ances began. Returning by a small private vessel, which was not equipped with wireless, we continued in ignorance of the world's danger.
It was during our homeward sea voyage that the earthquakes began to grow serious. Many buildings were damaged. In the western portions of the United States and Canada a number of persons were killed by the collapse of houses.
Gradually the affected area expanded. New York and Nagasaki, Buenos Aires and Berlin, Vienna and Valparaiso began to take their places on the casualty list. Even modern skyscrapers suffered broken windows and falling plaster; sometimes they shook so violently that their occupants fled to the streets in a panic. Water and gas mains began to break.
Before long, in New York, one of the railroad tunnels under the Hudson River cracked and flooded, causing no loss of life, but spreading such alarm that all the tubes under and out of Manhattan were abandoned. This brought about a fearful congestion of traffic in the metropolis.
Finally, toward the beginning of August, the earthquakes became so serious that the newspapers were filled every day with accounts of the loss of scores—sometimes hundreds—of lives all over the world.
Then came a happening fraught with a monstrous new terror, which was revealed to the public one morning just as day dawned in New York.
During the preceding night, a great Atlantic liner, steaming westward approximately along the fiftieth parallel of latitude, had run aground about 700 miles east of Cape Race, Newfoundland—at a point where nautical charts showed the ocean to be nearly two miles deep!
Within an hour there had come reports of a similar nature from other ships two or three hundred miles distant from the first one. There was no telling how vast in extent might be the upheaved portion of the sea bottom.
Hardly had the wireless stations finished taking these startling stories from mid-ocean before there began to arrive equally strange reports from other quarters of the globe.
Someone discovered that the sea level had risen almost six feet at New York. The Sahara Desert had sunk to an unknown depth, and the sea was rushing in, ripping vast channels through the heart of Morocco, Tripoli and Egypt, obliterating cities and completely changing the face of the earth.
Within a few hours the high waters in New York harbor receded about a foot. Mount Chimborazo, the majestic peak of more than 20,000 feet altitude in the Ecuadorean Andes, began to fall down and spread out over the surrounding country. Then the mountains bordering the Panama Canal started to collapse for many miles, completely blocking that famous waterway.
In Europe the Danube River ceased to flow in its accustomed direction and began, near its junction with the Save, to pour its waters back past Budapest and Vienna, turning the plains of western Austria into a series of spreading lakes.
The world awoke that summer morning to face a more desperate situation than ever had confronted mankind during all the centuries of recorded history.
And still no plausible explanation of the trouble—except the Martian theory of Professor Howard Whiteman—was forthcoming.
Men were dazed, astounded. A feeling of dread and terror began to settle upon the public.
At this juncture, realizing the need of some sort of action, the President of the United States urged all the other civilized nations to send representatives to an international scientific congress in Washington, which should endeavor to determine the origin of the terrestrial disturbances and, if possible, suggest relief.
As speedily as airplanes could bring them, an imposing assemblage of the world's leading scientists gathered in Washington.
Because of his international reputation and the fact that the congress held its sessions at the United States Naval Observatory, of which he was chief, Professor Whiteman was chosen president of the body.
For a week the scientists debated—while the world waited in intense and growing anxiety. But the learned men accomplished nothing. They could not even agree. The battle seemed one of man against nature, and man was helpless.
In a gloomy state of mind they began to consider adjournment. At 10 o'clock on the nineteenth of August the question of terminating the sessions was scheduled for a final vote.
That night, as the hands of the clock on the wall above the presiding officer's head drew near the fateful hour, the tension throughout the assemblage became intensely dramatic. Everyone present knew in his heart that further deliberation was useless, but the fate of the human race seemed to hang upon their decision.
Even after the sound of the clock's striking had died out upon the stillness of the room, Professor Whiteman remained seated; he seemed haggard and downcast. At last, however, he drew himself up and opened his lips to speak.
At that moment a secretary tiptoed swiftly in and whispered briefly to the presiding officer. Professor Whiteman gave a start and answered something that sent the secretary hurrying out.
Betraying strange emotion, the scientist now addressed the assemblage. His words came haltingly, as if he feared they would be greeted with ridicule.
"Gentlemen," he said, "a strange thing has happened. A few minutes ago the wireless signals that have always accompanied the earthquakes ceased abruptly. In their place came a mysterious summons out of the ether—whence no one knows—demanding a conversation with the presiding officer of this body. The sender of the message declares his communication has to do with the problem we have been trying to solve. Of course—this is probably some hoax—but our operator is greatly excited over the circumstances surrounding the call, and urges that we come to the wireless room at once!"
With one accord, everyone rose and moved forward.
Leading the way to another part of the observatory grounds, Professor Whiteman ushered the company into the operating room of the wireless plant—one of the most powerful in the world.
A little knot of observatory officials already was clustered about the operator, their manner denoting that something unusual had been going on.
At a word from Professor Whiteman, the operator threw over his rheostat and the hum of the rotary spark filled the room. Then his fingers played on the key while he sent out a few signals.
"I'm letting them—him—know you're ready, sir," the operator explained to the astronomer, in a tone filled with awe.
A few moments slipped by. Everyone waited breathlessly, all eyes glued upon the apparatus, as if to read the momentous message that was expected to come from—no one knew where.
Suddenly there was an involuntary movement of the muscles of the operator's face, as if he were straining to hear something very faint and far away; then he began writing slowly upon a pad that lay on his desk. At his elbow the scientists unceremoniously crowded each other in their eagerness to read:
