Chapter XIV

"You know, Putt," said Warren thoughtfully, "I've been wondering what disposition of the patents Nestor will make. We will be able to start the return process in a day or two, and I'd like to know what to expect. What have you in mind?"

"Nestor tied up with Super-power, as I told you," began Putney. "Now why, other than to get us out of the way? It would be easy enough to bomb us. He makes planes, and he no doubt knew who your heir was, and could buy the patents. Why did he tie up with the Power crowd?"

"That's your question. Maybe he wanted power, or perhaps he needed money."

"He'd need an all-fired lot before it got too big for him to swing. I think he could scrape up two million in cash, himself."

"How much did our ship cost, Putt?"

"Seven hundred and fifty thousand. Three quarters of a million. It was a lot worse than I expected, too, because very few things were ready to hand. Even special furnaces had to be made after the beryllium was produced. It's lucky old Mac was ready for me, and willing to do it."

An Unpaid Loan

"He should have been," Warren grunted. "You saved his neck when Nestor was after him a while ago. What was the loan you made him—and he hasn't yet paid?"

"Oh, nothing much. He can keep the money as a darned good investment. I had a job paying him for the work on this ship. Anyway, I'm getting very fat interest."

"Uh. Nothing much—something better than a million. Well, the question is, Putt, what will Nestor and Power Incorporated do, and why did they wait three months after we discovered it, to bomb us?"

"They waited, to make sure there would be a copy of the plans somewhere, where it wouldn't be destroyed when we were, and they bought them merely as a formality, I suspect," answered Putney seriously.

"Huh? That's no formality—that gives them exclusive rights——"

Making Law—Not Appealing to It

"Do you think they're appealing to the law? No, not by a long shot. I'll bet that jolly crowd are making law by now, if time is faster there than here, and we suspect it is. Why did Nestor join? Because ships cost about a million apiece, and he wanted several ships. He knows plenty of gun-gangs, that will throw in with him on this proposition. Listen, Man. Don't you realize that with this ship we could bring the whole world to its knees, take every dollar, every pound and every mark we wanted? Do you think any navy or air force could stop this for thirty seconds? Do you think Nestor doesn't know that? He wanted the power-men in, because it made it easier. I'll bet they were willing enough too, when they realized just how valuable their power franchises would be with this invention on the market. Look here, Nestor wanted money. He wanted big money quickly, from some one of whom he could get a hold, and the power utilities offered him an excellent chance. When they were accessories to the bombing, and supposed murder of our men, they'd hold together.

"They build the ships, from the patent diagrams they can get hold of easily enough. They are all ready to attack—and simply cut off all power over the United States. They destroy the plants, so that power can't be restored, save by the ships, for no other means are available—the nation without power—the railroads dragging out old steam locomotives, that have been used for switching for the last two decades, and that are unable to move faster than a crawl. New York cannot get food in the vast quantities it needs it. Planes can't bring it. Ships can't bring enough, when all the distributive systems are tied up. No lights. No elevators—the whole city paralyzed for want of power, and in semi-panic.

"Then the ships. Unheard of—tremendously deadly. Why, they could freeze the Hudson and the North River, and even ocean ships couldn't get there for days. Floods because of ice-jammed rivers. Do you see what would happen? They don't have to take the patents by due process of law—they just grab them, and then make the laws!"

To Grab the Patents and Make the Law for Themselves

Warren whistled softly. "Nice people. Wonder if they'll do that?" he asked speculatively to himself.

"Do it—of course they'll do it!"

"Will they be able to—I wonder what their men will say. They'll have to use gangsters, or train a crew of equally unscrupulous men. Now having the country in their power, will they be willing to turn it over to Nestor and his crowd?"

"Nestor hasn't the conscience of a gangster, but he has a lot more brains. He's probably arranged some beautiful system for killing off every one of his men, save one crew, of one ship, which he can absolutely trust. If I were doing it, I'd have a poisonous gas flask ready to release when a certain radio signal was given from the flagship. That would eliminate most of his problems. A secret police with full powers of execution without trial, would speedily eliminate all others."

"Ummm. Nice people, as I believe I have said." Warren's mouth twisted as though he had tasted something nauseous.

"What are we going to do?" he went on.

"We've tried out all those things you wanted to, at the expense of a few of our seemingly endless supplies of steel ingots. How many did you store by the way?"

"One hundred and fifty, Putt. There are one hundred and forty-one left."

"We'll simply have to go back and use them. Perhaps we can dissuade the Nestor and Powers crowd. We might wait till Nestor has removed his extraneous crews."

"How do you know he will, Putt?"

"Lord, Ran, he's no fool, and you stated the problem exactly. The gangs have to wait till he shows them how to win, he has to wait till they've won—and we have to wait till they've been cut down to our size," Putney said.

"—and half the population has been killed off?" continued Warren.

"Wait till we know what month we get back," suggested Putney more practically.

A tiny sliver of moon floated rather low over the horizon. It was dark, very dark, and the stars seemed to cast no light at all. A tremendous shed loomed up against the starlight a short distance ahead, as the three large autogyros sank soundlessly to earth, in the broad field. There was one square of light in the near corner of the great hangar, and across it fine lines seemed drawn. A wire fence stood between the newly-landed machines and the building.

Intruders from Autogyros

Fully a score of figures tumbled from the three machines, and on the back of each was a peculiar pack that hummed very slightly as they advanced. Each man walked softly, looking occasionally at the leather strap about his wrist, carrying a small disc of some gray-white material. And each man carried a machine-rifle, a gun weighing little more than twenty pounds, shooting extremely high-velocity .22 caliber bullets, at the rate of 300 a minute. The stock was thick, and carried a broad chest-plate to protect the firer.

Two low humming notes sounded softly, and the various groups of men moved toward the wire fence. One man, evidently the leader, carried a suitcase, and wore a peculiar mask over his face. In the other hand was a square, box-like apparatus which he pointed in many directions as he walked. Yet another man was leading him.

"Take it easy, Tex. I can see the fence all right, but this damned infra-red rectifier is blurry. It's not as fast as ordinary light you know, in the cells. There are four sentries walking about pussy-foot, and three more lying down. They haven't seen us, but they shine like blinding lights in this thing. They're sure radiating heat. More to the left."

The men went off toward the left. After a moment the masked man halted them, and sent forward two with heavy clippers. "Take it easy," he whispered, "they've got electro-static charges on that fence, and you have to give your equalizer a break on that. Approach slowly, cut quickly, but don't make a sound. Hold the wires with your hands, Shorty, and you, Pete, cut gently. Go."

The two forms went forward, and disappeared from the sight of the others in an instant. Clouds had come up, and even the minute light of the moon was gone. Approaching with the hills behind them, they were invisible to the watchers beyond the fence, but the man with the mask saw them clearly as they cut a section from the fence. One man ran a wire about the section they intended to cut free, maintaining the circuit of metal, after the metal fence had been carried away, and finally laid gently on the soft turf.

"All right. Forward. Follow me," ordered Atkill, his voice muffled by the mask.

They went forward quietly. Twice Atkill turned sharply from his path as the mask spotted ultra-violet beam traps, which gave off infra-red as well, despite the fact that no visible light escaped. Again he turned aside for a complex, electro-static trap.

Finally the twenty-three men were less than thirty feet from the door, the door that opened into the office of the great hangar, and the only one not locked.

Atkill took off his mask, deposited the suitcase and the black box of the detector and cells on the ground, then took a Very pistol from Texas, and a machine-rifle from Joe.

The Attack on the Laboratory Begins

He pointed the Very pistol upwards, pressed it, and an instant later the rocket light flamed upwards. Two seconds later a far greater rocket soared up from the planes, out beyond the fence, and an instant later a blindingly bright magnesium flare was drifting down from a parachute. The entire grounds were thrown into brilliant relief of clear, white light. Seven men had turned at the sight of the Very light, whirled bewildered at the hiss of the rocket beyond the fence, and stood rooted, and blinded under the light of the magnesium flare. Twenty-three men had been standing by the wall, staring steadily at the lens of a brilliant flashlight, and their eyes were accustomed to the glare of light now. The machine-rifles spit viciously, and seven armed guards sprawled on the turf.

Simultaneously a howl of surprise and rage came from behind the door, and a giant of a man stumbled out to see the trouble. He sprawled dead before the pistol in his hand could speak, and three men charged over his body, shooting, into the guard-office. There were the heavier barks of automatics mingled with the snappish clatter of the small-caliber, high-velocity machine guns.

Three more men charged in behind them, ready to shoot. There was no need. Electric floodlights had snapped on outside now, and a siren was howling disconsolately somewhere, half drowning the cries and bellows of men. There was a rush of feet beyond the inner door of the office, men running across the concrete floor of the hangar.

The inner door went down with a crash as two men hurled themselves against it, through it, and began shooting inside. An echoing volley of heavy shots returned the lighter barks of the machine-rifles. Then came the heavy, rapid fire of a high-power non-portable machine gun. There were ten men inside the hangar now—and none of them had been wounded! They stood up under the blaze of light, and returned the fire of the enemy hotly, turning to face them rather than swinging their guns.

Suddenly one went down, the barrel of his gun a twisted mass of iron, the breech burst wide. His own gun had exploded as an enemy bullet struck it.

In twenty seconds there were no more shots heard inside the hangar.

"Ten men on the doors. Have your guns placed. See if the heavy machines here are workable. Defend the place as long as possible. They'll have the field guns working. Chatter a machine gun to make 'em think they've got friends here." Atkill was barking orders sharply. Men hastened to do as he told them.

Invading the Air Ship

"Tex, Joe, Shorty and Pete—come." They raced toward a great dirigible-shaped hull of silver metal. The hull was completely formed, but there were ladders, mechanics tools, scaffolding about it. The windows were not all installed, the thing was not yet completed. "This'll do. It's the most nearly completed, come on."

Into the ship they plunged, ready with guns for resistance, but the mechanics had fled. Atkill found his way quickly to the power room.

Banked machinery formed a circle about a great block of rough, rusted iron. Dully gleaming control boards, with banks of instruments showed on one side of the great room at the heart of the steel-walled ship. The lights the men carried swept about.

"Tex, take off your pack." Texas seemed leisurely in his movements, but in a surprisingly short time the pack was at Atkill's feet. Atkill opened it quickly, and within it were tiny mechanisms like these giant machines here, a tiny control board, and a speck of iron, a blue-white flame of unwavering intensity burning above it. And beside it were two heavy copper bars.

Atkill rose, and looked at the mechanisms with apparent negligence, but with a glance that took in everything.

"Thank the Lord 'Boozey' wasn't too drunk to talk straight. She's ready to start. We'll need five and a half minutes. Joe, send every man out—they've started attacking—send every man out to the doors. Make sure they don't get in. If a shell blows a hole in the wall, put the men under the hulls of the ships. These walls are three feet thick, and will shed anything man ever sent—except forces, and I don't believe they're using them. Go to it."

The Work on the Air Ship

Instantly he turned himself, and with amazing precision adjusted a hundred complex instruments; he took from one of the packs the men had carried, three heavy copper bus bars, and in a moment had them connected with Texas' pack. These he connected to similar connectors on the ship's machines.

He was busy again with the dials. Finally he bent over the little pack, and turned something. The blue-white flame dulled, turned an angry red, and a low, powerful hum set up. Something seemed twisting, dragging everything, every atom of them, toward the massive block of iron, yet nothing moved them, they stayed where they were. There was a queer activity on the surface of the iron, and Atkill's black eyes stared at it sharply. The surface writhed, the rust seemed to dissolve, and powdered metal remained. Something seemed whirling just above the surface of the iron, the metal licked upward, and a blaze of sudden white light smote down at the men. The surface of the iron was white hot, and an instant later the burst of light came and went again, again and again, faster, then they merged to one, and a dull roaring set up. The ball of flame was a foot in diameter, growing swiftly. Atkill sprang to the controls, and made rapid adjustments, watching the growing, pulsing flame.

Something screamed outside, then there was a terrific detonation. A man cried out in agony, and running feet echoed across the concrete floor.

"Tex—call 'em in. We're going. We can't wait," ordered Atkill.

The Texan disappeared, shouted something. A moment later the lights in the ship flashed on as Atkill pulled a switch. They glowed, flickered, then burned steadily white. The tiny pack release-flame was glowing blue-white once more. Atkill stooped, adjusted something, and it shrank slightly. The great release-flame burning on the block of iron was glowing steadily now. Scrambling feet echoed on iron. Texas stuck his head in through the doorway.

"Thar in."

Atkill pulled a switch, the release-flame dulled momentarily, and the crack and clatter of falling, severed scaffolding echoed into the ship. Something whined again and exploded heavily. There was a terrific crash as a portion of the wall fell in. The ship though, was undamaged. The force-field was up.

With a swoop of power, a crushing weight fell on the men aboard. Atkill looked from his window, and saw the walls of the hangar drop swiftly downward, then the slope of the roof appeared. With a terrific crash the ship smashed her way out through a hole torn in the roof, and vanished into the night.

Atkill smiled happily at the lank, tanned Texan. "Did it?"

Below, men milled about in the hangar, helping men caught under the fallen roof, attending to the wounded, who were few, and the dead, who were numerous, and their own, and calling frantically on a telephone line that didn't work.

An autogyro roared, and sailed away. A crowd of men swarmed from the hangar in time to see it disappear into the night.

Ten minutes later a second had been filled with gas, a smashed carbureter replaced, and the machine headed for New York as it took the air.

Burt Hillen was cursing furiously as he surveyed the wreckage. "The blankety blank son of a so-an-so. An' wat the hell happened to you guys? Yellah? My God, the way yuh all lit out wen they showed up! Tha's the Keller mob, an' we're due to get that so-and-so. Go on—clean this joint up. They got one o' them things, an' I dunno who was wid 'em, but he got it started. That means we gotta fight THAT when we start—an' it's ol' Fox-face's private ship." He expressed his opinions at length, and stared at the hole in the roof through which the vanished ship had gone.

But it didn't bring back the ship, and it didn't bring back Atkill.