“Focusing-rod,” caught up Standifer, for, notwithstanding all he had suffered at the hands of Mr. Three, the pride of a flattered author and the remarkable sale of his books left him with a kindlyfeeling in his heart for the fellow.
“Yes, focusing-rod.”
“What does it focus?”
“Wireless power.”
“We have transmission of wireless power in America,” observed the Professor, “but that is certainly the most compact terminal I ever saw.”
Mr. Three glanced at the rod in his hand.
“Oh, yes, this is one of the primitive instruments. I fancy this came into use among thinking creatures along with fire, the keystone of the arch and the old-fashioned seventy-two-mile gun. They were important additions to human knowledge, but their discoverers and the dates of their discovery are lost in prehistoric eras.”
For a moment Mr. Three sat pensively in the sunshine, his mind dwelling on that misty time in the land of One when some unrecorded genius found out how to focus wireless power with a little metal rod. No doubt to this mysterious man the principle of the rod appeared so simple that any rational creature would know it.
Presently he came out of his reverie and waved his focusing bar down the valley.
“You men,” he directed, “will follow the rest of the quarry down the river—everything must go!”
For a moment the scientists stared at him, not understanding.
“What is it?” inquired Standifer.
“Follow the quarry down the valley and be quick about it,” snapped the yellow man brusquely.
An indignant flush swept over Pethwick.
“You must be crazy, Three. We'll do as we please.”
“Why should we go?“” inquired Demetriovich with his academic suavity.
Mr. Three tapped impatiently with his rod on the boulder.
“So our commander can select specimens to carry to One,” he explained briefly.
“Oh, I see,” cried Pethwick, somewhat mollified. “He wants us to help him select the animals, as we are naturalists.”
For once in their intercourse, Mr. Three showed genuine surprise. He sprang to his feet and stared at them.
“You help him select! You!” The gnome broke into the most insulting of laughter. “You bunch of idiots, he is going to select one of you as a specimen to carry to One!” Here he threw off his brief tolerance of opposition and shouted, “Forward, march! I don't want to have to use force!”
For a moment the men stood almost paralyzed with amazement. Mr. Three evidently read the mental state, for he put a hand over his mouth to conceal his grin and to maintain his air of grim authority.
Pethwick first organized active resistance. Pablo Pasca still stood with his rifle at ready. Pethwick whispered sharply to the Indian:
“Get him!”
Almost by reflex action, the Zambo swung his rifle on Mr. Three and fired.
At the same moment Pablo staggered backward as if he had received a powerful blow out of the air. His rifle clattered to the stones. At the same instant Pethwick felt a sensation like a strong electric shock. Standifer grunted and clapped a hand to his already wounded leg.
At this act of war the party of scientists threw themselves flat behind boulders. Pethwick adjusted his rifle with hands shaking from his shock and then peered around his shelter for a glimpse of Mr. Three. He saw the yellow man still standing on the boulder. The engineer eased his rifle around unsteadily. The head of the gun wavered about the big painted head. With a determined effort the engineer settled it on his target. He was just squeezing the trigger when tingling knots rushed through his arms, legs and body, stiffening them, flashing fire in his brain, beating him with a thousand prickly hammers. It was an electric shock. He flattened under it, squirming and twisting.
The moment his thought of opposition vanished in pain the shock ceased.
All three white men and the Indian lay motionless. The only sound Pethwick could hear was an occasional groan from Standifer and the faint patter of passing animals.
A ray of sardonic amusement fluttered through the engineer's dizzy brain—the DeLong Geographical Expedition captured as a curious species of lower animals.
Sudden hearty laughter from the nearby boulder told the Engineer that Mr. Three had caught the jest and was enjoying it. Pethwick flushed angrily.
After this convincing contest with the focusing-rod the expedition abandoned resistance and surrendered themselves as prisoners of war, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say prisoners of science.
Although Pablo had shot at .Mr. Three, the strange being regarded it no more than if a cat had scratched at him. Instead of being angry, he really tried to comfort the men. He told them only one of their number would be taken as a specimen to the land of One; the person chosen would be retained alive and, if he proved tractable, he would undoubtedly be allowed to run at large within certain limits and might be taught simple tricks wherewith to amuse the visitors at the zoo; such as playing a simple game of chess on one board.
This may or may not have been a sarcastic fling at the feeble game of chess which Pethwick had just played; at any rate the thought of playing endless games of chess through the bars of a zoological cage filled the engineer with nausea. No doubt on one side of him would be a monkey begging for peanuts and on the other a surly orang. For Pethwick did not doubt the specimen selected would be classed among the simians.
As they walked along the engineer thought up a new line of defense. He began to threaten Mr. Three with the American Army and Navy. He told the yellow man this expedition was American and their capture would be no small affair. They were a famous scientific body. They would be missed. Their abduction would mean a war between the land of One and the whole League of Nations.
