a hiding place for any thinking and intelligent being."
"Of course," put in Fletcher, "we may be all mistaken about the sort of intelligence we're dealing with here—perhaps the blamed contraption is being navigated and controlled by a mere insect or something."
"Well," replied Hale, "that's possible, no doubt, but the odds are all against the idea. Judging by the buzzing sounds coming from these nose and tail compartments, there appears to be some kind of automatic machinery running within—and it's adjusted to go off at sunrise tomorrow . . ."
"With or without those two chemists, they're asking for," added Fletcher in a significant tone. His friend nodded mutely.
They turned to the radio once more for further developments. There was little news to report. The debate which had developed as a result of the inexplicable demands contained in the strangely written note was still very spirited. The concensus of opinion leaned toward the idea that the command was an outrage—that it should not, under any circumstances, be complied with—that a severely worded note of reply be enclosed in the shell denouncing the entire notion and stating our defiance in unmistakable terms. There were some few voices raised in support of the opposite course of action. These maintained that it was a request from an apparently friendly race—that much good would accrue to the inhabitants of the earth by contact and exchange with a civilization which was admittedly far more advanced than any that we knew. Yet there were no bold offers from the proponents of this course—no intrepid volunteers to enter this extra-terrestrial projectile and be whizzed into space when the sun rose the following day.
THE evening wore on, with terse bulletins flashing through the air at regular intervals, and our two young friends riveted to their radio, as were countless thousands over the entire land and beyond the seas. A feverish excitement prevailed, which heightened as the fateful minutes ticked away. There was hectic activity, not only at the very spot where the ominous projectile stood, but in scientific and government circles everywhere. A thousand theories, a thousand conjectures—schemes and counter-schemes—plans of action hastily formulated and just as quickly abandoned—and the sinister missile stood grim and erect. Midnight came and went—nothing tangible had so far been accomplished, and only a scant four hours remained before the summer sun would poke its rim above the horizon for the start of another day.
There was no sleep for Cliff Hale and Ray Fletcher. Who could think of sleep when such momentous doings were afoot?
"What wouldn't I give to be on that spot over in Jersey right now!" Fletcher’s voice bore an almost imperceptible tinge of hope, although he knew that the thought was a far-fetched one.
"I suppose though, that you couldn't get to within a mile of the place unless you could show a set of iron-clad credentials." He turned down the radio so that only a whisper remained of the blatant jazz band which filled in between the sententious news bulletins concerning developments about the projectile. For a few moments there was silence, except for the faint rhythmic beat of the dance orchestra.
Then suddenly Hale loosed an exclamation and jumped up from his position on the couch. He rummaged excitedly among some scattered effects in a desk drawer and presently emerged with a whoop of triumph, waving a blue card exultantly.
"And to think that I clean forgot about it!" he shouted gleefully—"that police card—the pass I got last spring from my Uncle Charlie—you know whom I mean—the deputy sheriff of Union County over in Jersey? It got us by the fire lines at that big Newark chemical explosion then, and by George, it ought to turn the trick for us here. At least, it can't hurt trying.'
Fletcher promptly fell in with the enthusiasm of his chum, and they made an immediate dash for the Hudson tubes. It was well past one o'clock, midnight, when they reached their destination. Even at that ungodly hour they encountered a milling stream of curiosity seekers surging restlessly over the dark meadows in the vicinity of the projectile. Rigid police lines kept them back, however, so as not to hamper the operations of the officials about the queer object. The two bold adventurers worked their way resolutely through the throngs. Their precious pass worked marvels for them. A clear corridor was being maintained through the mass of packed humanity to enable the passage of cars bearing various officials, reporters, photographers and other accredited persons. Down this open lane Hale and Fletcher were hustled, until presently they stood in the very shadow of the awe-inspiring messenger from another world. The scene was illuminated by several powerful searchlights mounted on army trucks that were stationed within the cleared circle. The strong glare of thousands of candle power directed upon the upright shell threw it into bold relief against the inky blackness all about.
"What a queer looking affair!" breathed Fletcher into his friend's ear. They circled the metallic projectile, felt of its cold, hard surface, even ventured to take a peek into the mysteriously vacant and strangely upholstered interior. There was very little activity now among the group of officials about the glistening shell. For the most part they stood around in small knots conversing earnestly. The air of perplexity and tension was present everywhere.
"Lord!—what an adventure that would be!" whispered Hale as though he were thinking out loud — and indeed he was.
"Adventure?—What do you mean, Cliff?" asked Fletcher sharply, turning upon his friend.
"Oh . . . it just entered my mind what a great stunt it would be to go off inside of that thing when she starts on her return trip." Hale chuckled to himself softly at the mere notion of such an escapade.
"A great idea—that," laughed Fletcher, "provided you could arrange some way of getting back to earth after the adventure is over."
"Oh, don't think for a minute, Ray," returned the other with a smile, "that I’m proposing any such rash undertaking. "But," and now Hale's tone became thoughtfully serious, "the idea just popped into my mind . . ."
The two friends circled about among the aggregation of scientists, newspaper men, high government personages and assorted authorities clustered around the missile. They listened attentively to the agitated discussion in this or that group, venturing an idea here and there themselves. The sum-total result of all the argument and debate could be represented by one profound question mark. All that could be done was to wait and see
