"To the Presiding Officer of the International Scientific Congress, Washington," he wrote. "I am the dictator of human destiny. Through control of the earth's internal forces I am master of every existing thing. I can blot out all life—destroy the globe itself. It is my intention to abolish all present governments and make myself emperor of the earth. As proof of my power to do this, I"—there was a pause of several seconds, which seemed like hours in the awful stillness—"I shall, at midnight tomorrow, Thursday (Washington time), cause the earthquakes to cease until further notice.
"KWO."
CHAPTER II.
THE DICTATOR OF DESTINY
BY the next morning the entire civilized world knew of the strange and threatening communication from the self-styled "dictator of human destiny."
The members of the scientific congress had sought to keep the matter secret, but all the larger wireless stations of North America had picked up the message, and thence it found its way into the newspapers.
Ordinarily, such a communication would have attracted nothing more than laughter, as a harmless prank; but the increasing menace of the earthquakes had wrought a state of nervous tension that was ready to clothe the whole affair with sinister significance.
It was an alarmed and hysterical public that gathered in the streets of all the great cities soon after daylight. One question was on every tongue:
Who was this mysterious "KWO," and was his message actually a momentous declaration to the human race, or merely a hoax perpetrated by some person with an over-vivid imagination?
Even the signature to the communication was such as to arouse curiosity. Was it a name? Or a combination of initials? Or a title, like "Rex" signifying king? Or a nom de plume? Or the name of a place?
No one could say.
Anyone capable of discovering the secrets of the earth's internal forces, and harnessing those forces for his own ends, unquestionably was the most wonderful scientist the world had ever seen; but, though every important nation of the globe was represented at the scientific congress in Washington, not one of those representatives had ever heard of successful experiments along this line, or knew any prominent scientist named KWO, or one possessing initials that would make up that word. The name sounded Oriental, but certainly no country of the Orient had produced a scientist of sufficient genius to accomplish this miracle.
It was a problem concerning which the best-informed persons knew no more than the most untutored child, but one which was of paramount importance to the group of savants assembled in Washington. Until more light could be shed on this subject they were powerless to form any conclusions. Accordingly, their first effort was to get into further communication with their unknown correspondent.
All through the night the operator at the naval observatory's wireless plant in Washington sat at his key, calling over and over again the three letters that constituted mankind's only knowledge of its adversary:
"KWO—KWO—KWO!"
But there was no answer. Absolute silence enveloped the menacing power. "KWO" had spoken. He would not speak again. And after twelve hours even the most persistent members of the scientific body—who had remained constantly in the wireless room throughout the night—reluctantly desisted from further attempts at communication.
Even this failure found its way into the newspapers and helped to divide public opinion. Many persons and influential papers insisted that "KWO'S" threat was nothing more than a hoax. Others, however, were inclined to accept the message as the serious declaration of a human being with practically supernatural powers. In advancing this opinion they were supported by the undeniable fact that from the time the mysterious "KWO" began his efforts to communicate with the head of the scientific congress, until his message had been completed, the strange wireless signals accompanying the earth tremors had ceased entirely—a thing that had not happened before. When he was through speaking, the signals had resumed their clocklike recurrence. It was as if some power had deliberately cleared the ether for the transmission of this proclamation of mankind.
A feeling of dread—of monstrous uncertainty—hung over everyone and increased as the day wore on. Ordinary affairs were neglected, while the crowds in public places steadily increased.
By nightfall of Thursday even the loudest scoffers at the genuineness of the "dictator's" threat began to display symptoms of the general uneasiness.
Would the earthquakes begin to subside at midnight?
Upon the answer to this question hung the fate of the world.
It was an exceedingly hot night in most parts of the United States. Scarcely anywhere was a breath of air stirring; the whole country was blanketed by a suffocating wave of humidity. Low clouds that presaged rain—but never brought it—added to the general feeling of apprehension. It was as if all nature had conspired to furnish a dramatic setting for the events about to be enacted.
As midnight drew near the excitement became intense. In Europe, as well as in America, vast throngs filled the streets in front of the newspaper offices, watching the bulletin boards. The Consolidated News Syndicate had arranged special radio service from various scientific institutions—notably the Washington naval observatory, where savants were watching the delicate instruments for recording earth shocks—and any variation or subsidence in the tremors would be flashed to newspapers everywhere.
When the hands of the clocks reached a point equivalent to two minutes of midnight, Washington time, a vast hush fell upon the assembled thousands. The very atmosphere became aquiver with suspense.
But if the scene in the streets was exciting, that within the instrument room of the United States naval observatory, where the members of the international scientific congress waited, was dramatic beyond description.
About the room sat the scientists and a couple of representatives from the Consolidated News. Professor Whiteman himself was stationed at the seismographs, while at his elbow sat Professor James Frisby, in direct telephone communication with the wireless operator in another part of the grounds.
The light was shaded and dim. The heat was stifling. Not a word was spoken. Scarcely a muscle moved. All were painfully alert.
Every eleven minutes and six seconds the building was shaken by a subterranean shock. The windows rattled. The floor creaked. Even the chairs seemed to lift and heave. It had been that way for weeks. But would this night see the end?
With maddening slowness, the hands of the clock on the wall—its face illuminated by a tiny electric lamp—drew toward 12 o'clock.
Suddenly there came one of the earthquakes, that, while no different from its
