of comments across the table, a slight but significant nod to Hale spoke his acknowledgment of the message. He had little difficulty in secreting the bit of paper in a morsel of bread ascending to his lips. He gagged slightly in attempting to swallow, had a slight flurry of coughing, but finally succeeded in downing the tell-tale scrap.
THE day of the big shot!
The entire population of Lhasa, it seemed, had turned out to witness the spectacle. A sort of holiday had been declared, so that the whole city could assemble for the ceremony that symbolized the launching in earnest of the campaign of subjugation.
When Hale and Fletcher, tense with suppressed excitement, arrived on the scene, they found several thousand Tibetans already congregated, and a constantly swelling stream pouring out from the city to add to their numbers.
The firing spot was a large open space, flanked at a good distance by the various plant buildings and laboratories of this mushroom industrial centre that had grown up just outside the ancient walls of Lhasa. In the exact middle of the open area stood the mighty super-projectile itself, housed in a gigantic framework that had been erected out here in the open expressly for this metallic monster.
"What a whopper!" was all that Fletcher could say, standing there with Hale on the slightly elevated ground at a distance from the shell.
"I have already seen it before," replied his chum grimly. "Yesterday we put the finishing touches on the chemical driving mechanism. I assisted in making the necessary adjustment for range, speed and control in flight. The projectile is ready." A steely glint flashed in Hale's eyes, and was gone in an instant.
The two friends worked their way through the restless crowds toward the immediate vicinity of the projectile. Curious glances were cast in their direction by the Orientals as they cleared a path for themselves through the throng. But the glances reflected no feeling of hostility. The two western youths were well known in this Tibetan stronghold. Their presence here had already been accepted by all as a perfectly normal phenomenon. In fact, the crowd opened up and fell away before them, so as to facilitate their progress to the centre. For, hadn't the populace been told over and over again that these young men from the Occident were the very chosen of Lun-Dhag himself—his own technical advisers and right hand men?
So that the two chums made rapid progress through the assembled multitude. Each, to himself, could not but feel the striking similarity between this occasion and those other two memorable ones when they were also worming a path through solidly packed humanity to get closer to the upright and sinister messenger from out of the unknown. Only those other shells were mere pigmies in comparison to this one. A veritable monster it was, fully forty feet high and eight to ten feet in diameter. Supported on its blunt tail by the massive pyramidal framework, it pointed its equally blunt nose directly to the skies in an attitude that might almost represent challenge and bold defiance.
Reaching the centre of things, Hale and Fletcher paused to take in the scene. An intensely dramatic spectacle presented itself to them in a vast panorama as their gaze swept the entire field of vision. In the clear space around the discharging stand, a canopied platform had been erected for the accommodation of Lun-Dhag himself, his chief advisers and technical experts, and the Lama high priests. From the immediate vicinity of the super-projectile, the ground sloped up gently in all directions to the first row of detached plant buildings and factories. This area was now black with people joyfully assembled to speed the shell on its way. Even the roofs of the various buildings were crowded with holiday-spirited onlookers. In back of the first row and at some distance up the ever-ascending slope, were other scattered buildings that were acting as observation posts for hundreds. Beyond those the ground continued to rise to the distant low ridge bounding this entire industrial establishment. Dotting the circle of higher ground, like jewels set in a vast crown, they could make out the tiny dome-shaped structures that they knew so well. These were the firing stations for the smaller shells—dozens of orifices that had spit forth hundreds of missiles aimed against the countries of the west. They themselves had witnessed the firing of innumerable projectiles from these discharging stations—some of them bearing deadly charges of khatonite and destined to spread havoc and death over portions of America and Europe.
But now these depots were strangely mute and inactive. No small fry today! This was the day for that big fellow down there in the valley. All the operating personnel of the firing stations had been dismissed to take part in the gala occasion below. Only a handful remained to patrol the scattered ring of structures, merely as a perfunctory task.
Hale's eyes lingered for a quivering moment upon the circle of cupolas that dotted the ridge, then turned to the canopied stand close by. Fletcher stood alongside of him, pale but resolute, not knowing what to expect, but ready at an instant’s notice for whatever action might be called for.
A fanfare of trumpets sounded in the distance. The multitude set up a shout, and seemed to melt away at one point, forming a wide, clear avenue to the centre of activity. It was Lun-Dhag and the high officials of the regime, together with the religious heads of the community. They approached with regal splendor, borne in a fleet of vehicles that slowly and noiselessly descended the gradual slope leading to the projectile, with the elaborately decorated platform nearby.
The caravan halted at the inner rim of the crowd. Lun-Dhag and his immediate advisers emerged from the first vehicle, the largest and most ornate of the fleet. He was outfitted in gorgeous Oriental robes, soft in texture and vivid in colors. But splendid though the garments were, they failed to lend any great amount of regal splendor to his dwarf-like, pot-bellied, spider-legged person. He waddled to his place on the dais, followed by his entourage. A hush fell upon the vast assemblage. The ceremonies were about to begin.
The "Dalai Lama," the High Priest of all Lamaism now stepped forward—a majestic figure in flowing silken robes, with a stern visage of yellow-brown hue and a long white beard. He raised his hands to the multitude, and uttered a slow and measured incantation. In sing-song fashion, the lesser priests about him echoed his words. A low wailing chant broke out over the assembled throng, which swelled out to a mournful cry like the plaint of a million lost souls. The sound rose and fell in wave fashion, now a long protracted howl, now a faint quivering moan. Then it died out completely.
