T
hey found me, rather!" corrected the prince. "But we get on quite well together. They consider me a god, you see, since I, too, came out of the sky in a thunderbolt, as their great diamond once did, according to their legends."
"But who are they? What is their origin? Why are they so small, so pale?"
"Natural questions, Professor, but not so easy to answer. Who they are I cannot say, save that they are the snow people of native superstition. Their origin? It is lost in antiquity. Perhaps they are the remnants of some Tibetan tribe driven into the mountains by enemies, thousands of years ago. While as for their stature, their pallor—these no doubt are the result of the furtive underground life they lead."
He paused, waited politely, as though for further questions, but neither spoke. Now that the main mystery was solved, the one question uppermost in both their minds was what this suave, inscrutable nobleman was going to do with them—and that question neither cared to ask, fearful of what the answer might be.
F
inally Prince Krassnov spoke again.
"What, gentlemen—you have no further curiosity about me? How unflattering! I thought perhaps you might want to know why I have chosen to maintain my headquarters here on Kinchinjunga, the past two years, and how I have been occupying my time. But I hold no resentment. I shall tell you, so that you will be prepared for what I am going to propose."
He turned and addressed the pigmy host in what must have been their own tongue. Then, facing his guests again, he said:
"Now, come. Let us retire to my private study, where we shall have more leisure."
They followed him from that dazzling chamber and proceeded on down the cavern to a fork that ended about twenty paces further in a massive steel-bound door.
There he paused and twirled a knob like the dial of a safe. After a moment there came a click, as of tumblers meshing, and a tug on the knob swung the door open.
The prince bowed.
"Step into my little apartment," he said.
They entered, to find themselves in a large oblong room furnished in Slavic luxury.
A
s they crossed a rich Oriental rug spread over the threshold, a musical gong sounded somewhere, and almost instantly two enormous Cossacks sprang into view, to bar their way with rifles.
"My bodyguard," apologized Krassnov, shutting the door. "They are quite harmless, except to intruders. Just one of the little precautions that make life safer."
He spoke to the men in Russian and they withdrew.
Then he advanced to a divan beside a teakwood table on which stood a large copper samovar. Dropping down, he motioned for them to take seats beside him.
"You will have tea, my friends? Or perhaps you would prefer whiskey and soda?"
They chose the latter, since their recent exertions seemed to have warranted it, and their host tinkled a silver bell, bringing a Chinese boy beaming and salaaming.
A few words to him and the samovar was lit; then he hurried off on padding feet, to return with miraculous speed, bearing not only the whiskey and soda but a platter heaped with exotic cakes, cubed sandwiches of caviar and spiced fish, together with a profusion of other delicacies—doubly welcome to men who had toiled all day on a mountain peak, with nothing but chocolate to sustain them.
And while they drank and ate, Prince Krassnov told his story—a story whose very first words werean admission that he was the head of the great diamond-smuggling plot Stoddard had set out to trace down.
I
t was a story as dramatic and romantic as it was unscrupulous.
Finding himself and the crew of the rocket marooned on the upper slopes of this mighty mountain, in the midst of an incalculable wealth, he had set about at once to capitalize their astounding discovery.
First he had made certain adjustments in the mechanism of his apparatus—which fortunately had not been injured by its forced landing—and then he had taken off with specimens of the treasure, bringing the craft down this time with precision in the midst of his ancestral estates near Baku, in the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains.
This vast property the Bolsheviks had not confiscated, partly because of its remoteness, no doubt, and partly because of the prince's services to the Soviet Republic. At any rate, it was here he had developed in secret the details of his amazing plot—a plot that had as its aim not only his own enrichment but the rehabilitation of all the Russian nobles.
Once they had heard his story of the Diamond Thunderbolt and seen the specimens he showed them, many had eagerly joined the plot, with the result that an international ring had been formed for disposal of the gems.
His plans perfected, Prince Krassnov had then returned to Kinchinjunga with his rocket, since when the mysterious flood of those perfect diamonds into the jewel markets of the world had begun.
"So you see, my friends," he smiled, "that is what you Americans would call my 'little game'—a game your chance discovery has rather jeopardized, you must admit."
Professor Prescott could well realize this, but at a glance from Stoddard he declined to admit it.
"A very ingenious game!" he said. "But where do the Lamas figure in this? Surely they must know of the presence of this meteor within their kingdom."
"No doubt they do," the prince conceded. "This is why they are so reluctant to have foreigners enter their domain. At one time, I am satisfied, they knew its exact location and drew many of their own gems from that source. But in recent times the snow people have guarded their secret well. The Lamas are as terrified of them as the natives—and with better reason!"
He did not mention what the reason was, but there was something ominous in his tone.
B
ut to get on with my story, friends. I am not telling you all this merely to satisfy your curiosity. I have what you call a motive in my madness!"
Madness was right, thought Stoddard. The man was dangerously, criminally mad.
"My motive is simply this," he went on. "You have chanced upon my little nest-egg, and consequently I have either to let you in on the deal or—"
Krassnov paused; shrugged.
"But why talk of anything unpleasant, when there is wealth enough here for all? What I propose, briefly, is that you join me."
They knew it was coming, but they winced, nevertheless.
"Oh, don't be premature!" he exclaimed, a little nettled. "Hear me out. What is good enough for me and my fellow nobles of Imperial Russia is surely good enough for poor, under-paid professors of democratic America. Listen, friends—I am generous. Join me and we will make millionaires out of all of you. Every professor in your country shall be a little czar. It will be, to use the old phrase, a triumph of the intellect."
Beyond a doubt, the man was mad; yet his madness was vast, dizzying. Though neither was tempted, they were both rendered speechless for a moment. It was like standing on a mountain top and being shown the countries and the glories of the world—like standing on the top of Kinchinjunga, thought Prescott.
"But you assume we are all Bolsheviks, like yourself, we professors," he said, struggling for calm words.
"Bolsheviks!" snorted the prince. "I spit on them! You think I, a nobleman, am interested in the masses? Cattle—swine! I plan only for the day when we who are worthy rule again, and this that I have told you is my plan. You can, as you Americans so coarsely say, either take it or leave it."
A
tension hung in the air, as his words echoed into silence. The man had revealed himself.
"And suppose we leave it?" asked the professor, restraining his irritation as best he could. "What then?"
"Then I am afraid—ah—unpleasant consequences would result," was the bland answer. "Surely you realize that I could not let you and young Dr. Stoddard rejoin your expedition with this story to report."
They realized it quite well.
"But suppose we agree not to report it?" said Professor Prescott.
"Not to doubt your honesty of intention," replied Krassnov sharply. "I would refuse to accept such an agreement."
"Then I see nothing else but to decline your kind proposal," said Stoddard, before the professor could formulate further words. "What do you propose to do—murder us?"
"Nothing so personal," said the prince, with his sardonic smile. "I shall merely turn you over to my little subjects. They no doubt will deal with you as your merits warrant."
Whereupon he pressed a button under that elaborate teakwood table. The musical gong they had heard before sounded again, and the prince's two Cossack retainers reappeared.
He addressed them briefly in Russian, adding to his guests:
"Adieu, friends! If you change your minds, you have only to speak. You will be understood, and I shall be gratified."
And without further words, they were led from that ornate apartment.
T
aken back to the dazzling chamber under the meteor, they were turned over to the pigmies.
A powwow resulted, but it was brief. The two captives were bound fast in a curious ceremonial pit near the center of the room. Then the midget horde withdrew, leaving them alone there under that eery glow.
"Now what the devil will be the next step?" queried Stoddard, when the last of the pigmies had gone.
Professor Prescott considered for a moment, before replying.
"I don't think there will be any next step, except our cremation," he said at length.
"Cremation?" gasped his young friend. "What do you mean, cremation?"
Another pause, then:
"Just this. Don't you see where we are? Right under the Thunderbolt! Well?"
"Well what?"
"Simple enough, Jack." The professor's tone was grave. "When dawn comes, and the rising sun strikes that—"
"Good God!" Stoddard suddenly understood. "Why, we'll be cooked alive—frizzled!"
It was only too true. Even now, the pale rays of the moon, concentrated by the myriad facets of that monumental diamond, were beginning to focus on them a warmth thatwas uncomfortable. And by morning—!
The two men crouched there silent, realizing their desperate plight. Theymustescape, before the sun rose. But how?
S
tudying their bonds, they discovered that they were of rawhide of some sort, obviously from the hides of animals these strange people caught on the lower slopes somewhere. But though they strained and twisted, they could not stretch them, the leather evidently having been cured to a marvelous toughness in these high altitudes.
Precious minutes ticked by as they struggled there, but they were unable to extricate themselves.
But before the end of a half-hour, Stoddard managed to free one arm, and reaching into his jacket he drew forth a small, compact metal object—his cigarette lighter.
Twirling the wheel, while Professor Prescott held his breath, he succeeded in kindling a flame on its tiny wick.
If only he could reach the thongs with it! If only he could burn them through and free himself and the professor before any of the pigmies re-entered that lethal chamber!
Wrenching around now, he applied the flame to his left wrist, which was still bound. As the living fire touched his flesh, he winced with pain, but almost anything was better than the grisly fate that threatened.
Slowly, a little at a time, he endured the torture, straining at each application to see if the thongs would yield.
"Here, let me try it once!" called out Professor Prescott, as he cried aloud with the agony of the ordeal.
"No. I'll get it!" Stoddard gritted his teeth, continued. "There! I think my hand is free!" He struggled. "Yes. Now wait!"
Replacing his cigarette lighter in his pocket, he drew his blistered wrist from its smouldering bonds and struggled feverishly now to undo the lashes about his feet.
Five minutes of that and suddenly he flung them off and stood up.
"Now! Now then, Professor. I'll have you loose in a jiffy!"
Bending over his fettered companion, he worked with frantic haste to untie the rawhide bonds.
Another five minutes and they were both free.
P
rofessor Prescott stood up and stretched.
"Thank God for small favors!" he exclaimed. "But you, Jack? You must be burned cruelly.
"Forget it!" Stoddard was already wrapping a handkerchief around his wrist. "Now let's see about getting out of here. These little rats all seem to be asleep, and Lord knows where that maniac Krassnov is. Perhaps we can make it. At any rate, we'll give them a run for their money!"
As he spoke, he drew his automatic.
Silently, stealthily, they left that glittering chamber and proceeded down the cavern toward what seemed to be the entrance, guided by their remembrance of the way they had come.
A hundred yards or more they made, seeing no sign of their captors, when suddenly a musical gong rang out.
"We've stepped on one of Krassnov's infernal signals!" cried Stoddard, above the din. "Now there'll be hell to pay!"
And "hell to pay" there was, almost instantly—for before they had taken ten more steps, the cavern ahead was full of small, ghostly figures, jabbering in their shrill voices.
Indifferent now of what he did, their lives at stake, Stoddard blazed away with his automatic, sweeping it from side to side of the stony walls as he fired.
As the shots crashed out, the jabbers turned to shrieks of terror. Several of the pigmies fell. The rest broke their ranks and shrank into the shadows.
"Run!" yelled Stoddard, slipping a new clip into his pistol.
The professor needed no invitation. Gathering his long legs he sped after the younger man, and together they burst from the mouth of the cavern.
O
utside, in the dazzle of moonlight, they paused for an instant.
"This way!" called Stoddard, racing toward that splintered arena.
They gained it and lunged across it to the shelving slope that reached upward to the narrow, perilous ridge whence they had come.
As they proceeded, the pigmy horde following with incredible swiftness, Stoddard wheeled and fired time and again—and now his shots were answered by the reports of rifles.
"Krassnov and his Cossacks!" he muttered. "Well, we'll give them our heels, unless they hit us."
"And Russians are notoriously bad shots, I understand," panted the professor.
At any rate, they reached the slope and struggled upward toward the ridge, putting themselves presently out of range behind the jagged rocks that loomed on every side.
But just as they were congratulating themselves on their escape, came a dull, reverberating explosion—and as they clung to their insecure footholds, a volcano of snow and ice rose ahead. Thousands of tons of debris avalanched into the chasm below.
S
tunned, deafened, they looked around.
Down in that pocket where the Thunderbolt had so recently gleamed was one vast chaos, and above, where that razor-back ridge had led across the intervening chasms to safety, was a dazzling void.
To both came the same thought, but Stoddard expressed it first.
"Krassnov—he's dynamited the ridge!" he gasped.
"Then we—we'll never get back now!" echoed Professor Prescott.
"No, but they'll never get us here!"
"Scant comfort, though, when we're pinioned here like a couple of birds with their wings clipped."
"Right; but let's see. Let's figure. We're better off than we were. And what was it Napoleon once said: 'When you can't retreat, advance.' So suppose we—"
"But listen!"
S
toddard heard. It was the sound of rifle shots. And looking down, he saw a feverish activity surrounding the rocket. Myriads of the pigmies were swarming upon it, while a handful of Cossacks were holding them off.
"Something doing down there, all right!" he muttered. "Looks to me like—why, sure I've got it! That madman has overshot himself, for once! He's buried their precious meteor, in blowing up our ridge, and they've turned on him!"
"I think you're right," agreed Professor Prescott. "Suppose we advance as you say. It looks like a chance."
"Right," said Stoddard.
Slowly, cautiously, they returned down the slope.
When within a hundred yards, they knew they had sized up the situation correctly. With frantic speed, Krassnov was supervising the shoveling out of his rocket from amid the debris; was directing its loading, while the free members of his crew held off the enraged natives who were obstructing them.
Descending even more cautiously now, they neared the scene of activity.
"My plan is this—to get aboardand find out where they're going!" said Stoddard, through shut teeth. "What do you say?"
"Lead on!" said the professor.
So they continued down, neared the resting-place of that strange craft, and, under shelter of the moonlight shadows, stole through the confused ranks surrounding it and crept aboard.
S
towing themselves into the first likely niche that offered—a narrow cubicle behind a flight of metal stairs—they waited, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of being discovered.
Fifteen minutes passed, a half-hour, when suddenly sounded a rasping of doors that told them the rocket was being sealed.
Then came a roar, as of some mighty blast beating down upon the frozen earth, followed by a lifting, rushing sensation—and they were flung violently to the flooring.
The pressure ceased in a moment, however, to be supplanted by a buoyant, exhilarating sense of flight. It increased, and they judged they must be traveling at great speed.
Glancing at the luminous dial of his watch, Professor Prescott saw that it was a quarter to ten.
"Well, we're off!" he whispered. "And where, would you guess, are we headed?"
"I wouldn't guess," Stoddard whispered back. "From the way we're riding, it might be Mars! We must be making hundreds of miles an hour."
"Or thousands! Who knows?"
They crouched there in their cramped niche, scarcely even whispering now, as the tense minutes passed.
S
uddenly the motion changed. They seemed to be dropping.
Another moment or two, and with a slight jar the rocket came to rest.
"Well, we're here, wherever it is," said Stoddard, stirring.
"Yes, undoubtedly," the professor agreed. "And the next move?"
"I think we'll let them make that."
They were not long in doing so. There came the sound of doors rasping open, of footsteps echoing on metal stairs and corridors. Once a giant Cossack passed within four feet of them. But at length, all was silent within the rocket.
"Now, then, suppose we have a look around," said Stoddard, stepping out.
"Right," agreed his companion, following. "I'll admit I am mildly curious to know what corner of the earth we've been transported to."
They proceeded down the dim-lit corridor the way they had come, descended a flight of stairs and headed along another corridor—to pause suddenly and gasp with astonishment. For through the door whence they had entered the rocket poured a flood of sunshine.
S
toddard stared at it a moment incredulously, and then glanced at his watch.
"Ten o'clock, I make it!" he muttered. "Am I crazy, or what?"
"No, I hardly think so," smiled Professor Prescott, recovering from his own surprise. "It is merely that we are in some part of the world quite a few thousand miles removed from India. Back on Kinchinjunga, it is still ten o'clock at night, but here, it is quite obviously daytime."
"That must be the explanation," Stoddard agreed. "But it certainly gave me a start at first!"
Approaching the door, followed by the professor, he peered cautiously out, to confront a desolate stretch of scrubby growth, hemmed in by a background of rugged mountains.
"Now where the devil would you say we are?" he demanded, gazing around perplexedly.
"Either in the United States or in Mexico," was the astonishing reply.
"But how can you say that?"
"Because it must be some place approximately twelve hours distant from India in time, to judge from the sun, which is not far past the meridian."
"But why not Australia, for instance?"
"Because Australia is too far. It would be three o'clock tomorrow morning there, since it is ten o'clock last night now in India."
S
toddard pondered this a minute, then admitted its correctness.
"All right, then. Assuming that we are somewhere on the North American continent, the next thing is to give Krassnov the slip; otherwise it won't be big enough for all of us!"
And that Professor Prescott conceded readily enough.
But before making any further move, they looked over their surroundings carefully, to satisfy themselves none of their late captors were in view.
"They're evidently somewhere on the other side of the rocket," Stoddard concluded at length. "So let's make a break for it while we've got the chance."
"Lead the way!" said the professor.
"O. K., here we go!"
And, stepping through the door, they dropped to the ground and raced off under the glare of the burning sun toward the rugged mountains that loomed ahead.
F
or a hundred yards or so they were able to keep the rocket between themselves and the Russians but soon the ground sloped up to such an extent that they realized they must be in full view.
Dropping behind the scant shelter of a scraggly tree, they turned and glanced down—and there, beyond the rocket, they could now see a group of men standing around outside a small wooden shack, shouting and gesticulating in their direction.
"Damn it, they've seen us!" muttered Stoddard.
"But why don't they come after us?" queried Professor Prescott.
The answer came even as he spoke, for out of the shack rushed the tall figure of the prince, in his hand a pair of binoculars which he raised to his eyes.
Whether or not be spotted them, an instant later he turned and uttered a command, and two huge Cossacks sprang to the pursuit.
"There's nothing to do now but run for it!" cried Stoddard, leaping to his feet.
The professor followed and they plunged on up the slope, bullets from their pursuers' pistols and the rifles of those below kicking up the dust around them. But either because the aim was bad or the targets difficult, they escaped unscathed.
As for Stoddard, he wasted no time in firing back.
"Once we get in those mountains, we're safe!" he gasped, as they struggled on. "How are you, Professor—all right?"
"No holes in my skin so far!" came the panting answer.
Five desperate, dodging minutes passed.
Glancing over their shoulders, they saw that the heavy, stolid Cossacks were losing ground. And ahead, tauntingly near now, loomed a thickly-wooded slope that meant the beginning of big timber—and safety.
Another five minutes—each second an hour—and they had gained it.
B
ut there was no pausing yet, they could hear the Cossacks crashing on like determined blood-hounds behind.
"No need to climb any more!" exclaimed Stoddard, half breathless. "We'll edge along, keep in the trees, and try to throw them off."
The older man said nothing; merely gritted his teeth. This climb had told on him more than anything he had experienced on the cruel slopes of Kinchinjunga.
As they struggled along now, sometimes it seemed that they had thrown their pursuers off the trail, or completely outdistanced them, but always a moment later they would hear again the crunch of the Cossacks' boots on the dry undergrowth.
So the grim flight continued, mile after heart-tearing mile, and Stoddard was beginning to realize that the professor couldn't keep on much longer—had just about decided to stop and shoot it out with their pursuers—when suddenly there came a sound that brought new hope to him.
"Did you hear that?" he gasped, pausing.
"It—sounded like—a car!" panted his companion.
"Right. And that means there must be a road through here somewhere! But where?"
"Listen." Professor Prescott pointed to the left. "The sound seems to be coming from over there."
And sure enough, from the left came a wheezing grind of a car making a heavy grade.
"Near, too," decided Stoddard. "Come on—let's go! We've got to head it off. It's our only hope, except—"
With relief, he shoved his automatic back into its holster and led the way in the direction of the now rapidly nearing car.
A
hundred yards they had made, up a slight rise, when there spread before them a rutted mountain road, and on it, in full view, was a laboring Ford of ancient vintage.
Over the wheel hovered a lanky, leathery native, and beside him sat a small, plump woman who looked as though she might be his wife.
They were almost to the top of the hill when Stoddard hailed them.
"Say!" he said. "Give us a ride, will you? We're lost."
"Keep on, Henry!" he heard the woman urge. "I don't like the looks of 'em."
Americans! Well, thought Stoddard, they were in the United States, anyway. That was something. And he didn't exactly blame the good woman for her suspicions. They must look pretty wild, at that, with their two-day beards and tattered clothes.
"Sorry," spoke up Henry. "Missus says no. She knows best. 'Sides, it ain't fur to Martin's Bluff. You kin make it in an hour."
"But say, wait a minute!" They were running along beside the wheezing car now. "We've got to get there in a hurry. We'll pay you."
Henry pricked up his ears at this, but his wife shook her head.
"Keep on!" she urged. "They may be bandits!"
W
hereupon Stoddard drew his automatic, for there was no more time to argue.
"Stop!" he commanded. "You'll take us, understand? I'll pay you well!"
"See, I was right!" screamed the woman. "Bandits! Bandits! Oh, Henry—save me!"
Wildly she clung to him, as Stoddard mounted the running-board, but before he could make another move, Professor Prescott gasped out:
"The Cossacks! Quick!"
And jumping down, he wheeled to face the two leering Russians, not forty feet down the road. Pistols levelled, they were advancing stolidly.
Stoddard half-raised his own weapon, then turned to see if the car was within range of the return fire it would bring. It was—but not for long.
With a furious chattering of bands,as Henry gave it the gas, the decrepit vehicle gained the top of the hill and disappeared from view down the far slope, and the last thing he saw of it was a dusty plate flapping under its tail-light.
It was a Texas license!
Then, turning back, he lifted his automatic; but it was too late. The Cossacks were on them.
In answer to a guttural command, he dropped the weapon and raised his hands, as the professor had already done.
T
wo hours later, they were back at the rocket.
Led into the shack—which was furnished inside like an Oriental hunting-lodge—they were confronted at once by Prince Krassnov.
Though his aristocratic features were immobile, it was obvious that he was in no amiable frame of mind.
"So, my friends!" he exclaimed. "I leave you in India, and meet you again in America, all within a matter of hours. It is but an example of our modern progress, is it not?"
They made no reply.
"Ha! You are not sociable, after enjoying my hospitality, my transportation? Then suppose we—as you Americans so quaintly say—call a spade a spade! I gave you your chance. You declined it. And what is the result? My beautiful Diamond Thunderbolt, my immeasurable treasure, is buried forever."
"Through no fault of ours!" put in Stoddard.
"But buried nevertheless, and my adopted kingdom in revolt. Yet do not think I mourn too much, my friends. Though the game is what you call up, my plans shall go on. Here and elsewhere in the world, where we have sub-headquarters, are billions of dollars' worth of diamonds—supplies for years ahead. We shall not suffer. But you—Professor Prescott and Doctor Stoddard—I have a very interesting fate in store for you. How would you care to make a little scientific expedition to Mars, say?"
"Mars?" gasped the professor.
"Yes, or Venus, or even Jupiter, not to mention the moon! Or how about the sun? That would be an interesting sphere for exploration."
"We don't know what you're talking about," said Stoddard growing nettled. "Why mince matters? Call a spade a spade, if you're going to! What do you propose to do with us, now that you have us in your power?"
The prince paused, drew forth a long Russian cigarette from an exquisite platinum case.
"I propose," he smiled, when he had lit it, "to turn over my rocket to you, my fellow scientists, since I shall have no further use for it and it might be embarrassing to be found with it in my possession."
And the way he proposed to turn it over to them, as they had already suspected, was to lock them in it and fire it off into space.
W
ithin the hour, the man's diabolical plan had been put into operation.
Led to the rocket, the luckless pair were locked within a small metal room somewhere within its recesses. There sounded again the peculiar rasping that told them its doors were being sealed. And then came the roar of that mighty exhaust beating down.
There followed the lifting, rushing sensation they had experienced before, and again they were flung violently to the flooring by the force of the upward impulse.
When the pressure slacked, they staggered to their feet and groped around the dark, stuffy little room.
"Well, this is the end, I guess," sighed Professor Prescott. "I had never thought," with a grim attempt at humor, "that I would meet quite such a scientific fate as this!"
"Nor had I!" Stoddard agreed. "But I'm not quite ready to cash in my checks yet. The game isn't over!" He was pacing around the room, knocking on the metal walls with something that gave back a strident ring. "Have you any idea what composition this stuff is?"
T
he professor rapped on one of the panels; felt of it.
"Aluminum, I would say."
"Nothing so lucky! If it were, I could cut it like cheese. But duralumin, probably, a very light, strong alloy; and what I have here is a hunting knife with a can-opener on one end! If I'm not mistaken, we'll be out of this sardine box before long."
Whereupon he applied himself to the thin metal wall of their cell, working determinedly, while Professor Prescott held his cigarette lighter for a torch.
"You see, duralumin yields to heat, like aluminum," he exclaimed, as finally his knife thrust through. "Now then, let's get the can opener working."
The progress was slow but sure. Within an hour, he had cut out a jagged section some two feet square, through which they squeezed into an equally dark corridor.
"Now then!" Stoddard's mood was exultant. "There must be switches around here somewhere. There were lights, I remember, so let's find them. Once we get a little light on the subject—"
"Here!" called the professor, who had groped down the corridor with the cigarette lighter. "How's that?"
As he pressed a switch, a row of small bulbs glowed overhead.
"Fine!" was the answer. "Now let's see if we can find the engine-room, or whatever they call it."
J
ubilant now, they continued on down the corridor, which ended in a flight of stairs.
"I fancy it must be below," said Professor Prescott. "From what I have seen of experimental models, the propulsion impulse must originate from the base."
So they descended the stairs, entered another dark corridor, found another switch and pressed it, and thus they proceeded, lighting the interior of the rocket as they went. And as they descended, the roar of the exhaust increased in volume, indicating that they were nearing its source.
Presently they entered a large, circular room with an illuminated dial at the far end. Drawing near, they saw a confusion of instruments that for a moment left them dazed.
While Stoddard studied them in bewilderment, Prescott circled the room till he found a switch. Pressing it, he produced a brilliant flood of illumination.
"Now then, let me have a look at this," he said, returning to the dial. "Professor Goddard once explained to me the workings of one of his experimental models. The motive force must be some liquefied mixture, possibly oxygen and hydrogen. Some of these instruments—most of them, in fact—must be valves."
He touched one, turned it, and the rocket responded with a sickening burst of speed.
"No, that won't do! We're going plenty fast enough now!"
He touched another, and they slacked off dizzyingly.
"Well, there are two controls, anyway. Now then, how do they steer this thing? That is the next problem we must solve."
But though he touched this instrument and that, producing weird effects, their course continued in the direction set. And meanwhile, they were hurtling outward through space at a rate of speed he knew would presently carry them beyond the gravitational pull of the earth.
Then, as he grasped and swungdown a curious lever that worked in a quadrant, they felt a violent lunge to the left, and for a moment it seemed they would shoot to the ceiling.
"Good God!" gasped Stoddard. "What's happened?"
"Nothing—only that I've found how to steer this wild steed!" cried the professor, exultantly.
I
t was really quite simple, he explained, as he eased up on the lever. In application, it was a development of the gyroscope principle, that a wheel revolving freely within a freely suspended frame tends to make the frame revolve in the other direction.
"You see, the rocket is the freely suspended frame," he went on, "while this lever controls a gyroscopic wheel somewhere. To set it spinning to the right causes us to turn to the left, and vice versa."
"But you almost stood us on our heads, a moment ago! How did that happen?"
"Simply because I threw the lever too far to the right. We are in interstellar space, obviously, where every change of direction involves an adjustment of equilibrium."
And if Stoddard didn't exactly understand, being first a secret service man and only secondarily a scientist, at least he showed his ignorance no further. If the professor could bring this astounding machine back to Earth, that was all he wanted.
Prescott said he could, he thought, providing they had fuel enough left. So for the next few minutes, while the younger man held his breath, the professor labored with the various instruments on that complicated dial.
"Now then, I think we're headed back," he said at length, relaxing. "But we've got to have visibility, otherwise we will land with a velocity of about twenty thousand miles an hour, which is what I figure we're making at the present time."
"Good Lord!" gasped Stoddard. "I'll say we've got to have visibility! Wait a minute! Let me look around!"
He searched the room for further instruments—to find nothing that in any way met the purpose.
But even as he returned dejected, the professor cried out:
"Here—I've got it! Take a look at this!"
Bending over a small table beside the dial, Stoddard saw mirrored, in its ground-glass surface a hazy circular panorama that at first had no significance. But as he continued to peer down upon the scene, certain familiar aspects loomed out. It was the Earth—and what he was looking at was a view of the North and South American continents!