"Simply this: Lun-Dhag has been firing projectiles now for weeks . . . some with messages, some with explosives. He cannot make the rest of the world come across. He has blown up portions of the country here and there over widely scattered regions in America and Europe. Some shells have done very little real damage. Others have fallen in areas where serious destruction have resulted, both to life and to property. All have been of comparatively small calibre, giving merely a taste of the real thing. His chemists have slaved like Trojans in an effort to correct the gross defects in the operating mechanism, with but little success. I myself can vouch for the enormity of the problem, because I've been in intimate contact with the work at the laboratory since the day we came here. And now Lun-Dhag sees no further reason to hold up his plan. Preparations are just about complete for the big push."
"What do you mean, big push?
"The laboratory staff has been occupied day and night for over a week in completing the driving mechanism of a super-projectile, the like of which has never been attempted before. The shell plant has practically finished this super-projectile and the operating units are to be installed in a few days. Just as soon as that's turned out in a finished form, a dozen more will be produced as fast as they can be made ready."
"And the idea back of it all . . .?"
"To commence an attack on the Western world such as has never been imagined in the wildest nightmare. The first shell, charged with several tons of khatonite will be aimed for New York. If it makes a direct hit, and Lun-Dhag's experts are striving manfully to turn out a shell that will do so, then half of the city will be annihilated at one awful stroke. If it doesn't land true, they are prepared to send another huge monster right on its heels . . . in fact, a whole stream of them."
Fletcher uttered a low whistle at the sheer enormity of the thing.
"And that isn't all. Plans are being pushed for a constant flood of these super-projectiles from the plants. A rain of death is being prepared for all the large centres of population on three continents, London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome, Chicago, Mexico City, Buenos Aires — all have been singled out for concentrated bombardment and immediate devastation.
"Why Cliff, that man is a—a—lunatic—a raving maniac! Why . . .!"
"Whatever he is, that's the situation as it stands. The conquest of the world—the utter destruction of western civilization is about to begin!"
"But, hang it all, Cliff . . . What are we going to do about it? You and I must . . .!"
"What can we do?" and Hale's voice was hollow—his face blank. "We are helpless! . . . We are nothing but slaves of Lun-Dhag—cogs in a complicated machinery! . . . The plotted destruction of the civilized globe seems to be inevitable! . . ."
Fletcher caught his breath with a jerk. He stared intently at his friend. Good Lord! . . . Were his own senses going back on him? . . . Was Hale going mad, along with the rest? . . . Was the constant association with the feverish activity of a group of frenzied scientists actually undermining the sanity of his chum? Surely this was not the proud, vigorous, indomitable Cliff who had first broached to him the notion of entering upon an extraordinary adventure into the unknown for the sake of helping a sorely stricken world.
Again Fletcher peered into the pallid features of his comrade in peril. A tense, expressionless face met his gaze. Fletcher looked long into it . . . and caught an almost imperceptible narrowing of the eye . . . an evanescent flash of an unmistakable message. For another moment he continued the stare another fleeting movement of his chum's eye, and then Fletcher fell back with a limp "Oh!" on his lips . . .
Hale was positive that they were now being watched more intently than at any time during their sojourn in Lhasa. He almost felt those unseen eyes on him wherever he was—in his room with Fletcher—at his duties in the laboratory—walking about the city or through the plant units—traveling in the automatic conveyances on this or that errand. He knew that every word that passed between his companion and himself were recorded and reproduced for eager alien ears. His fervent prayer was that Lun-Dhag and his infernal staff of diabolical scientific experts had not as well in their power the reading of his innermost thoughts. For, although his words might be taken as an indication of active cooperation with the plans of this madman genius of Tibet, or at worst, of a non-committal attitude toward the destruction and conquest of the Occidental peoples, his thoughts, it might readily be expected, were actively concerned with but one idea: To work out a way of thwarting Lun-Dhag before it was too late. He realized now, more than ever, that haste was imperative. With preparations for the impending storm of violence and death already practically completed, there was hardly a minute to lose if it was to be averted.
The following evening, Hale announced to his chum additional details of the great undertaking now in progress. He spoke glibly of dimensions—cubic capacities—weights of khatonite—quantities of chemical propellant for the projectile. And as they strolled through the Oriental garden surrounding their habitation, Fletcher was startled by feeling Hale's hand brush his, as though accidentally. Something was pushed into his palm—his fingers dosed over it—it felt like a tiny scrap of paper . . . a message! . . . They continued walking along the lane to the house, chatting pleasantly. Fletcher dared not make an untoward move. All night the mystifying epistle lay next to his skin, almost burning a hole in it, but he feared even to touch it with his hand. The next day, secreted on his person, the note accompanied him to his task at the khatonite plant. There he suddenly became conscious of the increased activity about the works—a commotion and excitement that apparently had escaped his notice up to the present. He knew the cause—tons of khatonite were being turned out where only pounds had been required before—tons of high explosive that were to be transported in those dread super-projectiles to congested centres of population all over the world.
At about noon, Fletcher managed to cast a momentary peek at Hale's note at a time when he could disguise the act under cover of some routine operation in his task. Cryptic and mystifying, the message read:
Three days more—have plan—think it will work—no questions—obey prompetly—only hope—C.
What scheme his comrade had up his sleeve, Fletcher had no means of even guessing. All he knew was that Hale could be relied upon—that whatever it was he could leave it to him . . . good old Cliff! . . .
At the evening meal, during the spirited interchange
