his

party a few yards nearer. Again the defenders of the platform rushed

to their gun, but the first plane had turned and swooped down with

both guns going, and again they were forced to take shelter while the

Doctor and his force made another advance.

The second plane had turned and followed the first, but the defenders

had had enough. The transparent dome closed over them and the platform

sank into the marsh. With a shout, Dr. Bird led the way forward again.

The attackers were within a hundred yards of the platform when it

again rose above the surface of the water. The guns had disappeared,

but in their place stood an airship. It was a small affair with stubby

wings above which were two helicopter blades revolving at high speed.

No sound of a motor could be heard.

The transparent dome rolled back and like a bullet the little craft

shot into the air, followed by a futile volley from the soldiers.

Hardly had it appeared than the two airplanes bore down on it with

machine-guns going. The helicopter paid no attention to them for a

moment, and then came a puff of smoke from its side. The leading plane

swerved sharply and the helicopter fired again. The leading plane

maneuvered about, trying to get a machine-gun to bear, while the

second plane climbed swiftly to get above the helicopter and pour a

deadly stream of fire down into it. It gained position and swooped

down to the attack, but another puff of smoke came from the side of

the helicopter and there was a thunderous report and a blinding flash

in the sky. As the smoke cleared away, no trace of the ill-fated plane

could be seen. The helicopter hung motionless in the air as though

daring the remaining plane to attack.

* * * * *

The plane accepted the challenge and bore down at full speed on the

stranger. Again came a puff of smoke, but the plane swerved and an

answering shot came from its side. It was above the helicopter, and

the shell which missed its mark plunged to the ground. When it struck

there came a roar and a flash and the whole earth seemed to shake. The

helicopter shot upward into the air and forward, both its elevating

fans and its propellers whirling blurs of light. The airplane followed

at its sharpest climbing angle, but was helpless to compete with its

swifter climbing rival.

"He's got away!" groaned Carnes.

"Not yet, old dear!" cried the Doctor hopping with excitement. "He

isn't safe yet. I never told you, but one Breslau gun had been made

and it is on that plane. It has deadly accuracy and is good for

fifteen miles. That's Lieutenant Dreen at the controls and Mason at

the gun."

As he spoke the plane swung around and made a half loop. For a few

yards it flew upside down and then whirled swiftly. As it turned there

came a sharp report and a puff of smoke from its rear cockpit. High

above, the helicopter had ceased climbing and hovered motionless. As

the plane fired, the helicopter shot forward like an arrow from a bow,

and thereby spelled its doom. Not for nothing did Captain Mason bear

the title of the best aerial gunner in the Air Corps. He had foreseen

what the action of his opponent would be and had allowed for just such

a move. Far up in the sky came a blinding flash and a cloud of smoke.

When the smoke cleared the sky was empty, except for a little

scattered debris falling slowly to the ground.

* * * * *

"And that's that!" exclaimed Dr. Bird as he finished his examination

of the underground laboratory with which the gun platform connected.

"The lamp has gone to glory with Breslau's gun model and two of the

best brains of the Young Labor party. I am sure that Stanesky was one

of those two men. I wish the whole gang had been on board."

"Don't you think that this is the end of it, Doctor?" asked Carnes.

"No, Carnes, I don't. We know that the real brains of this outfit is

Saranoff, and Saranoff is still alive. He probably won't try to use

his black lamp again, because I will have a defence against it in a

short time, now that I have seen it in action, but he'll try something

else. The whole object of life to a loyal citizen of Bolshevikia is to

reduce the whole world to the barbarous level in which they hold

Russia, and they will spare no pains or effort to accomplish it. The

greatest obstacle to their success at present is the President of the

United States. He is loved and respected by the whole world, and if he

is spared he will forge the world into a great machine for the

preservation of peace and universal good will. That would be fatal to

Bolshevikia's plans, and they will spare no effort to remove him. By

the grace of God, we have saved him from harm so far, but until we

remove Saranoff permanently from the scene, I will never feel safe for

him."

"What do you suppose they'll try next, Doctor?"

"That, Carnes, time alone will tell."

Phalanxes of Atlans

BEGINNING A TWO-PART NOVEL

_By F. V. W. Mason_

[Illustration: _Agile as grasshoppers, those fierce war dogs ripped

and worried their prey._]

[Sidenote: Only in dim legends did mankind remember Atlantis and the

Lost Tribes--until Victor Nelson's extraordinary adventure in the

unknown arctic.]

CHAPTER I

The ice suddenly gave way under his foot, hurling Victor Nelson

violently forward to lie in the deep snow at the bottom of a tiny

crevasse, down which the merciless gale moaned like an anguished

demon.

"It's no use," he muttered bitterly. "We've fought hard, but we're

done for."

He lay still, stupidly watching his breath form tiny beads of ice on

the ends of the fur which lined his parka. Until that moment he had

not realized how thoroughly exhausted he was. Every muscle of his

starved, bruised body ached unbearably. It wasn't so bad lying there

in the soft snow. He could rest, then look later for the ice hummock

behind which the plane lay sheltered. Rest! That's what he needed, a

good long rest.

But deep within him, a primal instinct stabbed his waning

consciousness. "No," he gasped, and blinked his reddened eyes behind

smoked goggles which dulled the shimmer of the aurora. "If I stop,

I'll never get up."

Shaken by the terrific velocity of the arctic gale he numbly clambered

to his feet, then stooped with a stiff awkward motion to retrieve a

Winchester rifle which lay half buried in the snow beside the blurred

imprint of his body.

"Wonder if Alden had any better luck?" The question burned dully in

his brain. "Don't suppose so; there can't be anything alive in this

God-awful wilderness." As he stumbled on he found no answer in an

unbroken vista of wind-scored ice and drifting snow that, swirling

high into the air, momentarily cut off the view of that black line of

ice-capped mountains barely visible on the horizon.

"Yes, if he hasn't found anything, we'll be dead or frozen stiff

before to-morrow."

* * * * *

His soul--that of a true explorer--revolted, not at the thought of

death, but that his and Alden's courageously won discovery of a

majestic mountain range towering high over a polar region marked

"unexplored" on the maps would now never be made public.

Leaning forward against the merciless icy blast he painfully picked

his way over a treacherous ice ridge, to be faintly encouraged by the

fact that the towerlike hummock of ice marking the position of the

plane now lay but a few hundred yards ahead.

Bitterly he cursed that demon of ill-fortune who had sent the blinding

snow storm which had forced down the plane ten long days ago at the

very beginning of its triumphant return flight to the base at Cape

Richards. Since that hour the storm gods had emptied the vials of

their wrath upon the luckless explorers. Day after day, cyclonic winds

made all thought of a take-off suicidal in the extreme. Three days

ago the last of their food had given out, and, he mused, starvation is

an ill companion for despair.

Slip, slide and fall! On he fought until the final barrier was reached

and he stood staring hopelessly down into a small natural amphitheater

which sheltered the great monoplane. The ship was still there, its

engine snugged in a canvas shroud and with the soft, dry snow banked

up high in the lee of its silver gray fuselage. Numbly, like a man in

the grip of a painful coma, Nelson shielded his face with a furry hand

to scan the surrounding terrain. "Hell!" The door block of the igloo

they had built was still snowed up; Alden was not there!

"He's not back," he muttered, while his body swayed beneath the gale

which smote him with fierce, unseen fists. "Poor devil, I hope he

hasn't lost the way."

All the bitterness of undeserved defeat stung his soul as he started

down the incline into the hollow.

* * * * *

Suddenly he paused. The rifle flew into the ready position and his

chilled thumb drew back the hammer. "What's this?" On the snow at his

feet was a bright, scarlet splash, dreadfully distinct against the

white background. While his dazed brain struggled to register what his

eyes saw, he looked to the right and left and discovered several more

of the hideous spots. Then an object that gleamed dully in the polar

twilight attracted his attention. He lumbered forward, stooped stiffly

and caught up a long, half round strip of bronze.

"What? Why? Oh--I'm crazy. I'm seeing things!" The pain in his empty

stomach was now becoming excruciating. To steady himself he shut his

eyes, shook his head as though to clear it, then looked again at that

strip of metal in his hand. Attached to it were two slender strips of

leather like straps, ending in small, bronze buckles.

"Why, it's not from the plane," he stammered aloud. "Damned if it

doesn't look like a greave the old Greek warriors used to wear to

protect their shins."

Suddenly alarmed and mystified beyond words, he shuffled forward over

the snow, the greave yet clutched in a fur gloved hand. Presently two

more objects, already half buried by the stinging, swirling drifts,

caught his attention. One was the stock of Alden's rifle, protruding

starkly brown from the unrelieved whiteness, and the other was a

broken wooden shaft that ended a graceful but wickedly sharp bronze

spear head.

"I've either gone crazy," he said, "or I'm delirious. Yes, I must be

clean nutty! There _couldn't_ be a human settlement within a thousand

miles. Let's see what's happened."

* * * * *

On the snow of a little wind-sheltered space behind the igloo he

discovered the unmistakable and ominous signs of a struggle. An

indefinite number of footprints, blurred but enormous in size, were

marked in the snow. Here and there deep furrows mutely testified how

Alden and the enemies against whom he struggled had reeled back and

forth in vicious combat over a considerable area. Then, shaken by a

new fear, he discovered Alden's left glove and a rag of some peculiar

thick material that seemed to have a metallic finish. But what aroused

his gravest fears were the numerous splashes of blood that here and

there streaked the snow in gruesome relief.

Only a moment Nelson stood, shaken by the merciless wind, scanning the

piece of bronzed armor between his gloved hands with a fresh interest.

It was beautifully fashioned, and decorated at the knee point with the

wonderfully wrought figure of a dolphin.

If he could only think clearly! But his brain seemed to lie in a

red-hot skull. "Whatever's happened," he muttered, "I'd better not

waste time; they couldn't have been here so long ago. Poor Alden! I

wonder what kind of devils caught him?"

* * * * *

Even before he had finished the sentence the aviator had taken up the

partially obliterated trail of spattered blood drops. That what he

sought appeared to be a maraudering party of giants restrained him not

at all. The one clear thought burning in his weary brain was that

Richard Alden, his best friend--the man with whom he had traveled over

half the world, by whose side he had faced many a perilous

situation--must at that moment lie in peril, the extent of which he

could only surmise.

"Must have been about a dozen of them," he said thickly. And, holding

the Winchester ready, he commenced once more to plod on through the

stinging sheets of wind-driven ice particles. More than once he had

great difficulty in not losing that crimson trail, for here and there

the restless, white crystals completely blotted out the splashes.

All at once Nelson checked his pathetically slow progress, finding

himself on the top of an eminence, looking down in what appeared to be

a vastly deep natural amphitheater of snow and ice. At the bottom, and

perhaps a hundred yards distant, was a curious black oval from which

appeared to rise a dense, wind-whipped column of whitish vapor.

"My eyes must be going back on me," muttered Nelson through stiffened

lips. How intolerably heavy his fur suit seemed! His strength was

about gone and that curious black mouthlike circle seemed infinitely

far away. But, spurred by fears for his friend, he started downward

for the precipitious trail leading directly towards it.

Once he stepped inside the crater, he became conscious of a terrific

side pressure which gripped him as a whirlpool seizes a luckless

swimmer. The wind buffetted him from all angles, dealing him powerful

blows on face and body, which, too strong for his weary body, sent him

reeling weakly, drunkenly across the hard, glare ice towards the

vortex. Twice he slipped, each time finding it harder to arise. But

at last he approached what on closer inspection proved to be a

subterranean vent of black rock.

"Steam!" he gasped. "It's steam coming out of there!"

* * * * *

Swayed by a dozen conflicting emotions, he paused, the Winchester

barrel wavering like a reed in his enfeebled grasp.

"The whole thing's crazy," he decided. "I must be frozen and lying

somewhere, delirious. Poor Dick! Can't help him much now."

Like a man in a nightmare who advances but feels nothing under his

feet, Nelson staggered on towards that huge, gaping aperture of black

rock. On the threshold a pool of melted snow water made him stare.

"Hell!" he said. "It's only a volcanic vent of some kind." Then dimly

came the recollection of Eskimo legends concerning thermal springs

beyond the desolate and unknown reaches of Grant Land.

His mind in an indescribable turmoil, Nelson splashed across a hundred

yards of sodden snow, then shivered on wading knee deep through a pool

of melted ice. Now he stood on the very threshold of that awful

opening, dense clouds of vapor beating warmly against his chilled

features.

His goggles fogged at once, blinding him effectively as, with reason

staggering under the accumulated stress of starvation and the

circumstances of Alden's disappearance, he groped his way a few feet

into the vent. With his left hand he pulled up the glasses from his

sunken, blood-shot eyes.

"It's warm, by God!" he cried in astonishment as the skin exposed by

lifting the goggles came in contact with the air. "Must be some kind

of earth-warmed cave."

* * * * *

Increasingly mystified, he caught up his rifle and strode on down the

passage, at that moment illuminated by the last unearthly rays of the

aurora borealis. A single, dazzling beam played before him like a

powerful searchlight, to light a high vaulted tunnel of basalt rocks

which were distorted by some long-gone convulsion of the earth into a

hundred weird cleavages and faults. For that brief instant he found he

could see perhaps a hundred feet down into a high roofed passage,

along the top of which poured a tremendous stream of billowing,

writhing steam.

"If this doesn't beat all," he murmured; but for all of his

apprehension he did not pause. Those bloody splashes bespeaking

Alden's pressing need urged him on. "Looks like I'm taking a one way

trip into Hell itself. Well, we'll soon see."

Slipping and sliding over an almost impassable array of black rocks

and boulders, Nelson fought his way forward, conscious that with every

stride the air grew damper and warmer. Soon trickles of sweat were

pouring down over his chest, tickling unbearably.

Then all at once the ray of light faded, leaving him immersed in a

blackness equalled only by the gloom of a subterranean vault. He

stopped and, resting his rifle against a nearby invisible rock, threw

back the parka hood and pulled off his gloves. He was amazed to feel

how warm the strong air current was on his hands.

"Beats all," he muttered heavily. "I wonder where they've taken

Alden?"

* * * * *

Meanwhile his hands groped through fur garments now wet with

melted-snow and ice particles, searching for the catch to open that

pocket in which lay a small but powerful electric flashlight, an

instrument without which no far-flying aviator finds himself. After a

moment's fumbling, his yet stiffened fingers encountered the

cylindrical flash and, with a low cry of satisfaction, he drew it

forth to press the button.

"Mighty useful. I--" The words stopped, frozen on his lips. Before the

parka edge his close cropped hair seemed to rise, and his breath

stopped midway in his lungs. Sharp electric shocks shook him, for

there, half revealed in the feeble flashlight's glare, was a sight

which shook his sanity to the snapping point. Not fifty feet away two

eyes, large as dinner plates, with narrow vertical red irises, were

trained on him. Rooted to the ground by the paralysis of utter horror,

Nelson saw that their color was a weird, unhealthy, greenish white,

rather like the color of a radio-light watch dial.