By
D. D. Sharp
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While A World Waited Breathlessly The Satellite Went On and On, Repeating Its Circles of Doom!
NO idea more startling in the history of our earth has been proposed than that put forward by
Hermann Oberth, the German rocket expert. By sending a rocket aloft some four or five
hundred miles above the earth and giving it a speed of about 5 miles a second, Herr Oberth
states, the rocket will circle the earth until eternity without further expenditure of power!' A
terrific idea, filled with the most stupendous possibilities for the people of the earth. It may
revolutionize transportation, or warfare; it may even change the whole course our lives.
But although it is an idea filled with the most dramatic and adventurous suggestions Mr.
Sharp does not want to deal with them fantastically. He has written instead a story of intense
realism sticking close to life and truth, with characters that live and breathe. And so he has
made this story as vivid and understandable as is humanly possible.
CHAPTER I.
JUST before they reached the front steps Professor Mullin stopped and touched Clifford on the arm.
"There is one man you must watch."
"Who?" Clifford asked, still occupied with the crisis ahead of him.
"Briggs. Rothberg calls him BB, but he isn't an air gun charge at all. He is buckshot with a full charge of smokeless powder behind him."
"Just what do you mean?" Clifford asked with interest awakened.
"Briggs is a keen chemist, maker of models for Rothberg's would-be inventors. He is Police Commissioner with a strong political influence and he is the husband of Rothberg's only daughter, ambitious and dangerous. Don't let him know how much money Rothberg is thinking of putting into your scheme."
"What does he look like?"
"Tall and unforgetable. Not much of a description, eh?"
"Well, I don't know about that. There aren't many men who are unforgetable as far as personal appearance is concerned."
"Briggs is. He'd impress the most phlegmatic; a deep growl, large protruding black eyes, overscored with crow feathers. He drops into these meetings sometimes. I hope he doesn't come in tonight, but if he does, ramble off on some unimportant detail. He might queer your whole plan."
"Would Rothberg allow him to interfere?"
"No. Rothberg doesn't take dictation from anybody. But Briggs is buckshot, remember that, and I believe he suspects what's up."
They mounted the steps and followed a footman to a long room, down the center of which ran a polished table.
Clifford's zero hour was at hand. He knew by reputation every man around that table. They were all outstanding men in their particular fields of science. Directly in front of him sat J. G. Reed who had more than once startled the world with ideas of matter and space; next was Played who experimented with rockets; Stortz the astronomer who had at last proved the rotation of Venus; Gertz the electrical wizard; Gurly, who had explained the apparent discrepancy in the ratio of gravitation between Mercury and the sun; Ralls, who had taken the new tidal theory of the formation of the earth and blown it to smithereens; Phillips who had set forth a complicated thesis which had grown out of Einstein's Relativity, and a half dozen others. At the head of the table was, of course, old Jacob Rothberg, who, with the magnet of his money and personality had assembled these filings from the fields of science. Clifford caught the pale eyes of Professor Charles of Rothberg University appraising him. He felt a personal antipathy in that cold, passionless stare and it upset so he barely heard the opening of Rothberg's address. Even as he heard Rothberg calling upon him to explain his plan, he retained the uneasy sensation that the Professor was coolly dissecting him.
He shook off the uncomfortable feeling as he rose and the double row of white faces about the table turned toward him.
His big moment was at hand. He started speaking looking straight at Ralls, for Ralls flourished upon his reputation as an iconoclast, and would, of course, maintain his position as a breaker of idols and a, destroyer of dreams. Ralls' lean features were ravenously alert as Clifford began.
"Gentlemen, my proposal is to launch a ship just beyond the atmosphere so that it will form a satellite of the earth. It would need no refueling and no additional power, except that required to send cargo to and from the ship."
BACK of Ralls a door opened and through it a man glided cautiously, stopped and closed the door behind him. Undoubtedly it was Briggs. The man's whole appearance was strange and unforgetable. Clifford hesitated, and then decided to go ahead and pay Briggs no attention; but he did not have an opportunity. Professor Charles rose, placed the tips of his long white fingers spiderlike upon the manuscript below him and cleared his stringy looking throat. Clifford was taken aback at the double interruption and folded his arms and waited calmly for what the psychologist had to say.
"Mr. Peterson," Professor Charles whined in a high, fine voice, "How do you know, or we know, that it is possible to project a ship beyond the field of gravity of our earth?"
"Sure," Briggs growled in that deep bass of his, "That's the berries! All he wants is to spend some of the governor's money!"
Rothberg hitched about in his chair to face his son-in-law, but the hard stare in the penetrating old eyes brought only a stubborn resistance. Rothberg signaled unmistakably for Briggs to leave the room and fire flashed between the two as Briggs leaned casually against the marble wainscoating and extracted a cork-tipped cigarette and stuck it between his lips.
Rothberg half rose from his chair and roared, "BB you get out!" Briggs drew himself erect, his cheeks flaming; then he sent a long cloud of defiant smoke in Rothberg's direction, shrugged his shoulders and growled in his bearlike bass:
"All right, governor."
Then he left the room.
Clifford turned his attention back to Professor Charles and continued.
"Of course it is impossible to fire any projectile totally beyond the earth's gravity. Newton has shown that each body in space is attracted to every other according to their masses and the inverse ratio of the square of their distances."
"So, so," the professor coughed slightly, then took his glasses from his nose and held them as a pointer in Clifford's direction as he continued.
"But one can not get around the fact that you would have to send your ship far enough from the earth to enter into cosmic space if it is to float continually without falling. How do you know that you can project anything that far? How do you know how far that is?"
Clifford tried to be patient, but it was quite evident that however eminent Professor Charles was in his own line, he knew very little of astronomy.
"Bodies do not float in space," Clifford began. "They are pulled toward each other. What keeps them from flying together in a huge mass is their velocity, which is much greater than that of a highpowered rifle bullet as it leaves the gun. They move with hurricanes of speed which would belittle cyclones. It is this that overcomes the pull of gravitation."
He reached into his pocket and extracted a small rubbber ball which was attached to a rubber string.
"You will notice when this little ball is idle it hangs toward the earth." He began to whirl the ball around and around and it went humming over his head.
"When enough speed is attained gravity is overcome and the ball rises into the air. To make the illustration plain, let the string be the pull of gravity and my thumb be the sun." He whirled the ball faster. The rubber string stretched, as he went on.
"When the speed of the ball increases, the orbit increases. It stretched the pull of the rubber 'gravity.'
When the speed decreases the orbit narrows. This illustrates simply the forces which hold every body in space to its proper place.
"Any body moving around the sun with a speed less than 18.6 miles per second must have an orbit smaller than that of the earth, and one having more than 18.6 miles per second would have a larger orbit than that of the earth, while one with a velocity of exceeding 26 miles per second would fly away from the sun for good.
"Now, suppose we fire a ship from the earth so that its speed is 18.6 miles per second. At that velocity it should pace the earth forever and apparently move across the earth's surface from east to west as the earth turns on its axis. That ship should make one trip about the earth every twenty-four hours."
A Gigantic Plan
HE paused and let the little rubber ball hang idly from its string as he glanced at the studious faces regarding him. Then his glance went back to Halls, who had leaned forward, elbows upon the table, chin wrinkled into the palms of his big hands, fingers working upon his lean cheeks. He was smiling tolerantly and yet there was something belittling in the expression of his eyes. He impressed Clifford as a strong man who had braced himself to wrestle with an iron weight and just discovered it was cork.
"Your illustration is interesting, but your astronomy is faulty," Halls drawled with rather a bored air.
"Everything upon this earth is moving around the sun at a velocity of 18.6 miles per second. A ship placed just outside the earth's atmosphere and given that velocity and no other would fall at once." Clifford saw his mistake. Certainly the ship would fall, and the flaw in his theory rattled him for a moment, so that he was unable to correct his error. While he strove for poise, the bulky, rather awkward form of Stortz hitched about and the big-faced astronomer smiled encouragingly. Clifford felt a rescue at hand.
"Mister Halls ," Stortz drawled in slow, rumbling accent s. "Our young friend is not so very much in error. His mistake is starting with the wrong objects. It is not the gravity of the sun the ship must overcome, for that is already overcome through the inertia of the earth. Our problem is the law of small bodies moving around large bodies. Fortunately this simplifies, rather than complicates, the question. The ship need not be fired with a velocity of 18.6 miles per second to form a satellite of the earth, but with a speed of only 4.90 miles per second.
"While I don't want to lend my opinion, as yet, for or against this young man's proposal, I will state that Oberth, a German scientist, has given considerable study to the question of rocket ships, and he claims that he can develop a vehicle which will fly from Europe to America in thirty minutes, and he believes it possible to build a space ship which will travel at a velocity of about seven miles per second, almost double that required by the ship proposed.
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"I might add that Professor R. H. Goddard, the American expert, has made a powder rocket which ejected gases of 8000 feet per second, and Opel claims to have invented a liquid three times as powerful as any powdered fuel, so our goal may not be so far off after all." Ralls pursed his lips. Then he turned on Clifford.
"All right," he snapped, "Grant that your space ship can be shot with enough velocity to continuously circle the earth, how are you going to get your freight aboard? Even should you contrive to get the packages up there, don't you know that inertia would carry them on in orbits of their own without your ship?"
"My plan is to have a system of rockets at each city under the path of the satellite. These rockets would have compartments for storing mail and express and would be timed to be fired at the exact fraction of a second to make contact with the ship."
"What is the need of a ship?" Rails interrupted. "The rockets would circle the earth of their own speed."
"With no ship," Clifford answered, "the packages could never be brought down at all. The purpose of the ship is to provide a buttress against which a timed discharge in the end of the rocket can be set off to kick loose the rocket at its destination. The ship, you understand, is not to be a container in the sense of an empty hull. It is to be a steel cylinder against which the rocket can be shot. These rockets will have clocks timed for the discharge of their gases and the rockets will be strongly magnetized, which will assist them in making contact with the ship and will hold them firmly in place until the reverse discharge takes lace. The rockets are also to be equipped with folding helicopters, which will automatically extend and break the return fall as to prevent injury to the rockets or {unclear text in original}ress."
CHAPTER II.
Rothberg Speaks Out
HE paused again, for his words seemed falling on a cast iron personality. Ralls was shaking his woolly head, and Clifford's heart sank as he saw affirmation of Ralls' position in the faces of at least three of the scientists about the table. He hoped that Stortz would come again to his rescue, but the old astronomer, while still regarding him kindly, seemed lost in thought. His glance caught Rothberg, who had been sitting silently erect at the head of the table. His whole manner seemed: suddenly changed. His eyes were sparkling and alive and he jabbed at a button beside his chair.
A girl came through a small door at the right. Clifford first took her to be Rothberg's daughter, then he saw a stenographer's notebook and pencil, and he decided she was a secretary held overtime for this meeting.
She was neat, rather stylishly, yet quietly dressed, except for a dash of color at her neck and sleeves, and an orange sash caught about her slim waist. She took a small chair which Rothberg himself dragged toward her, and then opened her book, giving the men about the table no more than a quick glance. At the time she did not impress Clifford as being more than an ordinary pretty stenographer. He was not at all interested in her, but in what Rothberg was about to dictate.
"Crystal," Rothberg began quickly with a curtness in his tone left over from his conflict with Briggs.
"Please take down these notes and ask Robinson to look over them with view of formulating a contract."
"Mr. Rothberg," Professor Charles was on his feet.
Rothberg glanced up and scowled.
"What is it, Professor?"
Again Professor Charles had his glasses between thumb and forefinger, pointed them this time at Rothberg.
"Have you taken into consideration the likelihood of a condition of neurosis in the applicant?" Rothberg rose from his chair, and stepped to one side of it. Professor Charles sat down leaving his sentence incomplete, but still pointed his glasses as though holding them ready for instant use. Rothberg smiled tolerantly and Clifford knew the objection had fallen as lightly as dust.
"You sound too much like Freud," Rothberg drawled. "We are not dealing with psycho-analysis, but mechanical and cosmic laws."
He turned and faced the whole attentive board. His eyes lost their twinkle and his lips forgot to smile. Instead there seemed to be a fire of inspiration growing slowly; idealism lifting the materialist above himself.
"Gentlemen," he began very quietly, "This is one proposal I am going to take on without waiting for you to fit every angle and line into place and pronounce Q. E. D." From that point on to the close of his speech his eyes burned more and more rightly and his voice became more earnest.
"Most men," he concluded, "desire to create something which can be left to oncoming generations with the mark of their individuality upon it. One may conclude this is all vanity, but I believe every great work which preserves the marks of genius sets a standard for future generations which defies them to excel.
"Sitting there listening to talk of cosmic law it has occurred to me that this young man's dream may be used to leave an imperishable remembrance of us who live today. Once upon a time, a Pharaoh, hoping for immortality, raised the Great Pyramid of Gizeh; but lasting as that is, it shall in time perish, so too shall all the light fabric of our own civilization. But the ships we launch into space shall never decay. They will speed on and on a lasting inspiration to generations yet unborn!"
CLIFFORD caught the fire of Rothberg's idealism and mixed it with the flame of his own dream, but a damper was thrown upon it immediately for Briggs thrust his thin, inquisitive face through the door, gave one keen, searching look about and retreated; but before his face disappeared Clifford saw a glaring threat turned upon the girl who looked up just in time to catch it. She shrank from those black eyes and Clifford watched her rather than Briggs. It seemed that she was fighting to show no fear; but her tightly drawn underlip betrayed her.
When Clifford looked again toward the door, Briggs had gone. He wondered what the man meant and Rothberg added importance to the incident by getting upset over it. Before that he had seemed aloof, as though he was in a world unaffected by men and their petty ideas; but now he searched every face as though worried whether they had penetrated a secret of the family closet. When his eyes rested on Clifford they resumed some of the old fire and zeal he had shown while making his short speech. He turned quickly and spoke in a low tone to the girl. She gathered up her notebook and some papers and left the room.
Professor Mullin caught Clifford's hand when they were again outside the hall.
"I knew you'd win, my boy! I knew it! But I must admit I never suspected old Rothberg had such a touch of sentiment in his makeup."
"Here's the car," he added as Rothberg's limousine drew to the curb. Clifford pulled himself from his reveries and tried to keep up his part of the conversation. He was very grateful for Professor Mullin's help. Had it not been for him very likely he would still be working back of a glass covered desk at thirty-five dollars per week, dreaming of space ships that should never be launched. Yet he had not a word to say. His thoughts seemed bound to that hall with its long polished table and a smart looking girl trying to appear composed under the threat of a tall black-eyed man one never forgot.
And that night he went to bed not entirely happy. He was worried for fear that Briggs would do something to upset his plans. Three days later, however, he felt more secure about the venture, for he met Rothberg and his attorneys down town and the contracts were actually signed and the work put under way.
Only once in the three months that followed did he see the girl, and that was a chance meeting in the hall of Rothberg's home. She smiled and bowed her head slightly, her gray eyes friendly, and then she was gone.
The end of those three months found the ship almost complete and the time drew near for her tryout. The morning he got this news, Clifford went down to lunch so absorbed in a letter from Rothberg which gave him the details, that he hardly heard the blatant cries of newsboys in the streets. Nor did he make out the meaning of them until a small fellow with big blue eyes thrust a paper under his nose and shouted,
"Extra mister! Extra! Big banker disappears!"
Clifford took one and idly glanced down at the picture. Rothberg! Hardly understanding what the picture was about he glanced at the headlines.
Some of the import of those words seeped into his shocked brain as he stared down unable to read on. Then a dull hurt possessed him. He thought of how well he had grown to like the millionaire in the short time he had been associated with him. Then it came to him that this meant the upsetting of everything connected with launching the ship. Briggs flashed into his mind. If the space ship being almost ready to launch had anything to do with the time of Rothberg's disappearance, Briggs might be back of it. The boy nudged him. "Five cents, mister."
Clifford pulled a coin from his pocket and dropped it into the stubby palm. The boy ran on shouting,
"Extra! Extra! Big banker disappears!"
For a long time Clifford stood there stunned. His house of cards had tumbled about him. His dream was only a dream after all, his plan only a scheme. The new light in his life was not a beacon at the port of success, but just a flare of illusion somewhere across the strange darkness of failure. Not for a second did he have any faith in Briggs' going ahead with the work. Briggs wasn't the kind to spend a great sum of money helping other men attain their dreams, and his hand seemed all too plain in this. Clifford knew Rothberg had made provision for carrying on this work in case of his death, but since he had only disappeared the delay in the work would probably be dragged out indefinitely. That would be like Briggs.
A Strange Call
FOR a long time he stood letting his thoughts wander on and on. Men and women flowed past in an endless procession propelled back and forth through the heart of the city. Cars honked beyond the curb, traffic congested and moved again as the bell rang and the lights changed. No one paid him the least attention, he, who had been so sure a few minutes before that this strange, restless, congested mass of human beings should know him and acclaim him.
Now he was one of them again an unknown in a mass of unknowns; just a corpuscle in the veins of the city. He felt he would never reach the heights of his aspiration, never see his rockets flaring against the heavens. He must plod, lift and place, lift and place again, eight hours a day, six days each week fifty-two weeks each year until some day another mannikin would be put in his place to carry on the unending drudgery of life.
The paper dropped from his fingers. A puff of wind caught, twisted it, and whisked it aloft, high above the heads of the industrious mass, then let it fall into the streets where it scudded along under the shuffling feet of the unseeing horde. It lay there, restless with each new gust shaken but unable to rise again. Staring at that paper with its warrant against his dreams, he remembered Freud and the psychology of grandeur and dreams. Like a good many other men of imagination, he had believed in his luck, in his allotment to play a major part in the scheme of things; felt, somehow, that he was a man born to walk among the mighty.
He shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to be resigned.
"Rothberg disappears!" Up and down the street newsboys cried his doom; cried it lustily with a trill of elation for the pennies they were getting. "Big banker disappears!" Pennies, pennies for lollypops or tops, or, what did it matter, the big news they had not at all. He turned back and unlocked the door, crossed his room and caught his image in the mirror. He was astonished at the apparent change in himself. The evidence of defeat in his features whipped him to a new determination. He would fight on! He drew his shoulders erect and grinned. The wrinkles caused by the laugh looked odd against his ashy face. He sat down upon his bed.
Thoughts chased each other around in endless procession. The hands of the tiny clock upon the table crawled around the dial. The telephone bell against the wall tinkled. Now that he noticed it, he believed it had been ringing a long time. He lifted the receiver and answered in a voice that was thin and hollow.
"Mr. Peterson?" a girl asked.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"You don't know me by name. I took the notes for the conference the night your plan was adopted."
"Yes, yes. Certainly I remember you."
"Please come out here just as soon as you can. Everything depends on it."
"All right. I'm coming," Clifford answered, wondering at the calmness of his voice. "Are you at the Rothberg place?"
There was no answer.
He fumbled in the directory for Rothberg's phone and found it was not listed. For the life of him he could not remember the number. He asked information but she refused to give it to him. Uneasiness grew the more he was balked, but there was nothing he could do only hurry as fast as possible to the Rothberg place.
He caught the elevator, rushed into the street to hail a taxi.
Crowds were swarming about the walls which enclosed the estate when the taxi drew up at the curb. Beyond the walls all seemed quiet enough, and there was little to indicate possible tragedy, except two stolid men in uniform at each side of the front steps, and a few brisk men entering and departing. Just as he left the cab, Briggs came down the walk.
"Just the man I wanted to see," his big booming voice stopping any attempt to evade him.
BRIGGS was the last man Clifford wanted to see but he followed him into the house. In the board room Briggs closed the door and turned on him.
"Of course you've heard."
"Yes," Clifford admitted, watching him intently.
"The old man must have known he was in danger," Briggs went on. "Yesterday he asked me to carry on this work should anything happen to him. Told me he wanted the ship to be a monument to him."
"Yes," Clifford assented absently, thinking of this new puzzle. Why was Briggs telling him this? Was he really going ahead and launch the ship? If so, that indicated he must have nothing at all to do with Rothberg's disappearance. Then who did?
As he stood thoughtfully wondering about the new phase of the situation, Briggs turned on him aggressively.
"Peterson, you've no business out here. I want you to let this affair alone." "All right," Clifford agreed coolly, "I will when I find what became of Mr. Rothberg."
"Better not meddle," Briggs growled, "After all your ship is all that interests you."
"I don't like your tone, Briggs," Clifford said.
"You'll like it a sight less if you meddle here."
"I'm not meddling," Clifford answered becoming more irritated. "I had a reason to come here."
"Yeah, I know. She phoned you. I'm onto her game too. Now, you get this straight. If you love your life you stay out of this."
"Is that a threat?"
"That or a promise, take it as you choose."
Briggs hunched his shoulders and doubled his fists. Clifford didn't want to have a knock-down fight in the man's own home, so he turned his back and strode from the room. He smiled a little, his sense of humor saving the situation. Surely Briggs ought to know he was no match for him that way.
"Get out then," Briggs called angrily, "and keep away from Crystal. When I want you I'll get you, remember that."
Clifford went into the hall wondering at Briggs' jealousy over the girl. She did not appear to be the type who would put herself into Briggs' power nor one who would carry on an affair with him. In the hall he found her waiting for him and a big load of worry left his mind. The tragedy in the house seemed to make her more reserved. There was a touch of somberness in her dark coat suit and Clifford missed the flashes of color she had worn at her neck and waist. He wondered if this overtone of black was her usual business habit or if it hinted that she believed Rothberg dead. She did not smile, though there was an evident relief in her face when she saw him. "I'm so glad you came," she said.
"I hurried," he answered taking her hand, "You hung up so abruptly I was really worried."
"Let's talk in my little office," she interrupted quickly.
"Wherever you wish," he agreed.
He followed down the hall and found himself in a small room fitted with stenographer's desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs. She seated herself at the desk and he sank into the other chair, which was evidently the one Rothberg used while dictating.
"I'm not the regular secretary," she said briefly, "but I do most of his personal letters. He can trust me better than anyone else.
CHAPTER III.
A Dangerous Situation
CLIFFORD noticed that she did not call Rothberg's name. Evidently it would have been a task for her to mention it just then. Certainly he and she were very close to each other. Well, Rothberg had excellent taste and he did not blame him for hiring her. He did wonder though, just how much she cared for the millionaire and how much for his money. Then he put that thought from his mind. He felt it was unjust to her. Whatever her connection with the banker, he felt it must be sincere and unaffected by his wealth.
"About the phone," she reminded him, "That was queer. Your voice was cut off like something or someone had cut the wire. I tried to get central again and she would not answer. Then I went upstairs and that phone was dead too."
"Aren't there other phones about the place?"
"Yes, one in BB's laboratory and one in the servants' quarters."
"Did you try either of them?"
"No—" she hesitated, "Truth is, I didn't want the servants to know. I started down to BB's laboratory and something seemed to hold me back. I don't like to acknowledge it, really it's silly, but something seemed to warn me to stay out of there. I don't know why I felt like that. Maybe it was because BB acts so queer of late."
Clifford got out of his chair. "I'll go down and find what's wrong."
"No," she cried, "You must not."
"Why?" he asked hesitating.
"BB. He'll do anything now. He even puts his own guards at my door."
"Mr. Rothberg will rip him inside out when he comes back."
"Oh I do wish he'd come back. I am terribly worried about him."
"No one would dare harm him," Clifford assured her, though he was not quite so sure himself. "He is probably kidnapped to delay launching the ship."
"Maybe that is all, but BB acts so strange. He dares things he never dared before. He threatens me in a way which makes me really afraid."
"You think—Briggs killed him?"
She winced, paled slightly and then said, "BB resented the outlay from that first night. Last night when they were together in here he told BB he would spend his entire fortune or make a go of the satellites. BB
agreed with him, but too readily. I know now I should have done something." She stopped talking and her head bent forward to hide her face. It was plain she was losing her magnificent control, but after a moment she went on: "That was the last time anyone saw him. They went down into the laboratory to look over the ship. This morning the butler told the police that he had seen him go into the street about nine o'clock last night, but I believe he is lying."
"Have you told anyone what you suspect?"
"There was no one I could trust."
"If the butler is lying, Mr. Rothberg must still be down in the laboratory!"
"Yes, somewhere down there."
"Then why was he not found?" he exclaimed.
"You don't know BB," she said with a pronounced agitation. "He has drugs and chemicals which will do unbelievable things!"
"I don't like to leave you alone," he said with evident concern as he got out of his chair, "but Mr. Rothberg may need help. I'll be right back."
"Don't go down there alone," she warned and lowered her voice as though she suspected someone was listening. "Not the laboratory! You'd be at his mercy."
HER concern thrilled him. He let his eyes linger on her, watched her black pupils grow wider and wider. Puzzled at the way he affected her, and then with some chagrin he saw that her eyes were not upon him but that she was looking over his shoulder at something behind him; that her eyes were not widening with love but with terror.
He whirled about quickly and found Briggs peering through the partly opened door. Clifford gave him one disdainful glance and deliberately turned his back. The girl pulled at the hem of her short skirt and toyed carelessly with a paper cutter.
Clifford was sorry for her. Briggs was using his position in the home to act a beast.
"I hear the ship is ready to launch." Clifford said the first thing that came into his mind, anything to divert Briggs from the girl.
"Tomorrow," Briggs declared and his tone was defiant as though he expected Clifford to object.
"Don't we wait for Rothberg?" Clifford demanded.
Briggs stepped forward until he towered over Clifford who leaned upon the desk.
"Tomorrow, I said," he snarled: "Not a day later!"
"Then it is ready?" Clifford asked, his nerves tightening, "May I see it, Briggs?" Briggs regarded him with an uncertain suspicion, then seemed to arrive at a decision and turned toward the door.
"Come on," he growled.
Clifford followed but felt the girl's hand upon his sleeve.
Briggs whirled and there was a dangerous fire in his eyes.
"Get on," Clifford commanded. Briggs shot a threat over his shoulder and then went striding down the hall.
In all the months that Clifford had worked with Rothberg and Briggs correcting flaws and inventing schemes for improving the ship, he had been refused a glimpse of the work. Briggs had insisted on keeping him out of the laboratory and his whole knowledge of the ship's progress was obtained from blue prints and small models. So when Briggs opened the door of the shop and went down a short flight of stairs, Clifford peered eagerly over the maze of pipes, machinery and belts, to rest upon the ship which was near the rear of the building.
She was indeed an engaging vessel. Night was just falling and the soft radiance of her luminous paint glowed against the shadowed walls. Clifford knew then why Rothberg had planned to send her out at night. She would make a spectacular departure!
"All loaded and ready for contact," Briggs rumbled as he pressed a button. The wall beyond seemed to resolve itself into great doors which slid open to provide a hole large enough for the exit of the two-hundred foot torpedo-shaped ship. New track gleamed below the ship and ran out into the trial yard.
"We'll make the experiment here. The first the world shall know of it will be the flash of light as it shoots across the heavens to circle the earth!"
"I hope it does, Briggs. It would ruin me should it fall."
"You said it couldn't," Briggs exclaimed hoarsely and stared at him in astonishment.
"That's my theory, Briggs. Only the experiment will tell for sure."
"It mustn't," Briggs raved, his whole attitude showing unparalleled concern. "I won't fire it if it's likely to fail. I'll have her dragged to the river and sunk first."
Trapped!
"I didn't mean to intimate that we would fail, Briggs. Of course we won't give up even if this one doesn't take off. In that case we would have to tear her up and find what was wrong, then try again."
"No," Briggs declared, staring at the floor. "I'll have her drowned. We'd be the laughing stock of the whole world."
He jabbed at the switch and the doors closed. He turned and gave Clifford a quick, searching look, crafty with some hidden anxiety.
"Peterson," he finally said, "You've a future ahead of you. You have already devised some things which should make you famous when they are widely known."
He lowered his voice and gave a cautious glance around the dimly lighted room. Clifford was annoyed. Why was the man whispering. There seemed to be no one down there to hear him even had he shouted.
"I made a discovery or two, myself," Briggs went on, "Something deep. Something which has to do with the basic laws of life!"
"No?"
"Sure."
Clifford was instantly alert. Here seem to be a chance to get Briggs to talk. He was anxious to find out how sane the blazing-eyed chemist was.
"What have you discovered?" he asked.
"Shhh! Not so loud. It's a secret. I haven't even told the governor. Not a soul But I'll tell you." Clifford stiffened expectantly and after a moment Briggs went on.
"Of course you'll admit that life is no more than chemical action."
"No, I don't," Clifford objected mainly to draw him out.
"You don't know that?" Briggs questioned fretfully.
"Oh, I'll admit the physical part of life is chemical," Clifford said soothingly watching Briggs closely. "But there is more to life than the oxidation which takes place in the body. What about intelligence? Spirit, if you please? We chemists can make a particle of matter wiggle, whistle, sing and even talk, but we have never made it feel or think!"
"Of course," Briggs drawled absently, "But it is the chemical part of life I am experimenting with." The glitter in his black eyes was now more metallic. "I have discovered how to produce flesh, live flesh, Peterson!"
Clifford clenched his hands and stared at the cement floor. He could not trust himself to look at Briggs a moment longer. He felt sure then that he was on the trail of Rothberg, dead or alive. Briggs droned on, "In my vault I have something that will interest you; made of minerals and treated with chemicals; flesh! Human flesh, and it bleeds!"
Clifford had no doubt by that time that Briggs was entirely mad, and that he had either killed Rothberg outright or was using him for some horrible experiment. He did not know whether to answer or remain silent. One bit too much interest might scare Briggs and one bit less might stop the wild ramblings. Briggs hesitated and Clifford said, "You're a wizard if you can do that." He wondered if Briggs noticed the strain in his voice.
"I've done it!" Briggs flared.
"Science asks proof."
"You want to see it," the crafty anxiety was growing in the black eyes. "Come on, I'll give you a look." Briggs strode off down a lane between the machinery and Clifford followed him closely, hoping that he would find Rothberg alive.
They reached a large vault of masonry and steel. Briggs swung open the door and stepped inside, Clifford close at his heels. Briggs turned on an electric light.
"There!" he cackled, pointing to a glass case at the far end of the ten-foot vault. Clifford gasped.
In the long glass case was something which might have been a man. It was nude, terribly bloodsoaked and lacerated.
ROTHBERG? With two quick strides he reached the case and peered in. The body proved to be nothing more than a mannikin of flesh-colored rubber, daubed here and there with red paint. He whirled around sensing a trap. Briggs was gone and the big steel door of the vault was closing! Briggs had been too keen for him!
He stepped back and regarded the gray steel bolts of the door as they glistened under the light. He knew the strength of that chrome steel. The inch thick tusks were shot solidly into the frame and there was no way on earth he could drive them back.
He was chagrined at how easily he had been duped, even with the warning the girl had given him. Truth was, he had not believed Briggs was quite so diabolical and vicious as she seemed to think. Now it proved she had been quite right and he was too late in realizing it. Hardly hoping for any means of escape, he searched around the small room. There was a lot of chemical apparatus on the table, and the walls were lined with steel shelves fitted with filing boxes, Clifford pulled down one of the files. It was heavy. He opened it. Inside were typewritten manuscripts and blue prints; scientific stuff, the records of experiments which Rothberg had financed. No doubt the records of his own scheme were here and he went carefully through the file hoping to find them and get them away from Briggs, should he by any chance leave the vault alive. The first file finished he took down another, and as he searched he stacked the boxes carefully upon the floor. Back of the eighth box was a small round hole in the masonry of the wall. He was completely surprised at finding it.
Mice? Certainly not.
He stepped upon one of the steel boxes to peer closer, and saw that the hole was the end of a galvanized pipe, cut flush with the surface of the wall.
That was queer. Why should a pipe be run into this vault and hidden behind the filing boxes?
Wondering about it he rummaged through the papers in the ninth box and started on the tenth. He smelled gas. Instantly he knew his peril. This was Briggs' way of getting rid of him! It was also probably the way Rothberg had been dispatched.
The gas fumes hissed through the pipe. It would not take long to finish him at that rate. He took out his handkerchief to plug the hole. But that would never do. He knew Briggs well enough to know that plugging the hole would not beat him. Briggs would take no chances with any escape as simple as that. In whatever room he had his gas lever would be a meter that would gauge the amount of gas entering the vault. Should he plug the hole Briggs would be warned and leave him to starve or would devise some other way to finish him.
Clifford knew if he were to get out alive he would have to do better than just plug the pipe. He would have to let gas flow into the vault. Let Briggs believe he was suffocated; and then surprise him as he opened the door to drag out his body. But how? Already he was dizzy with the fumes. There was a way and he thought of it!
A desperate method which gave small hope, but he was in a desperate situation. He struck a match and threw it at the hole. The gas burst into flame, leaping far into the vault and singeing his hair. Then it shrank to the pipe and burned in a long tongue of roaring fire. On and on it burned. The acrid fumes became less pungent, but the air of the vault grew hot and stifling. He stood helplessly and stared at the hissing blaze, and tried to devise some way to prevent its eating up the air he needed for his gasping lungs.
CHAPTER IV.
Into the Sky!
THE vault became hotter and hotter. He 1 suffocated, his throat seemed parched with fire. He decided it would be better to die by cool gas than by blazing fire. He groped about the vault searching dizzily for something with which to smother the flame, and as he searched he remembered his coming hour of triumph but one day ahead. God, how he wanted to live long enough to launch the ship; to watch it race out into the orbit of its service to the earth. He wanted to protect that strange girl upstairs—he wanted—he wanted—what? Air —just air.
He reeled sank to the floor. The flame above burned on, riding high about the mouth of the pipe, higher and higher as though it were breaking loose from its anchor and trying to float away. Up and down it crept as it fed on stagnant air currents from the floor. And Clifford knew what made it ride away from the pipe. The oxygen in the air was growing thin.
Black night and red flame played hide and seek across his brain. He felt that he was slipping down, down, down, into a deep dark place, lighted now and then with red flares of light. Sprawled upon the floor he breathed in a quick pant like a huge lizard spread upon a jungle floor. Cliflord was not entirely out when there came a noise as of someone working at the door. The steel tusks moved back from their sockets and the door moved. It opened wider and a flood of fresh sweet air poured in. He breathed greedily and tried to get hold of himself. He felt sure Briggs would be armed and try to finish him. He rose groggily to his knees and doubled his lean fists, waiting like a cornered beast. A swift figure darted through the half open door, seized his shoulders and tugged at him. He waved his fists groggily in an effort to strike. He heard a faint cry of pain and the blackness seemed to lift again. The girl was there. Somehow she had found him. He marvelled at her courage, knowing how very much afraid she was to be down there. He marvelled still more at her concern for him. The fresh air braced him like aromatic spirits. He got to his feet and lean against the wall. She stepped nearer, gray eyes burning with anxiety. He smiled weakly.
"Don't worry, I'm all right," he assured I her.
"I knew he'd try to kill you. That's why I begged you not to come down here."
"Yes I am dumb, but you rescued me," he said with a bit of chagrin.
"Not so dumb," she denied.
He glanced up to see her eyes regarding the flaming jet. The fire trembled in the mirror of her eyes.
"You outwitted him that time, but let's yet out of here," she added nervously. "He'll want nothing better than to lock us both in."
"Shall I help you," she asked leaning over him.
"No, I'll make it. Go ahead."
She left the vault and he followed, reeling a trifle. Outside she slipped around a black panel which held electrical switches, and then across toward the space ship, which glowed with a weird radiance against the dark, lifeless room. Here and there a night bulb cast grotesque shadows of the queer machines upon the concrete floor and distorted them against the pale gray walls.
"He'll be wild," she whispered.
"He'll never launch the ship now," he said dejectedly.
"Launch it yourself," she declared. "It's all ready."
"Mr. Rothberg?" he questioned.
Her enthusiasm died. She stood silent. For a moment and then in a sad, soft tone; "I'm sure he'd want you to. I am sure of it."
"You're right," he agreed, "Why wait when the test can be made now. Do you know the switches which work the hoist?"
"Yes," she said and pressed the button which opened the big doors.
THEY slid back and unfolded a section of clear, moonless sky, alight with the thousand candles of night. She stepped to a row of levers against the wall.
"Contact!"' she called like a valiant little soldier.
The hoist growled. The ship slid outward and up along the inclined track, until t was high up in the yard outside the laboratory. She pressed another switch and the able fell away, another and there was a burst of flashing, spluttering, roaring flame, which howled like a mighty cyclone of chemical disintegration. The ship heaved upward with constantly accelerating velocity. It went streaking across the sky with a long tail of fire left for an instant in its wake. On and on the monster sped. Faster! Faster! It grew smaller and smaller into the vastness of the heavens.
Cries came from the streets. Shouts! Yells! Questions tossed back and forth, man to man. The space ship was setting the city on its ears.
It gained the heavens, glowing like a big star. It sped across the zenith against a galaxy of ancient stars, moving down toward the rim of the far horizon.
Clifford and the girl stood dumb, humbled with the power man had brought at last into his control. Dumb with the greatness of having created something far more lasting than themselves. Behind them came the sound of running feet.
Clifford turned to see Briggs, who began to shout wildly.
Believing the man was entirely mad he reached about for some weapon. But Briggs paid little attention to him. "Good God!" he was at last understandable. "What have you done? The governor's in there!" The girl screamed "No! No! No!" She swayed and sank upon the floor, and huddled there as though strength had gone entirely out of her.
Clifford leaned over and laid his arm across her shoulders and felt the quiver of of her body as she shook with grief.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," was all he could think to say.
Briggs hurdled back through the laboratory crying:
"We've got to stop it! We've got to stop it! The governor's in there!" Clifford knew how useless was that cry. That ship was like death. One could launch it but there was no known way to bring it down. It was in the control of the cosmos!
"What have I done? Oh! what have I done?" the girl sobbed brokenly.
"We didn't know," Clifford said. "We had no way of knowing. You and I are not to blame. It was Briggs, the scoundrel!" His words seemed to shake her with new despair.
"Oh, you don't understand! You don't know! I am BB's wife!" Clifford straightened with the shock. She—BB's wife? Rothberg's daughter? Why had he not guessed it?"