"I prefer not to say anything—about that," I answered. "In fact, I'm not going to!"
"Yes, yes. I quite understand your attitude, Mr. Royce," he said. "Just as you like."
"My business is with Dr. LaRauche," I said. "Is he at home?"
"Dr. LaRauche is very busy," Orkins answered, coldly. "He is not receiving callers today."
"I think he will give me a few minutes' interview on rather urgent business," I said. "Just give him my card, if you please."
Orkins took my card gingerly, backing away from the doorway as he glanced at it. He still seemed taken aback, afraid, as though he felt my business with LaRauche concerned him. I stepped through the doorway into a small outer hall. "Just so—just so," muttered Orkins. "It's highly probable that Dr. LaRauche will see you," he added. "Please wait here," motioning for me to enter the main hall.
After he had vanished up the stairs, I looked from the hall into the library, a room filled with books from floor to ceiling. I was staring at this vast array of books with interest when a wisp of a woman appeared at the head of the stairs. It was Mrs. LaRauche.
"Ah! Mr. Livingston Royce," she said as she came down the stairs. "You want to see my husband? Well, he's very busy. Why, he hasn't allowed himself a real night's sleep for several weeks."
Mrs. LaRauche was very much younger than her husband; a slim, smallish woman of rather sallow complexion, with sandy hair, pale-blue, restless eyes, and rather untidily dressed.
We shook hands cordially. She had always treated Henry and me with the most punctilious respect. I had not seen her for about two years, and I formed the opinion at once that her husband's break with Henry had not changed her friendly feelings towards us.
I noticed a great change in her. She seemed to have lost her old-time vivacity. She appeared tired and worn, and had aged considerably. I felt anxious and perturbed about her. Something, I was quite sure, had happened. And, of course, it had to do with her husband.
There was an atmosphere of mystery about her and the house, and it was further deepened when Mrs. LaRauche led me from the hall into the library. She gave me the impression at once of one who lives in constant fear. There was a sign of caution and watchfulness in her eyes, expressed in nervous, terrified glances over her shoulder.
"I'm sure you won't mind my asking if your business with my husband is so very important?" she began in a low, tremulous voice. "You see—" She stopped and turned at what seemed to be the sound of footfalls on the stairs. There was a look of terror in her eyes.
"It isn't," I interrupted. "I've merely called, at my brother's request, to ask Dr. LaRauche for the return of Professor Lowell's book on Mars which he borrowed more than two years ago."
She looked greatly relieved. "I'm so glad," she breathed. "Rene goes into a perfect rage if he's interrupted. He's been very upset all morning, but still continues at his work. What he's working on, I haven't the slightest idea."
"Probably working on that rocket to the moon idea," I suggested, smiling.
"Completely mysterious to me," she rejoined.
"You've heard, of course, of my brother's latest discovery?" I ventured.
"No," she replied. "I've heard nothing. My mind has been occupied all morning wondering what's brought Orkins back to us. I've always disliked and distrusted him intensely."
Not feeling free to explain the circumstances, or cloud, under which Orkins had left our household, I glanced out the window. "Your house is in a very lonely location," I observed. "I hope you do not go out much alone. You seem to have some queer animals roaming about. I was chased by a grizzly bear as I walked through your grounds."
Mrs. LaRauche shuddered. "Oh, that terrible beast!" she muttered. "I never go out at night by myself on account of that bear. He's not vicious at all, really a pet, but it's frightening to run into him. Often I hear him, in the dead of night, clawing at our doors, whimpering and growling, and trying to get in."
"Who owns the animal?" I inquired.
"He belongs to our disreputable neighbor, Antonio Ranzetti," she replied, "an Italian animal trainer, who rented and took possession, much against our wishes, of that old brick house in the hollow. Rene would have bought the place, had we known, rather than suffer the annoyance of living next to a menagerie."
"Is it as bad as all that?"
She nodded. "He has a large collection of wild animals in the house and outbuildings, which he is training for the circus," she explained, "and he's just about as secretive in his work as Rene in his scientific researches. He's one of the most expert animal trainers in the world, I believe."
Then she suddenly remembered the book I was after. "I'm sure my husband did not keep your brother's book intentionally," she said. "He's very forgetful of what he calls trivialities." She walked over to a disordered desk, and with a sharp exclamation, picked up the book from among a row of volumes on top of it. "There you are!" she said.
My back was turned towards the door into the hall as I took the book, and expressed my thanks for its return. I was just on the point of departure, seeing I had no further excuse to remain on the premises, when I saw her start, and turn pale. Turning round quickly, I faced Dr. LaRauche, as he entered the library. In looks, he was about the angriest looking man I had ever encountered.
"Ah, Dr. LaRauche!" I said, without turning a hair.
He made no reply, just stood there, glaring, and inspecting me from top to toe. Finally, he spoke. "I know what's brought you here, Livingston Royce," he said. "I expected it."
Coming out of her cowering fright, and finding her voice, Mrs. LaRauche broke in falteringly. "Mr. Royce came after the Lowell book on Mars you borrowed from his brother, Henry, more than—"
A contemptuous exclamation cut her short. "Something more than the borrowed book brought him here," LaRauche said.
"What, for instance?" I asked him, point-blank.
"There's no doubt in my mind that your cunning brother sent you here to spy on me, on my work in its possible relation to his own, and to find out why I reengaged Orkins. But you haven't learned very much, have you?"
"To tell you the truth, I haven't," I replied, nonchalantly. "I'm not the sort of person gifted to see through a brick wall."
"Well, as you haven't found out anything," LaRauche thundered, "the next best thing to do is to go home, and report to your meddlesome brother that you haven't." As he concluded, he waved a hand towards the door.
With a polite bow, I withdrew, and left the house. I had not gone many yards down the gravel-path, when a woman's cry tore the air, a smothered cry of terrorized anguish. The sound died away without repetition. I passed on, convinced that some evil had befallen Mrs. LaRauche. There was more mystery in this house than I had at first imagined.
No success having materialized from the real motive of my visit, which LaRauche, with uncanny intuition, had so rightly surmised, I returned to the castle, and told Henry all that had occurred. He laughed heartily when I narrated my encounter with the grizzly bear. As for the secret work LaRauche was at present engaged on, and Orkins' possible connection with it, I was bound to admit that I had made little headway in obtaining any accurate information.
What seemed to Henry much the most important fact of the little evidence I had gained, was Mrs. LaRauche's statement that her husband was so engrossed in his work that he hadn't been sleeping properly at night for several weeks, and that he was keeping it a secret even from her.
"This is damned queer business," Henry said at last. "Let's suppose that Orkins, using the knowledge he gained of my recent discovery, is mixed up in this work on which LaRauche is spending so many exciting days and sleepless nights."
"Now, just what information Orkins obtained, as your butler, would be valuable to LaRauche?" I asked.
"If you're asking me for an answer, Livingston," said Henry, "all I've got to say is, I haven't got one. I can't think of any important reason why LaRauche should barge this way into my private affairs. Beats me altogether."
"Well, you can be certain of one thing," I said, "that he had an object—"
"Yes, but what object?" Henry demanded. "What? He couldn't possibly profit by anything Orkins gained by snooping round. LaRauche knows more about science than I shall ever dream of knowing."
"Well, there is this to be thought of," I remarked, after thinking a bit: "Perhaps, in relation to your latest achievement, he's going to come forward with something he hopes will throw your accomplishment in the shade, like a rocket to the moon, and we both know that's been a bee in his bonnet for some years. Or he's going to try to prove that your discovery is not genuine, and will denounce you as a fakir, as you exposed him, unwittingly, in those faked motion pictures of the African midgets, he claimed to have discovered."
"Either way there may be something in what you suggest," Henry answered. "Both are possible. But I think—"
"But why think," I interposed; "why trouble yourself, or ourselves, any longer about LaRauche's affairs, now that things have turned out as they have? Why should you fear his opposition? The last connecting link has been broken, now that you've got your precious book on Mars back. Let him do his damnedest! Good riddance. I don't care; you don't, I'm sure."
Henry saw the value of my proposition at once; and so matters were settled as far as LaRauche and Orkins were concerned. We never spoke of them again. They passed out of our consciousness as though they never existed.
Other things became of greater concern. So many things, strange things, happened, I didn't know whatever to expect next. It was as if the world was being turned upside down. I never knew such times, nor expected to know such.
X
McGinity had lunch with us, on Henry's invitation, on the day following my visit to Dr. LaRauche's house. In the preparation of his story in advance, it was necessary that he should obtain from Henry all the scientific technicalities relating to the discovery. It was his task to make copious notes while Henry talked.
Seated at his desk in the library, Henry talked on and on for several hours; he never seemed to tire. While I sat by an open window, the weather being exceptionally hot, reading and smoking by fits and turns, and occasionally listening in to what Henry was saying. Whenever I turned to gaze at him, it was with frank bewilderment.
Ever since he had announced his discovery, my mind had been led by diverse paths, hither and thither, seeking, not an outlet, but rather a snug corner wherein to rest in the conviction that his and Olinski's claims of having established radio communication with Mars were true. Somehow I just couldn't grasp the idea of an intelligent exchange of ideas with another race of people so far away from us; it was too stupendous. As a matter of fact, I was still a little cynical and suspicious. And yet I knew if anyone had discussed the possibilities of the radio, as we know it today, in the time of General George Washington, as Henry was now agitating wireless communication with Mars, the people of the Colonial era would have thought such a person stark mad.
As McGinity's pencil flew across his note-book like a busy shuttle in a loom, transcribing Henry's utterances, I kept saying to myself: "How can this reporter accept facts that to him must seem perfectly crazy?" Then, suddenly, it came to me that to a reporter all things are either news or nothing. No matter if Henry was inventing something unreal, which, of course, he wasn't, he was giving the reporter news of the greatest magnitude; news backed by the potentialities of Henry's vast wealth and the reputation he had already achieved as a scientist.
Watching them closely, I marveled at that inherent physical virtue in each of them, by which they were enabled to shake off any thought, or mention, of the very recent and unfortunate incident in our midst. McGinity must have found the library infinitely more comfortable than solitary confinement in our cellar. It was also very evident to me that he was going up in Henry's estimation by leaps and bounds.
In repose, McGinity had a shy, reserved look about him that suggested the student. He had proved a perfect guest at lunch. It puzzled me that he should seem so much at home, so much part of our company and our setting. Once the first shock was over, Jane had found him a person of immediate interest and excitement. When she discovered that he loved to poke round art galleries, and liked canary birds and goldfish, as she did, she invited him to lunch with us soon again.
The absurd antagonism of Henry and Jane against reporters now seemed a thing of the past. But not everything of the past, on McGinity's part, was forgotten. There was no mistaking that he missed Pat, who was absent from lunch because Henry had devised a means of preventing a second meeting between them. He had packed her off, with Prince Matani, to a luncheon party at the Sands Cliff Club, after which they were to attend a polo match.
There is, after all, no use trying to go contrariwise to fate. Pat, it seems, was fated to come home alone from the match, after a tilt with the Prince—they quarrelled constantly—and Henry had a bad moment when she breezed into the library a few minutes after he had finished dictating to McGinity.
She was all exclamations and astonishment and delight on seeing the reporter. "Dear old Uncle!" she said, as she hugged and kissed Henry. "Why, on earth, didn't you tell me we were going to have a visitor?"
Henry didn't answer. He sat silent, even when Pat went up to McGinity, and said: "What a piece of luck!" Then: "Lets go out on the terrace, where it's cool."
Thereupon Henry found his tongue. "But it's quite comfortable in the library," he said. "Why not talk to Mr. McGinity here?"
"But I want him to see the Sound and the boats from the terrace," Pat replied. "It's such a beautiful scene."
It wasn't beautiful at all, as she knew, at this time. A mist had come up, and cloaked everything in indistinctness. It wasn't even cool on the terrace; the slight, west breeze that had been stirring, had changed to the south. Nevertheless, she marched him off to the terrace.
Presently, they walked round the terrace extension at the end of the castle, and stood conversing near the open window by which I sat. Fortunately, they did not see me, and I made no move to indicate my near presence. I felt free to listen to their conversation as a matter of protection for Pat. Like my sister, Jane, I watched her out of eyes and listened with ears that saw and heard a great deal more than they pretended.
Pat spoke very fast, so as to leave the reporter little time to interrupt her. "Afraid you wouldn't see me again, you say? Well, I was afraid you'd never want to see me again, after what happened the other night."
"I—I'm glad it happened, now, aren't you?" McGinity ventured.
"Oh, ever so glad," replied Pat. "I'll never forget that night, not as long as I live. Fancy meeting a person for the first time in one's cellar. And, oh! I'm so glad I came home ahead of Prince Matani. We had a terrible spat at the polo game—over you. He detests reporters. Hasn't the slightest sense of humor, and I see fun in everything. And, oh, yes!" she raced on; "there's something I want to ask you. Will you be at Uncle Henry's demonstration in the city, next Tuesday night? Oh, of course, you will! And, please, I'd love to see how a newspaper is made. It must be very thrilling. You want to show me, don't you?"
"I should like to very much," said McGinity. "But I can't understand, with all the interests you have in life, what it is you want of me. I can't understand yet why you take so much interest in me, or trouble yourself with me at all."
She gazed at him, half laughing. "Are you really so stupid as all that?" Then she quickly added: "Perhaps I don't want anything. What then?" And, before he could reply, she flew at him: "At least I want you to stop calling me 'Miss'."
"What am I to call you?"
"Pat."
"Very well—Pat," he smiled, "let me talk to you a little about myself, of what I want of you." But he got no further; he became curiously bereft of speech.
"Well—Bob?" Pat said, after a period of silence.
"It's no good," he said at last. "Since I met you the other night, I've been thinking of what I'd like to say to you—and, now, it's best that I forget it."
He turned half away from her as he continued to speak. "I'd better go now."
Pat looked at him in astonishment. "Oh, please, Bob! Get it off your mind, whatever it is," she begged.
"The truth is," he began, "what embarrasses me most—"
"There you go!" she interrupted. "I know exactly what you're going to say, and to me it's such a silly thing."
"Will you explain just what you mean?"
"I mean, well, that I'm not a snob. I've never boasted about my position, about having everything I want. The most exciting thing in the world to me is meeting new people—nice people—and expecting one doesn't know what. I don't expect you to hand me any credentials; that would be odious. Of course, to you, I must appear disgustingly idle and useless. But it just happens that I like you very much, and—and I would like to be your friend."
McGinity grinned. "I think I can arrange that all right," he said.
"I'm very glad you can," she said. "And, please, get the other thing off your mind, whatever it is, and don't let it come back again, at any rate, not so—so overwhelmingly." She laughed out loud as she stretched forth her hand.
It was pretty hard to believe my eyes in the unexpected scene which swiftly followed. Prince Matani must have been in very bad humor to do what he did. I gathered that he had been standing in concealment, round the corner of the castle, for several minutes, listening in to the conversation, and nursing his jealousy and suspicion.
McGinity had just taken Pat's hand in his own when I saw the Prince's slim figure come round the corner suddenly, and upon them. Without uttering a word, he struck at the reporter. Of all expressions in the English language, I think "come-back" is one of the most significant. The Prince had no sooner planted a glancing blow on McGinity's jaw, still slightly discolored from Niki's knockout punch, when the reporter, with a quick come-back, swung a mighty right that sent the Prince backwards, reeling. It excited me almost to laughter to think that the reporter felt the same impulse towards the Prince as I.
Pat could be as cool as a cucumber when it was necessary. Turning to the Prince, she said, her face painfully drawn: "Why did you do this?"
The Prince made no reply. He gave her a sullen look and walked away.
McGinity met the situation good-naturedly. "If this keeps up," he remarked, working his jaw, "I'll have to wear a baseball catcher's mask whenever I come here, or ask for special police protection."
"It's extraordinary," said Pat, laughing in spite of herself, "that you should get two smacks in the face in succession. You must think we're a crazy lot. Anyway, that was a beautiful crack you gave His Highness, and he deserved it."
That practically ended the conversation. As they walked off, I turned in my chair to see the Prince in whispered conversation with Henry, obviously airing his grievances in connection with Pat and McGinity. I was rather surprised, but delighted, to hear Henry say to him: "This is your funeral, Your Highness. Your eye looks terrible. Better go upstairs, and have Niki put a cold compress on it."
The Prince had no sooner left the room to carry out Henry's suggestion when Pat and McGinity strolled in. I was uneasy for a moment, but Henry gave no indication that he knew what had just happened on the terrace. In matter-of-factness, he gave McGinity some final instructions, and dismissed him. Then the reporter left, and there was silence. Henry looked very grave.
"What's on your mind, Uncle Henry?" Pat asked, as she subsided into a chair.
Henry blew his nose, a trick he had when his feelings were disturbed. "I'm not angry, my dear," he began, and then paused to blow his nose again. "It isn't that I mind so much this extraordinary encounter between His Highness and Mr. McGinity—the reporter had every right to strike out in self-defense—but you cannot go on in this way. I know—"
"Oh, so the Prince told you, did he?" she interposed. Then she added: "What do you know?"
"That you are in love with this young reporter."
Pat gasped. "Oh, you ought not to have said that, Uncle! You've spoiled it all now. It was such a beautiful thing—our friendship."
"It has been said, and very truthfully so," Henry observed, "that mere friendship is impossible between a man and a woman. Now, Mr. McGinity is a very smart and capable young person," he went on, "and I have nothing to say against your being friendly with him, but I do object to your flaunting him, on such short acquaintance, made under such unusual circumstances, in the face of His Highness as a possible rival."
"What do you mean?" Pat asked, as she rose out of her chair, and moved slowly towards Henry.
"I mean it is intolerably annoying to me that you should allow a nondescript person to come between you and this distinguished representative of the Georgian principality."
"Mr. McGinity is not nondescript," Pat retorted, "and—and I have no intention of marrying Prince Matani." There was a look of fear growing in her eyes. "Why, I don't love him, Uncle, well enough to marry him. I'd rather marry a counter-jumper in a Broadway haberdashery store. Oh, I couldn't—couldn't!"
"You know, and I know," said Henry, firmly, "that you've given the Prince every encouragement. My principle heretofore has been to leave you alone. But, now, it has become a different matter. Your growing interest in Mr. McGinity makes it necessary for me to show my authority."
"You mean that I can't see as much of Mr. McGinity as I have a mind to?"
"Just so long as it is within the bounds of discretion," Henry answered. "But I repeat, you shall not allow this reporter to come between you and the young nobleman you're destined to marry. I'll admit that I've encouraged the Prince's attentions towards you. In fact, I think it's about time that I announced your betrothal to him. Now, as we've both given him encouragement, we can't break faith with him as easily as all that—now, can we?"
"Very well, Uncle." Pat's voice sounded tired and bored. After giving me an appealing, helpless look, she went briskly out of the room.
That night, Thursday, to be exact, Henry woke me out of the deepest slumber. He had stayed up late, at his telescope, and had come to tell me of a meteoric shower, the most amazing he had ever witnessed, he said. I dressed quickly, and accompanied him to the observatory. There I saw the most astounding spectacle. Swarms of fire-balls, they looked like, sweeping across the heavens. Many were hissing to the earth. It was like a celestial bombardment of the world.
The meteoric showers, transiently brilliant, continued the next night, and the next. Astronomers all over the country were mystified; Henry equally so. No one could seem to account for them; they were out of season; the whole thing was freakish.
The last shower of meteors of any note occurred in November, 1833, when swarms of shooting stars fell in North America. They fell then, I found in our encyclopedia, like flakes of snow, to the number, as was estimated, of 240,000 in the space of nine hours, varying in size from a moving point to globes of the moon's diameter.
The earth in its orbit is constantly encountering meteors, which are accepted by scientists as the debris of comets, Henry explained, but this encounter was—well, inexplicable and bewildering. Remnants of the metallic bodies were falling in all sections of the United States, Canada, and Mexico. Some were dropping in populous centers, bringing death and disaster; some at sea, and in the Great Lakes, sinking ships. Seemingly there was no let-up to this weird and dangerous phenomenon of the heavens.
On the following Sunday night, while the presses of the Daily Recorder were grinding out, by the hundreds of thousands, McGinity's exclusive, front-page story on Henry's and Olinski's scientific feat, which meant the linking of the earth and Mars by radio, a discovery almost beyond human conception, a great ball of blinding, bluish fire, giving off a trail of sparks, hissed down out of the heavens, and fell in Times Square.
A messenger of death from space, this red-hot metallic wanderer of the skies, crashed into the small triangle, formed by the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, between Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth Streets. It tore through the surface into the subway, just missing a passing train, and was imbedded in a mass of tangled steel rails and cement ten feet under the level of the underground railway.
Smaller fragments in its wake rattled down like hail on streets and housetops within a radius of a mile. Hardly a window-pane within this area that was not shattered to bits by the explosion, which lighted the entire city in a bluish glare. All taxicabs parked, or moving, in the square were overturned and wrecked; pedestrians were thrown to the ground, stunned, many lying unconscious. Sixteen persons were killed outright.
The gilt minute hand of a huge, electrically-illuminated clock overlooking the scene of disaster, was torn off by the explosion; the hour hand was untouched. When the mechanism of the clock was put out of business, the hour hand was pointing exactly at two. Had the meteor fallen a few hours earlier, the loss of life no doubt would have been appalling.
The scene of terror and confusion that followed the fall of the meteor, according to eye-witnesses, was indescribable. Many persons on Broadway, women of the street, mendicants, fell down on their knees, and prayed, believing that the end of the world had come. One man went raving mad. He ran through the streets, shouting: "The stars of heaven are falling unto the earth! Hide yourselves in the mountains! Hide from the wrath of the Lamb!"
The whole city was aroused. Thousands came pouring in from the outlying districts by subway, and in motor cars, to visit the scene of disaster. The police were helpless. Many women and children were trampled to death in the crush of the thousands who fought and pressed their way into Times Square. Efforts were made to bring the crowd to its senses, to distract the people's attention from the scene of the catastrophe; sirens sounded, the deep, booming note of bells came from the church towers, but to no avail.
When dawn broke at last, it was estimated that one million persons were massed in and about Times Square. All the diverging cross-town streets were choked with people and traffic. While above the silent hush of the terrified masses, milling about in the sepulchral gray light of dawn, rose the strident voices of news-boys:
"Wuxtra! Wuxtra! Planet Mars speaks to the earth! All about radio communication between earth and Mars! Wuxtra! Wuxtra!"
Thus, upon a sky-minded people, made conscious for the first time, it seemed, of the strange and powerful forces that lurk in the upper regions, by the awe and terror caused by the falling stars, descended the news of Henry's triumphant accomplishment.
A new world of people had been discovered. The inhabitants of Mars were no longer a mythical race. Radio, girdling the earth as quick as thought, had drawn all nations closer together; now, bridging the abyss of outer space, it had drawn into its friendly relationship a new human race. To a nation-wide, or world-circling, hook-up of the radio, Mars could now be included. Mars was now our neighbor, as convenient to reach by wireless as London, Rome or Peiping; made more accessible really than either the Arctic or Antarctic zones.
Our telephone at the castle began to trill about eleven-thirty o'clock, shortly after McGinity's story had been run off the presses and the paper was on the street. The central operator reported "no answer" to hundreds of calls, made by curious-minded people, until a little after two in the morning, when she reported "Busy." Henry, it seems, had seen the meteor fall in New York through his telescope. Immediately he had phoned to Olinski, who was in the city, and Olinski had hurried to Times Square to investigate. The next day, when he came down to the country, to assist Henry in his preparations for the public demonstration, he was able to give us first-hand information of the occurrence.
As early as eight o'clock that morning, reporters swarmed about our lodge-gate. Having no head, or inclination, for handling the press representatives en masse, Henry phoned to McGinity to come down and help him out. McGinity came in a hurry, and took control of the situation in a masterly way. The other reporters, including many foreign correspondents, all seemed to like him.
Pat remained aloof from all the hurly-burly and excitement. Once she got a good look at McGinity from the head of the staircase, as he stood talking to a group of reporters in the entrance hall; but she took care that he did not see her. The situation in which she now found herself was like something read in childhood, a romantic fairy-story; and Henry, to her, was the ogre. What saved her in the whole miserable affair was her superb common-sense. Henry didn't have to explain things to her any further; she instantly realized that, still under his authority, she must obey him, and marry Prince Matani.
Late in the afternoon she came downstairs, on the pretense of getting a book, to have a better look at him, so she told me afterwards, just to make sure he was no different from the time when she first had got him by heart. All the reporters had gone, and McGinity was sitting at the big desk in the library, engaged in writing his follow-up story of Henry's discovery. He was alone, Henry having gone to the observatory.
She looked at him through the open door, from the far side of the dining room. He had his face to her, and his head was bent over his work. Presently he looked up and saw her, but that was all. There was a worried expression on his face; he seemed afraid to smile. What a fool she was to expect anything to happen in the way she made it up in her own mind! So she turned away, and started to leave the room.
When he called after her, she stopped and looked back. He had risen, and had come to the library doorway. "Don't run away like that, please," he implored.
"You seem to be awfully busy," said Pat. "I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just coming in to get a book."
"What book?"
Pat was puzzled for a moment. "Oh, just a mystery book—anything," she said, finally.
"Did you read my story in this morning's Recorder?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yes; it was fine. Uncle Henry said it was magnificent. Just enough play of the imagination to give it color, and told with such simplicity that everyone could understand."
"Thanks," he said. "I'm glad you liked it. At first, I was afraid the falling of that meteor in Times Square would kill it. But it didn't. It has made the New York public more open-minded for what your Uncle Henry is going to spring on them tomorrow night, at Radio Center. You'll be there, of course. Shall I see you?"
"If I'm free," Pat replied.
"Meaning that you're not free," he remarked. He passed into a thoughtful mood but quickly snapped out of it. "Yes; I—I understand perfectly. Your Uncle Henry told me about the Prince and yourself this afternoon—about your coming engagement—and I'm afraid I'm not able to take it in yet. I don't see why you ever bothered about me at all." He stopped short, and began staring at the floor in deep contemplation.
"I don't know myself why I ever did—why I ever bothered about you," she returned, in a low, tremulous voice. "I had a feeling—well, I had a sort of feeling—" She, too, stopped short.
When McGinity glanced up, she was walking away. Then he heard Henry's voice, and went quickly back to his work.
XI
The reign of terror caused by the falling meteors gripped New York for five days. On Tuesday night, when Henry and Olinski were scheduled to give a public demonstration of interstellar signaling and the exchange of radio messages between the earth and Mars, in Radio Center, remnants of the hot heavenly bodies were still hissing down in unexpected places, with many fatalities.
Thousands of timorous families in the metropolitan area were living in their basements. The principal thoroughfares, Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Park Avenue, were strangely deserted at night. The newspapers were still screaming at the scientists and scholars for their failure to offer any explanation of the remarkable phenomenon, at the same time making an intensive play on Henry's discovery.
One enterprising paper, having exhausted all resources in its efforts to explain the mystery of the huge swarms of meteors, dug up from an unknown source the story of a mad scientist, long since dead, who had predicted a similar heavenly occurrence, which was to precede some sort of cataclysm of the solar system. This gave them the opportunity to intensify the importance of Henry's feat as a possible connecting link in the solution of the meteoric mystery.
It was, therefore, with a full-fledged case of the jitters that many thousands assembled in the vicinity of Radio Center on that Tuesday night. The people had worked themselves into a state of hysteria, and were in a receptive mood for anything unusual that might happen. Police emergency squads were on hand to hold the crowd in check, while police on motorcycles kept the streets clear for the fire brigades which were being called out hourly, to fight the conflagrations caused by the falling meteors.
While the demonstration was to be held in the auditorium of the National Radio Corporation Building, in Radio Center Annex, it was not officially sponsored by the president of the concern, Alden Scoville, who was sceptical and suspicious; but he was very nice and polite about it. He made it plain that the corporation was merely donating the use of its premises and equipment for the public experiment, in compliment to the valuable work of its assistant research engineer, Serge Olinski. There was to be a world-girdling hook-up, so that the deciphered code signals from Mars, and the replies transmitted from the earth, could be heard in every land. Everything was perfectly arranged, with loud speakers for the masses congregated outside the building.
Accompanied by Jane and Pat, I motored in from the country for the great event. Henry had gone into town early in the afternoon, to see after last minute details. We were to meet him in the NRC Building, where Prince Matani was to join us.
An odd thing occurred just prior to our leaving the castle. Jane was seated in the car, and I was waiting in the hall for Pat. When she did not appear promptly, I sent Niki, now acting in the double role of butler-valet, to find out the cause of her delay. Pat refusing to see him, I hurried upstairs myself to investigate.
Much to my indignation, she refused to attend the demonstration. As an excuse, she said it had just dawned on her mind that Henry's discovery was incredulous, and it would be dreadfully humiliating to her if he failed to establish interstellar communication.
"It's such a crazy thing, anyway," she said. "No one ever has succeeded in doing it, and I think Uncle Henry is just plumb crazy. It's idiotic; it simply can't be done. There's a queer streak in him. Look how he treated poor Mr. McGinity."
At the mention of the reporter's name, her nerves gave way, and tears began to flow. Then I realized that her explanation about the incredulity of Henry's feat had nothing to support it but her own word. Her tears were the direct proof that she was refusing to go because she had to sit formally with Jane and me, and Prince Matani, when she much preferred to be mixed up in the excitement with McGinity.
I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I took her firmly by the arm, and conducted her downstairs; and after she had made a mysterious telephone call, we were soon on our way to the city. Then something else disconcerting happened at the entrance to the auditorium. McGinity met us there, as though by accident. It looked to me as if he had been tipped off by telephone in advance of our—or Pat's—arrival. Pat seemed so excited and thrilled, I fancied I could hear her heart going at the rate of a million beats a minute.
We occupied seats in the front row, where the Prince, with a terrible black eye, joined us, about five minutes after we had arrived. I noticed him glaring in the direction of McGinity, who sat at the head of the press table, with about fifty other reporters. Occasionally McGinity would glance up from his work, and exchange smiles with Pat, when the Prince wasn't looking. So the only delight she got out of seeing him there had to be a secret one. No more than a furtive glance, or smile, whenever it could be managed with discretion.
Jane's nerves were jumpy. Careful inventory of the invited guests, who taxed the capacity of the auditorium, and the crowd I had glimpsed outside the building as we came in, convinced me that everyone was sitting, or standing, on needles and pins. My nose and ears have a habit of twitching whenever I am under a tense, nervous strain, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that persons back of me, in the audience, were watching my ears wiggling. My nose kept twitching and jumping like a Mexican bean.
I tried to distract my thoughts and ease my anxiety by studying the mechanical equipment on the stage. I couldn't have explained what they were if some one had pointed a shot-gun in my face. Radio has always been a great mystery to me. I can never seem to get it into my brain that radio waves can travel 186,000 miles a second. As for bridging the sidereal abyss, as Henry calls it, between the earth and Mars, I was stumped.
When Henry and Olinski finally stepped on to the stage, and my wiggling ears rang with the tumult of thunderous applause, my first horrifying thought was that my brother had gone mad, and that Olinski had gone crazy with him. Pat's words of warning came back to me: "It's idiotic! It simply can't be done!" The voice of wisdom often comes from unexpected sources.
Henry looked scared, but he showed no nervous hesitancy in his introductory remarks, after being formally presented to the audience by Mr. Scoville, who acted as host. It was just nine-thirty when he took his place before the microphone. The signaling and messages from Mars were due to arrive at ten; they had never failed to come through at that hour, during all the preliminary experiments, extending over a period of three weeks.
"My dear friends," he began, in his modest, shrinking way, "I feel privileged to be here tonight, to tell and show you something of interest in connection with the research studies on static, recently made by my co-worker, Mr. Serge Olinski, and myself.
"For some time, mysterious radio waves, which appeared to come from some definite source in space, have been puzzling men of science engaged in radio research work. We know that infra-red radiation and short radio waves make it theoretically possible to communicate with other planets. They can penetrate the upper atmosphere, and may be directed toward any planet with accuracy and power, as well as penetrating the planets without scattering. The receiving apparatus for infra-red rays consists principally of a sensitive cell, so sensitive that the light of a match struck on the moon and translated into an electric current, can be registered on the earth."
Henry paused, to wet his lips with a sip from a glass of water. The audience showing rapt attention, he continued.
"To detect these radio waves from outer space, Mr. Olinski and I contrived between us to construct a delicate receiving instrument. We found they were distinctly electro-magnetic waves, that could be picked up by any standard radio set. Then, one night, less than a month ago, while testing it out, there was registered on this same instrument, a series of distinct dots and dashes, somewhat similar to our Continental Morse code.
"These signals were received regularly every night thereafter, round ten o'clock, fading out in about half an hour. This convinced us both that some intelligible communication force was at work in outer space. One evening, Mr. Olinski startled me by exclaiming: 'I have it! It's someone on the planet Mars, trying to attract attention on the earth. It's their station signal they're trying to get through to us.' As it turned out, Mr. Olinski was quite right.
"Now the purpose of our demonstration tonight is to show you, in the simplest manner possible, how we have been conducting interstellar communication by means of short waves. We do not claim to have solved the riddle of Mars. We have received code messages from some definite source in space, which we believe to be Mars, and we have successfully deciphered these messages, and through the same medium we have exchanged ideas with this definite source in space. Before we begin our experiment, however, Mr. Scoville, president of the National Radio Corporation, who is still a little sceptical, has prepared a list of questions, which he wishes to put to me."
At that, Mr. Scoville stepped forward, and joined Henry in front of the microphone.
"As I understand it, Mr. Royce," he began, "you believe Mars to be inhabited, and that civilization there is just as advanced as our own?"
"For many years, I was doubtful," Henry replied. "But, now, I'm absolutely certain of it."
"As the earth is only a very small part of our illimitable universe," Mr. Scoville went on, "why should the Martians—" He checked himself as Henry interrupted with an upraised finger.
"It is execrably bad taste to interrupt a speaker," Henry interjected, in an apologetic tone, "but I wish to correct you on one point. The planet we call Mars is not known to its inhabitants by that name, therefore, it is erroneous to call them Martians."
Mr. Scoville smiled, and said: "I'm afraid you'll have to be more explicit than that, Mr. Royce. Where did you get that information?"
"I can be entirely explicit," Henry answered. "In transmitting our first radio message to the planet, we said: 'Stand by, Mars! Earth is calling!' To our great surprise, we received this reply: 'Noble friends, you err in calling our planet, Mars. This is the Red Sphere. Your planet, which you call the Earth, is known to us as the Blue Sphere.'"
"And why should they call the earth the Blue Sphere?" Mr. Scoville inquired.
"Because the earth, to the Martian astronomers, appears in a bluish haze," Henry explained, "just as Mars looks reddish to us."
"But why should the Martians—I beg your pardon—why should the inhabitants of the Red Sphere, take such an interest in our insignificant globe?"
"Doubtless, because the conviction has persisted there, among scientists, that our planet is inhabited," said Henry, "just as the conviction has persisted here that Mars harbors life."
"Supposing this is true, how can you explain their knowledge of a radio code, which somewhat resembles our International Morse code?"
After a moment's hesitation, Henry replied: "It's my opinion that they gained this knowledge from the International Morse messages directed on their planet by a powerful beam of light, from the lofty summit of the Jungfrau, in Switzerland, less than a year ago. This was undertaken by a group of American scientists, in the hope of attracting attention on Mars."
"Were these code messages, to a strange people, in a remote planet, decipherable in English?"
"Oh, yes," Henry readily replied; "and there's no doubt in my mind that superior intellects on Mars worked them out into English."
"It doesn't seem possible," Mr. Scoville remarked. "Life, conditions, everything on Mars must be so totally different from things as they exist here."
Henry smiled, and said: "I firmly believe that all things in the beginning were created alike. The countless stars, suns and moons, and all the great planets, are largely composed of the same material that entered into the composition of this world. These meteorites that are falling about us contain the same metals, among them, iron and tin, which we mine from the earth. There is also a striking similarity between things of the material universe and the invisible, or spiritual, world. In Heaven, so we are told in the Bible, there are cities, streets, mansions, trees, gates and fountains. All of which makes it certain that human beings, like ourselves, not the grotesque monsters, as so often pictured, inhabit other planets."
"I'm inclined to agree with you in that," said Mr. Scoville, fingering his chin thoughtfully; "but I can't get it into my head about these Martians having a knowledge of the English language."
"You must take this fact into consideration, my dear Mr. Scoville," said Henry, "that for some years our radio short waves have been bombarding the planets, including Mars, with speeches and songs in English."
"If that is so, then the Martians may be learning to speak English with our nasal, American accent—what?" Mr. Scoville interposed, laughing. And the audience seemed to enjoy this witticism.
"Hardly," said Henry, trying his best to look grave, as the laughter subsided. "I have no reason to believe that, but I do believe the Martians have devised a means to pick up our language from the radio waves, and are adapting it for the purpose of communicating intelligently with us, just as we study, and often use, in various ways, other languages besides our own."
"Are their code messages decipherable in good English?" Mr. Scoville asked.
"Their spelling is very crude, but the liberal transcription, surprisingly enough, reads rather classical."
"By the bye, what station signals do you use?"
"I'll show you," said Henry. He motioned to Olinski, who rose, and moved quickly to a large blackboard, which had been placed in the center of the stage. With chalk, Olinski wrote in big capital letters: "ABUBCUC."
"Now, that is our—the earth's—radio station signal," Henry explained. "Simply—'ABC.'"
Olinski erased the lettering, and then wrote: "ZUZZUZYUYX."
"Now, there, we have the radio station signal for Mars," Henry said. "ZZYX."
"Looks crazy to me," observed Mr. Scoville, after Henry had explained the signals for the benefit of his invisible audience.
"Perfectly simple, after we got on to the Martian's way of doubling up on the consonants," said Henry. "It's something like pig-Latin. Very similar to a code I used myself as a boy, at school, when I wished to communicate something of a secret nature to a schoolmate. If you will allow me, please, I will try and illustrate just what I mean."
He walked to the blackboard, and wrote in a large hand: "Lulookuk outut! Tuteacuchuherur isus cucomuminungug!"
"Whatever does that mean?" asked Mr. Scoville, in some bewilderment.
"It means," replied Henry, returning to his place in front of the microphone: "'Look out! Teacher is coming!'"
The audience rocked with laughter. Henry's poise was still serene, and remained so until another sound reached his ears, rising above the diminishing laughter. He glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock—to the minute. Quickly he advanced to the edge of the stage, and raised his hand, commanding silence. The audience was instantly stilled.
Then Henry spoke. "Everybody quiet, now! Mars is on the air!"
XII
The silence in the auditorium was broken by the clicking of a telegraph instrument, which acted as a monitor on the receiving desk. The mechanical equipment on the stage was similar to that found in the radio department of any large New York newspaper office, with two typewriter desks, one fitted for the receiving and transcribing of code messages, the other equipped for their transmission.
The Martian signals were coming in by direct wire control, from the receiving station Henry had erected for his interstellar experiments, at great expense, at Orient Point, Long Island, about seventy miles from the city. The replies from the earth, that were to follow, would go by wire control from the stage to his transmitting station, situated at Longhampton. His two private stations were twenty-five miles apart, a distance necessary to prevent interference.
The moment Mars was reported on the air by the engineers at the Long Island receiving station, Henry's mind, likewise Olinski's, suddenly developed, as it were, enormous dynamic activity, and the audience seemed to become so remote to them as to be non-existent.
Henry strode back quickly to the microphone, and said: "Stand by all stations! Stand by, Mars! We can hear Mars calling! Lost their way? Hello, Mars! Earth—New York—calling!"
Olinski was an expert wireless operator and typist. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he transcribed the Martian code characters that were being impressed by the ink recorder on narrow tape, resembling ticker tape. Operated by a pull-motor, this tape ran in a brass-groove attached to the front of the typewriter, under the operator's eyes.
On the completion of each sentence, Olinski would call: "All right!" and Henry would rip off a short length of paper containing the sentence, and begin the second transcription, into understandable English—the Martian classical style. He wrote them in chalk, on the blackboard, while Olinski's laboratory assistant read them off into the microphone.
The blackboard was just about half filled when the short waves began to fade, and nothing further was heard except a weird chattering in a receiving apparatus at the back of the stage. The message, so far received, decoded and transcribed on the blackboard, ran as follows: