The structure,
pivoting downward, plunged Quest to his waist in the osmotic solution.
What would you do, if, like
Quest, you were tricked, and your very Mind and Will stolen from your body?
"What
caused you to answer our advertisement?" Owen Quest felt the steel of the
quick gray eyes that jabbed like gimlets across the office table.
"Why
does any man apply for a job?" he bristled.
Keane
Clason gave an impatient smile.
"Come!"
he said. "I'm not trying to snare you. But there were unusual features to
my ad, and they were put there to attract an unusual type of man. To judge your
qualifications, I must know just why this proposition appeals to you."
"I
can tell you that," nodded Quest, "but there's nothing unusual about
it. In the first place, I knew that the Clason Research Corporation is the
leading concern of its kind in the country. In the second place, this seemed to
offer a way to obtain a substantial sum of money quickly."
"Good,"
said Clason. "And you feel that you have all the necessary
qualifications?"
"Decidedly.
I am 24 years old, athletic, and of an earnest and determined nature. Moreover,
I have no family ties, and I'm willing to run any reasonable risk in order to
improve the condition of my fellow men."
Clason
smiled his approval.
"You
say you need money. How much immediately?"
Quest
was unprepared for the question.
"A
thousand dollars," he ventured.
Without
hesitation Clason counted out ten one-hundred-dollar notes from his wallet and
laid them on the table.
"There's
your advance fee. You're ready to go to work immediately, I hope?"
"Certainly,"
stammered Quest.
Stunned
by the swiftness of the transaction, he sat staring at the money that lay
untouched before him.
To
accept it would be like signing an unread contract. But he had asked for it; to
refuse it was impossible. Even to delay about picking it up might arouse
Clason's suspicion. Already the latter had turned away and was opening the door
of a steel cabinet. Quest had one second in which to reach a decision.... He
crammed the currency into his pocket.
With
delicate care Clason set two objects on the table. One looked to Quest like a
miniature broadcasting tower or a mooring mast for lighter than air craft. The
other was a circular vat of some black material, probably carbon. Within it a
series of concentric tissues were suspended from metal rings, and in a trough
outside ranged four stoppered flasks containing liquids of as many different colors.
"Look
at these models carefully," said Clason. "They represent two of the
most remarkable discoveries of all time. The one on your left is the most
destructive weapon known to man. The other I consider the most constructive
discovery in the history of science. It may even lead to an understanding of
the nature of life, and of the future of the spirit after death.
"Both
of these were developed by my brother Philip and me together - but we have
disagreed about the use to which they shall be put.
"Philip"
- the inventor dropped his voice to a whisper - "wants to sell the secret
of the Death Projector - the tower, there - as an instrument of war. If I
should permit him to do that, it might lead to the destruction of whole
nations!"
"How?"
demanded Quest "I've heard of a device called the Death Ray. Is this
it?"
"No,
no," said Clason contemptuously. "Even in a perfected state the Ray
would be a child's toy compared to the Projector. This is based on our
discovery that invisible light rays of a certain wave-length, if highly
concentrated, destroy life - and our additional discovery that if these are
synchronized with short radio waves the effect is absolutely devastating.
"We
obtain the desired concentration of invisible light by using a tellurium
current-filter under the influence of alternate flashes of red and blue light.
The projector can literally blanket vast areas with death, up to a top range of
at least five hundred miles.
"Just
picture to yourself what this means! In a space of ten minutes two men can lay
down a circle of destruction a thousand miles in diameter; or they can cut a
swath five hundred miles long in any desired direction."
"Have
you ever proved it?" demanded Quest skeptically.
"Yes,
young man, we have," snapped Clason. "Right here in the laboratory - but
on a minute scale, of course. However, there's no time to demonstrate now. The
point is that my brother is determined to sell if he can obtain his price for
the invention. He argues that instead of bringing disaster upon the world, this
machine will forever discourage war by making it too terrible for any civilized
nation to consider. In spite of my opposition he has opened negotiations with
an ambitious Balkan power. He may actually close the sale at any moment!
"However,"
Clason drew a deep breath "you see this other device? Simple as it
appears, it is the key to the whole situation. We can use it - you and I - to
overcome Philip's will and prevent this unthinkable transaction. The two of us
can do it. Alone I would be virtually helpless."
"Why
not have the Projector confiscated or destroyed by our own Government?"
suggested Quest. "That seems to me the only safe and sure way out of the
difficulty."
"You
simply do not understand," frowned Clason impatiently. "Philip is
selling the plans and descriptions of the machine, not the machine itself. Even
if this model and the larger test machine that we have built were destroyed - even
if I were willing to have Philip sent to Leavenworth for life - he could still
sell the Projector.
"But
this other invention, our Osmotic Liberator, makes it possible for me to gain
control of Philip and actually change his mind, through the medium of an agent.
I have hired you to act as my Agent, Quest, because I can see that you are a
young man of unusual character and vitality. And by way of reward I can promise
you both money and a brilliant future."
The
inventor poised in a tense attitude on the edge of his chair as though his body
were charged with electricity. His eyes seemed to dart out emanations that set
Quest's blood to tingling. Then for a moment the latter lost consciousness of
his physical self. It was as though he had opened a door and found himself
suddenly on the brink of a new and totally strange world. He dispelled this
fancy by a quick effort of the will, for he knew that he had a delicate problem
on his hands and that it must be solved within a very few minutes. However he
proceeded, he must act without disloyalty to his Government, and at the same
time without injustice to Keane Clason.
"Tell
me," he said in a husky voice, "how do you intend to use me? I do not
believe in Spiritualism. I would be a poor medium."
Clason
gave a short laugh.
"You
are not to be a medium in that sense at all. Spiritualism as practiced is just
a blind sort of groping and hoping. Osmotic Liberation, on the other hand, is
an exact and opposite physico-chemical science. Here - I will show you."
Into
the outer cell of the Liberator he emptied the purple vial, and so on to the
innermost, which he filled with a golden-green liquid like old Chartreuse.
"The
separating membranes, you understand, are permeable by these complicated
solutions. Each liquid has a different osmotic pressure and therefore should,
under normal conditions, interchange with the others through the membranes
until all pressures are equalized. I prevent such interchange, however, by
maintaining an anti-electrolysis which retards ionization and thus builds up
what might be called osmotic potential.
"Now
if an Agent - yourself for instance - submerges himself in the central cell, at
the same time maintaining a physical contact with his Control at the surface of
the liquid, and if then the osmotic potential is suddenly released by throwing
the electrolytic switch, the host of ions thus turned loose in the outer
compartments make one grand rush for the center solution, which contains the
cathode.
"Under
these conditions your body becomes a sort of sixth cell, and your skin another
membrane in the series. Properly speaking, however, you are not a part of the
electrolytic circuit but are merely present in the action. Your body acts as a
catalyser, hastening the chemical action without itself being affected in any
way. Physically you undergo no change whatever; but in some strange way which
is, like life, beyond analysis, your mind flows out into the solution, while
your unaltered body remains at the bottom of the tank in a state of suspended
animation.
"If
no Control is present, all that is needed to return your mind into your body is
a throw of the electrolytic switch back to negative, whereupon you emerge from
the tank exactly as you entered it. But with your Control present and in
contact with your submerged body, your mind, instead of remaining suspended in
the solution, flows instantly into his body and resides there subject to his
will.
"This
can not be done, however, unless the wills of Control and Agent have first been
brought into accord. To accomplish that, we clasp hands" - Quest grasped
Clason's extended hand -"and look steadily into each other's eyes.
"Now,
it is well known that the vibrations of an individual's will are as distinctive
as the sworls of his finger-prints. What is not so well known is that the
frequency of vibration in one person can be brought into accord with that in
another.
"You
consciously retract your will by concentrating your mind upon the thing which
you know I wish to accomplish. Gradually while we continue in this position
your vibrations speed up or slow down until they acquire exactly the same
frequency as my own. We are then in accord, and when your mind is liberated in
the tank it is in a state which admits absorption into my body. And it is
subject to my will because you have purposely attuned it to my peculiar
frequency. Immediately after the transfer there will be a brief conflict, due
to the instinctive desire of your will to obtain the ascendancy. But of course
mine will gain the upper hand at once, since both wills will be in my
frequency."
Quest
felt, rather than saw, a wall of alarm closing in on him. He tried to avert his
eyes, to withdraw his hand from Clason's grasp. With a nostalgic pang in the
pit of his stomach he suddenly realized that he could not do so. He had gone
too far - farther than any man in his position had a right to go. Having
deliberately weakened his will, it seemed now to have deserted him entirely. A
prickling sensation coursed up his spine, his extended arm went numb, his hand
trembled violently.
"Splendid!"
said Clason, suddenly releasing both eye and hand. "Just as I foresaw, you
will be able to attune yourself to my vibration-frequency with hardly an
effort. Now please remain seated; I'll be back in a moment."
For
a second after the door closed, Quest remained slumped in his chair. Then he
was on his feet, shaking himself like a wet dog to free himself from the spell
under which he had fallen. Something about Clason attracted and at the same
time repelled him, fraying his nerves like an irritant drug and confusing his
mind at the moment when he needed the full alertness of every faculty.
Invisible
light - disembodied minds - will vibrations! Nothing there to get hold of. Were
these things real or imaginary? Was Keane Clason a great inventor, or a madman?
Would Philip prove to be a real or an imaginary scoundrel? Should he summon
help, or go on alone?
Professional
pride said: wait, don't be an alarmist! With his knuckles Quest tapped the
table, half expecting it to melt under his fingers. The feeling and sound of
the contact gave him a peculiar start. On the farther end of the table stood a
letter-box - an invitation. From his pocket Quest snatched a slip of paper, and
wrote:
6 stroke 4—9:45A—Hired. If no report in 48 hours, clamp down hard.
To address a
stamped envelope and slip it in with the outgoing mail was the work of seconds.
But he was none too quick. He had just dropped back into a lounging attitude
when the door burst open and Clason flew into the room?
"We
must act instantly," hissed the inventor. "Philip plans to close the
transaction within a day."
In
spite of himself, Quest jumped upright in his chair. Clason tapped him on the
shoulder reassuringly.
"It's
all right," he smiled, "I'm ready for him. We'll make our move this
afternoon and beat him by eighteen hours.
"Let's
see." He paused. "Oh! yes. I was about to explain to you that as soon
as the will of the Agent enters the body of his Control, the latter can again
transfer it into the body of still another person.
"Now
you understand why I advertised for a man of exceptional character? As my
Agent, I want you to enter the body of Philip, and your will must be strong
enough to conquer his in the battle for mastery which will begin the instant
you intrude into his body. You will still be under my control, but your will
must be strong enough on its own merits to overcome his. I can direct you, but
your strength must be your own. That's clear, isn't it?"
"I
think so," said Quest slowly. "But what becomes of me after you have
frustrated Philip's plot?"
"That's
the easy part of the process," smiled Clason; "but naturally you feel
some anxiety about it. I simply withdraw your will from Philip, return it to
your own body, and pay you a reward of ten thousand dollars."
"You're
sure you can?"
"Perfectly.
I have merely to touch Philip's hand to recapture your will. Then I immerse
myself in the tank with the switch at plus. The osmotic action will extract
both wills momentarily from my body. But the presence of two bodies and two
wills in the solution together forces a balance, and each will seeks out and
enters its own body. Then you and I climb out of the tank exactly as we are
this minute."
"If
it weren't for my belief that anything is possible," Quest shook his head,
"I'd say that your claims for this invention were ridiculous."
"And
you couldn't be blamed," admitted Clason readily. "This toy of a
model is hardly convincing. But come along with me and I'll show you how the
Liberator looks in actual operation."
The
office rug concealed a trap door which gave upon a spiral stair. Below, Clason
unlocked another door and led the way through a narrow and tremendously long
passage lighted at intervals by small electric bulbs. Presently another door
yielded to the inventor's deft touch and closed behind them with a portentous
chug. Here the darkness was so utter and intense that Quest imagined he could
feel the weight of it on his shoulders. From the slope of the passageway and
the muffled beat of machinery that had come to his ears on the way along, he
guessed that he was below ground in some chamber at the rear of the factory.
He
gave a low exclamation as Clason switched on the toplight. No wonder the
darkness had seemed of almost supernatural quality! Even the hard white glare
of the daylight arc was grisly. Its rays rebounded from the liquids of the
great circular tank in a blinding dazzle of color, while the dull black walls
and ceiling were so perfectly absorptive that beyond arm's length they became
to all effects invisible. Even the ledge on which he stood - the shoulder of the vat - gave Quest the
feeling that to move would be to step off into a bottomless pit.
But Clason
took his attention at once, pointing here and there in his quick, nervous way
to indicate how faithfully the Liberator had been reproduced from the model. In
all respects the arrangements were the same, with the addition that here a long
plank like a spring-board extended out from a wall-mount as far as the central
compartment of the tank, and that from its end a narrow ladder hung down to the
surface of the Chartreuse liquid. A double-throw switch fixed to the wall above
the base of the plank was evidently the source of electrolytic control.
"When
you throw the switch to plus," said Clason, pointing to the chalk-marked
sign above, "you produce the violent electrolytic action needed to bring
about a liberation. All the rest of the time it should be closed at minus, in
order to maintain the anti-action which I explained to you.
"Now
let's rehearse, so that when the time for the real performance arrives we can
be sure of running it off without a hitch."
"All
right, sir," nodded Quest, so dazed by the glittering light that he was
hardly conscious of what he said.
"First,"
said Clason, running lightly up the steps to the plank, "you walk out to
the end, like this, and start down the ladder. Then you lower yourself into the
tank. The liquid is at body temperature; it's neither strongly acid nor
caustic; it will cause you no injury or discomfort whatever.
"Meanwhile
I keep in contact with your hand until the instant that you become submerged.
Now your mind is in me, see? - ready for transfer into Philip, where it will
act as my Agent. That's how simple it is! Come on up and we'll go through the
motions."
Quest
experienced a shiver as he mounted the bridge. Annoyed with himself, he
shrugged the feeling off. There was no risk here. Moreover, it was a part of
his daily work to take chances; he had done so a hundred times without
hesitation. Now he moved all the more quickly, as if to belie the squeamishness
that possessed him in spite of himself.
Swinging
past Clason on the plank, he lowered himself without a pause to the bottom rung
of the ladder, while the inventor, hanging head down, maintained contact with
him.
"No
need to stay here," he said in sudden irritation. "I understand
perfectly what I am to do."
"I'm
testing my own acrobatic ability," grunted Clason amiably. "Just a
minute now."
He
wriggled as if trying to adjust himself to a better balance, but in reality to
mask the motion of his free hand with which he reached up and pressed a button
in the side of the plank. Instantly the structure, pivoting downward on its
wall-socket, plunged Quest to his waist in the osmotic solution.
"For
God's sake get out of the way!" he shouted, trying to wrench his hand out
of Clason's sinewy grip. "Let go, I tell you!"
But
Clason clung like a leech, his teeth gritted under the strain. Again the plank
lurched downward, and with a violent splash Quest vanished below the surface.
Quick
as a cat, Clason scrambled up the ladder and back to the base of the plank,
where he erased and interchanged the chalk-marked signs with which he had
misled Quest. Then with a sinister twist of a smile he threw the switch to
minus, and turned to watch as the plank slowly righted itself and the vacant
ladder came clear of the liquid.
For
some time he stood staring at the gleaming colored rings of his
dissociation-vat like some witch over her cauldron, his lips working, his hands
clasping and unclasping like the tentacles of some sub-sea monster. Then, as if
the spell had suddenly broken, he turned on his heel and switched off the
light. As he hastened down the passageway toward his office, the airlock sucked
the door against its jamb with an ominous whistle.
In
a twinkling, as Quest's shackled spirit writhed in its new housing, he knew
that he was in bondage to a scoundrel. Formless and voiceless, he still fought
madly for the freedom which the instinct of ten thousand generations made
necessary to him.
At
the same time he was furious at himself for having been tricked like an
innocent schoolboy. The plank socket, the button which had tripped the
supporting spring, the fake rehearsal, the tuning of his will to that of Clason
- step by step the whole cunning scheme unfolded itself to him now.
But
what could be the purpose behind this villainy? Only one answer seemed
possible. Keane must be the one bent on selling the Death Projector, Philip the
one who wished to frustrate the fiendish transaction! And Quest of the Secret
Service - he was to be the tool to force the sale.
With
the soundless scream of rage Quest's will hurled itself against Keane's. The
two met like infuriated bulls, and for an instant too brief to be pictured as a
lapse of time they poised immovable. But two wills can not exist on equal terms
in a single body, and in this case the vibration of both was that of Clason.
Quest had challenged the Master Will. He could do no more. It hurled him back,
crushed him like foam, compressed him to the proportions of an atom in the
background of his consciousness. So brief and unequal was the conflict that in
the next breath Clason had all but forgotten the presence of the stolen will
within him. When he was ready to use his Agent, that would be time enough to
summon him!
Despite
this suppression, Quest began to see dimly through strange eyes, and to hear
vaguely with ears that were not his own. Feelers, tentacles, some intangible
kind of conduits carried thought impulses to him from the Master Will. He received
these impressions vividly, but those which he gave off in return were so weak,
due to the subjection of his will, that Clason was entirely unconscious of any
response. Quest was not enough of a scientist to be astonished at the ability
of a disembodied mind to experience sense impressions in the body of another.
He was only glad that the darkness and silence were growing less. Very, very
slowly he was awakening to a new kind of consciousness - the consciousness of
another person's Self. He hated and loathed that Self, yet it was better than
the awful blankness that had gone before.
Suddenly,
as light grew brighter and sound more clear and definite, a new element entered
- the element of hope. At first it was feeble: its only suggestion was that
sometime, somehow, he might escape this prison. But it was like water to a
parched plant. It caused his will to expand, to extend its feelers, to press up
a little more bravely against the crushing pile of the Master Will.
Now
another surprise sprang upon him. He was moving! That is, Clason's body was
moving in some kind of a conveyance, which was threading its way through
crowded streets. Stores, buildings, buses, people - Quest remembered them all
distantly as things he had known thousands of years ago. The driver turned his
head, and his profile seemed vaguely familiar.
Now
a rush of foreign thoughts drowned out his own. They were a sort of overflow
from the mind of Clason. They thronged along the conduits that bound the two
wills together, but only Quest was conscious of the movement.
Keane's
mind was on his brother Philip: that much was particularly clear. And there was
something about a telephone call. Yes, Keane had telephoned to the police,
disguising his voice, refusing to divulge his name. He had said that a man by
the name of Philip Clason was in trouble and had told them where to find him.
Then the police had telephoned the factory, and Keane had pretended
astonishment and alarm at the news. That's why he was here now - he was on the
way to confer with the police. And he was chuckling - chuckling because he had
fooled Quest and the police, and because now the hundred million dollars was
almost in his grasp.
Cutting
in close, the car turned a corner and drew up before one of a row of loft
buildings in a section of the city which Quest failed to recognize. As Clason
stepped to the sidewalk, Quest was more painfully aware than ever of his
powerlessness to influence by so much as the twitch of a muscle the behavior of
this hostile body in which he had permitted himself to be trapped. In his
weakness he felt himself shrinking, contracting almost to nothingness under the
careless pressure of the Master Will.
Clason
glanced casually at his watch, and three men converged toward him from as many
directions. There was nothing to distinguish them from anyone else in the
street, but along the conduits it came to Quest that they were detectives and
that they were there by appointment with Keane Clason.
"What
floor?" asked the latter, with an excitement which Quest felt instantly
was pure pretense. "Are you sure they haven't spirited him away?"
"Don't
worry," replied the leader of the detectives. "The alley and roof are
covered. We'll take care of the rest ourselves."
On
tiptoe they climbed three long flights of stairs in the half-light. Clason held
back as if in fear. He was a good actor, and Quest felt the shrinking and
hesitation of his body as he crouched and slunk along in the wake of the
detectives, pretending terror at what was about to happen, though he knew - and
Quest knew he knew - that there would be no resistance up there - that Philip
would be found alone exactly as he had been left by Keane's hired thugs.
On
the top landing Burke, the leader, paused to count the doors from front to
rear.
"This
is it," he whispered to the bull-necked fellow just behind him.
The
other nodded, and crouched back against the opposite wall while his companions
placed themselves in position to cross-fire into the room the moment the door
gave way.
Quest
longed for the power to kick his hypocrite of a master as he still held back,
cowering on the stairs, playing his fake to the limit. Then the door flew in
with a splintering shriek under the charge of the human battering ram, and across
it hurtled the other two detectives in a cloud of ancient dust.
"Here
he is!" someone shouted.
"Phil!
Phil!" Keane Clason's voice fairly quavered with sham emotion as he ran
into the room and threw himself at a man tightly bound to an upholstered chair,
which in turn was wedged in among other articles of stored furniture.
But
Philip was too securely gagged to reply, and as Burke slashed the ropes from
across his chest he dropped forward in a state of collapse. Stretched on a
couch, he soon gave signs of response as a brisk massage began to restore the
circulation to his cramped limbs. Suddenly he sat up and thrust his rescuers
aside.
"What
time is it?" he demanded with an air of alarm.
"One
o'clock," replied Keane before anyone else could answer, patting his
brother affectionately on the shoulder while within him Quest writhed with
indignation. "By Jove! Phil, it's wonderful that we got to you in time.
Really, how - you're not injured?"
"No,"
grunted Philip, "just lamed up. I'll be as fit as ever by to-morrow."
"If
you feel equal to it," suggested Burke, "I wish you'd tell me briefly
how you arrived here. Do you know the motive behind this affair? Did you
recognize any of the body-snatchers?"
Philip
frowned and shook his head.
"Yesterday
noon," he said slowly, "I took the eight-passenger Airline Express to
Cleveland on business. There were three other passengers in the cabin - two men
and a woman. Right away I got out a correspondence file and was running over
some letters. The next thing I knew I was approaching the ground in the
strangest state of mind I ever experienced. My head was splitting, and
everything looked unreal to me. Seemed as if I was coming down on some new
planet."
"You
mean the ship was gliding down to land?"
"No,
no. I was dangling from a parachute... By the way, where am I now?"
"In
a Munson Avenue loft."
"In
Chicago?"
Burke
nodded.
"I
guessed as much," frowned Philip. "You see, I came down in a field,
and then before I could free myself from my trappings I was pounced on - trussed
up and blindfolded - by a gang of men. I knew they had taken me a long distance
by automobile, but I saw nothing more until they tore the blindfold from my
eyes when they left me here."
"And
they were all strangers to you?"
"Yes
- those that I saw."
"Isn't
this enough for just now, Burke?" interrupted Keane, and Quest received an
impression of uneasiness that was not apparent in the inventor's tone.
"After a good rest he's sure to recall things that escape him now."
"Just
one minute," nodded the detective, turning back to Philip. "Can you
think of no plausible reason for this attack? Is there no one who might
possibly benefit by putting you temporarily out of the way?"
Philip
gave a frightened start. Then he was on his feet, clutching at his brother's
arm.
"Keane!"
he pleaded, "Keane! What's happened? I know, I know! It's the
Projector."
"Water!"
roared Keane, and Quest felt the panic that coursed through him as he tried to
drown out his brother. "Somebody bring water! He needs it!"
At
the same time he snatched up Philip's hand in a grip of steel. Instantly the
latter's wild eyes became calm, the flush passed from his relaxing face, and he
slumped down weakly on the couch.
In
that fleeting moment Quest surged into the body of Philip and confronted his
will with a fierce and triumphant ardor. For now his will would have command of
a body with which to fight his fiend of a Control.
With a
sensation of contempt he met Philip's resistance and buffeted him ruthlessly
backward, crushed down and compressed his feebly struggling will. And as Philip
yielded, Quest felt his own will expanding to normal, taking possession of the
borrowed body with hungry greed, and flashing from its faded eyes the spark of
youth.
Burke
stared in amazement at the kaleidoscopic rapidity of the changes in the rescued
man's expression. Strange lights and shadows continued to flit across Philip's
face as Quest's invasion of him proceeded, but with a diminishing frequency
which soon assured Keane that his Agent was tightening his command.
The
younger of Burke's aides stood fascinated, his mouth agape. The other spoke
guardedly to his superior:
"Dope,
eh!"
"Nah!"
replied Burke, shrugging himself out of his trance. "Shock."
The
actual duration of the conflict in Philip was something less than three
seconds. It would have been more brief if Quest had exerted himself to the
utmost. But his sensations as he first surged into this new habitat under
Keane's propulsion were so weird and unearthly that for the moment he was lost
in the wonder of the experience. For that short time, therefore, Philip was
able to fight back against the onrush of the invading will.
In
the next second Quest became conscious of the resistance. Urged on by his
Control, he must push Philip back and quell him; but his sympathy for his
opponent and his hatred of Keane roused him to sudden revolt. He wanted to
disobey the Master Will, retreat, leave Philip in command of himself. But he
could only go on, unwillingly thrusting back Philip's will despite the
indescribable torment and confusion in his own. Then, with the feeling that he
was ten times worse than the most inhuman ghoul, he took full possession of his
borrowed body.
"I'll
take him home now," said Keane composedly to Burke. "As you see, he
needs a little extra sleep. Meanwhile, if you have any occasion to call me, I
will be at the factory."
To
the youthful mind of the Agent, used to the lightness of an athletic physique,
the body in which it moved down the stairs to the limousine seemed strangely
heavy and awkward.
"I'm
badly done up, Keane," he said with Philip's lips as the car got under
way.
"Bah!"
snorted Keane, "you've had a scare, that's all. Go to bed when you get
home and sleep till nine this evening. At ten a man named Dr. Nukharin will
call for you. He will drive you to a garage, leave the car, and transfer to
another one a few blocks away.
"Out
near Marbleton you will find an airplane staked in an open field. Nukharin is a
capable pilot. He will fly back southeast along the lakeshore to the meeting
place. You should arrive about twelve-thirty. The test is set for one
o'clock."
Quest
listened in a state of abject rage. Lacking the power to resist his Control, he
could only boil away in Philip's body like a wild creature hemmed in by bars of
steel.
"Bring
with you," continued Keane venomously, "the set of papers that you
took from the safe in my office. Hold the other set in readiness to deliver to
Nukharin to-morrow, after he has studied the results of the test and has
notified Paris to release a hundred million dollars in cash for delivery at
your Loop office at 3 p. m."
The
murderous greed of the man maddened Quest. He tried to revolt, his will
squirming like a physical thing, threshing the ether like a wounded shark in
the sea. For a moment he felt that he was about to burst the bonds that his
demon of a Control had woven around him. So violently did he resist that the
immured and sporelike will of Philip forged up fitfully out of the blackness
and joined his in the hopeless struggle. But along the attenuated conduits that
still chained Quest to the Master Will Keane caught the impulse of the mutiny,
and his eyes darted flame as he countered with a will-shock that paralyzed his
unruly Agent.
"Listen!
you whimpering dog," he snarled. "Think as I tell you - and nothing
more! You are going to apologize to Dr. Nukharin for your previous
unwillingness to sell the Projector. You are going to tell him that I am at
fault - that I held out - but that you found a way to force my compliance. You
understand?"
Quest
could find no words. With Philip's head he nodded meekly. Just then the car
stopped and the chauffeur threw open the door.
Dr.
Nukharin flew high despite the masses of cumulus cloud which frequently reduced
visibility to zero. He had merely to follow the rim of the lake to his
destination, and an occasional glimpse of the water was sufficient to hold him
on his course.
In
the back seat hunched Philip, his body crumbling under the weight of Quest's
despair. For hours the latter had gone on vaguely, hoping somehow to thwart
this horrible transaction that was rushing the world to its doom, thinking he
might grow strong enough to wrench himself free and so liberate Philip from the
dominance of his conscienceless brother. Even though such a move should leave
his own will forever separate from his body, he was ready and anxious to make
the sacrifice.
Suddenly
the crash of the motor ceased and Nukharin banked the ship up in a spiral
glide. Quest had never been in the air before, and the long whirl down into the
darkness on this devil's errand was to him as eery as a ride to perdition in a
white-hot projectile.
His
mind seemed to trail out in a great nebular helix behind the descending ship.
He felt that he had suddenly crossed some cosmic meridian into a new plane of
existence, where he was changed to a gas, yet continued capable of thought. But
even here his obsession remained the same. Keane Clason - trickster, traitor,
arch-criminal - must be destroyed!
"I'll
get him!" vowed Quest in words that were no less real for being soundless.
"I'll trail him to the end of space and bring him to account!"
Then
wheels touched earth and the cold, bare facts of his destiny rushed in on him
with redoubled force. He felt the nearness of his Control seconds before he
perceived him through the eyes of Philip. With a sensation like a stab he
realized that now he must speak, play his part, be any bloodless hypocrite that
Keane Clason chose to make him. The silent order surged down the conduits
promptly enough; he responded as an automaton obeys the pressure of a button.
"Well,
Doctor," chuckled Philip with a cunning leer, "here's the magic
tower, just as I promised you. We'll run it up in a jiffy. This test is going
to be so vivid and conclusive that not even a hard-headed skeptic like you can
raise a question."
"You
misunderstand me," returned Nukharin in an injured tone. "So far as I
am concerned this procedure is only a formality, but it is none the less
necessary. Suppose that I should spend a hundred million of my government's
money and the purchase prove worthless? You may guess that my folly would cost
me dear."
Keane
Clason was waiting on the platform of a giant truck, the motor of which was
idling. All the apparatus was in readiness except that the three demountable
sections of the tower had yet to be run up into position.
"One
of the beauties of the D. P.," said Philip gleefully to the Doctor, while
Keane smiled slyly to himself, "is that this pint-size dynamo provides all
the current needed for the test. We pick the power for our radio right out of
the air by means of a wave trap and mensurator invented by this bright little
brother of mine," and he clapped Keane patronizingly on the back.
"Yes,
ah - Dr. Nukharin," ventured Keane timidly, and at that moment Quest
experienced the raging red hatred that causes men to murder. "Philip has
promised me that you will employ this device only as a threat to hold the
ambitions of the larger powers in check."
"Of
course, of course!" replied the Doctor heartily. "But now let's have
the test. Even at night I'm not too fond of these open-air performances."
The
height of the tower as they ran the upper sections into place was forty feet.
When all connections had been inspected, first by Keane, then by Philip, the
former led Nukharin aloft.
As
the climax of his plot approached, Keane's excitement bordered on a cataleptic
state, hints of which came confusedly through the conduits to Quest. With a
peculiar satisfaction he felt that Keane was suffering. The inventor's jaws
became rigid, as though his blood had changed to liquid air and frozen him, and
he had difficulty in controlling the movements of his arms.
Now
he was afraid! Genuinely afraid, this time. Quest caught the impulse too
clearly to doubt its meaning. This was no sham! Keane was doubting his own
machine, fearing that in the crisis some element in the finely calculated
mechanism might fail to operate, thus cheating him of the blood-money on which
his heart was set. Then he was speaking, and even Nukharin noticed the tremor
in his voice:
"These
nine tubes, which look like a row of gun barrels, are molded from silicon
paste. Each shoots a beam of invisible light and a radio dart of precisely the
same wave length. The destructive effect depends chiefly upon this exactness of
synchronization."
"A
question occurs to me," said the Doctor: "will others be able to
manipulate the machine as successfully as you can?"
"It's
fool-proof," chattered Keane, almost losing control of his voice,
"absolutely fool-proof. Surely you have scientists in your country who can
follow written directions! Nothing more is necessary."
"Very
well," shrugged Nukharin. "I only want to be sure that no unforeseen
difficulties may arise in an emergency."
"See
this range-setter?" continued Keane. "The thread on the vertical
shaft enables us not only to limit the range by angling the beams into the
ground, but it can also be disengaged and the Projector revolved in a flat
circle for maximum ranges."
"And
is there no danger of the machine going wrong - of destroying itself and
us?" suggested Nukharin.
"None
whatever, Doctor. There is no explosive force and no great electrical voltage
involved. As long as we stand back of the muzzles we have nothing to fear.
"Now
look. I have set the micrometer at three hundred yards, which will just about
cover the stretch between ourselves and the lake. I will cut a swath for you - and
every bush, every blade of grass, every insect in this swath will be withered
to ash in the twinkling of an eye. The destruction will be absolute."
"Please
proceed," said Nukharin grimly.
Keane
pulled a lever in its slot, then pressed it down into its lock as his
projection battery swung lakeward at the desired angle. Then with one hand
poised on another lever, he pressed an electric button.
At
the controls below, a bulb flashed on and off. The signal was superfluous, for
already Quest had received his silent command from the Master Will. An icy
dread fastened on him. He must obey the unspoken command; he had no will of his
own with which to resist. The test would be a success; the Projector would be
sold; the world would be turned into a shambles. And he, Owen Quest, would be
the destroyer, the murderer, the weak fool who made this horror possible.
All
this flashed through the Agent's mind in the fraction of a second that it took
him to extend Philip's hand, close the switch of the dynamo, and snap on the
alternating lights in the housing over the tellurium filter.
For
an interminable five seconds he waited, in a ferment of revolt which the
paralysis of his will made it impossible to put into action. Then again the
command pulsed within him, the signal bulb flashed, and he reversed his motions
of the moment before.
Cold
sweat cascaded down Philip's face as Quest felt the ladder vibrating under
descending feet. He longed for the power to hurl Keane Clason to the ground and
turn the Projector upon him. But with an awful irony the Master Will forced him
to his feet, and to speak in a tone that withered the manhood within him.
"Come,"
said Philip in a triumphant tone to Nukharin, "and I will show you that
Clason inventions perform as well as they sound."
Flashlight
in hand, he started toward the lake with Nukharin and his brother close behind
him. Twenty paces, and the long meadow grass suddenly vanished from beneath
their feet.
"See
that!" whispered Philip excitedly, waving the light from side to side to
show the forty-foot swath that stretched away before them. "Not a trace of
life left, not a blade of grass - nothing but dust!"
The
only response was a gurgling sound that issued from Nukharin's throat.
"Look!"
Quest formed the word with Philip's lips under the urge of the Master Will.
"Here was a tall bush. What do you see now? Just a teaspoonful of ash.
When you examine the remains by daylight, you will find that even the root has
disintegrated to a depth of two feet."
"Enough
of this," croaked Nukharin in horror. "The deal is closed."
His
face was convulsed with fear. Without another word he whirled about and fled
toward his airplane. Philip gave a start as if to follow.
"Halt!
you slob," growled Keane, whose composure had returned with the successful
outcome of the test. "I have use for your company, even though you are as
great a coward as our Slavic friend."
Coward!
The epithet stung Quest like a flaming goad. One of the fine, intangible lines
that bound him under the will of Keane Clason severed, and his own will
exploded into action like a thunderbolt. With startling agility he whirled
Philip about, the flashlight clubbed in his hand. But Keane was quicker still.
A clip on the wrist sent the weapon flying. Then Philip reeled backward from a
kick in the stomach, and his clutching hands beat the air as he sank
unconscious in the dust.
With
a violent tug, Quest lifted Philip's body to a sitting posture. The phone was
ringing, and by the pull on the will-fibers he knew that Keane was at the other
end of the wire. Philip's body was failing under the strain of the part it was
forced to play, and the blow of the night before had further weakened it. Now
he sat rocking his head painfully between his hands. But Quest lifted him to
his feet by sheer will, and he staggered across the room.
"Hello!",
he said in a hoarse voice.
"Get
the hell out here to the factory!" rasped Keane, and the crash of the
receiver emphasized the command.
It
was one o'clock as Philip whirled his sedan into Olmstead Avenue. At three,
reflected Quest as the car scorched over the pavements, he must be at the
downtown office to deliver the papers and receive the money.
Then
he was face to face with Keane, reeling dizzily at the hatred that blazed from
the latter's accusing eyes.
"Double-crossed
me, eh!" The voice was a low snarl, and as he spoke Keane thumped the
extra outspread on his desk. "But you're not going to get away with it - neither
of you!"
Dismay,
hope, dread, wonder robbed Quest of the power to speak. But he whirled around
behind the desk with such unexpected violence that Keane staggered back in
alarm. Then he was devouring the screaming headlines of the newspaper. Three
seconds, like a slow exposure, and every word of the Record's great scoop was
etched upon his mind as if with caustic:
DOOM LAUNCH ADRIFT ON LAKE
Physician Baffled by Condition of Five
Bodies Found in Craft
Blighted Area on Shore Said to Have Bearing
on Tragedy
THAW HARBOR, IND., June 6.—Five Chicago
sportsmen, most of them prominent in business and society, perished in the
early hours this morning while returning in the launch of A. Gaston Andrews
from a weekend camping party near Hook Spit on the Michigan shore.
The boat was towed into this port at
daybreak by the Interlake Tug Mordecai after being found adrift less than a
mile off shore. According to Captain Goff of the Mordecai the death craft
carried no lights and he barely avoided running her down. The weather along the
Indiana shore was perfect throughout the night and there is nothing to indicate
that the launch was in trouble at any time. The bodies are unmarked, and this
little community is agog with rumors ranging all the way from murder and suicide
to the supernatural.
Dr. J. M. Addis of Thaw Harbor, the first
physician to examine the bodies, says that they appear to have suffered some
violent electro-chemical action the nature of which cannot be determined at the
moment. This statement is considered significant in view of the reported
discovery ashore of a large blighted area almost directly opposite the point
where the launch was found. Joseph Sleichert, a farmer who lives in that
vicinity, reports that this patch of ground extending back from the lakeshore
was completely stripped of vegetation overnight. He ascribes the damage to some
unknown insect pest. Others say that the condition of the ground indicates that
it has been burned at incinerator temperatures. Nothing is left of the soil but
a blue powder.
Philip faced
his brother with eyes that were dull with agony.
"You
have made me a murderer!" Quest forced out the words in painful gasps.
But
Keane snapped back at him like a rabid dog.
"You
did it - you did it yourself! You tampered with the Projector. You tried to
spoil the test. You changed the range. You tried to kill me, and instead you
killed these others. And you're going to pay - both of you. You hear me? - you're
going to pay!"
His
voice mounted the scale to a scream. It was a wail of unreasoning terror, of
the dread of exposure, of the fear that he would fail to collect the fortune
now so nearly in his grasp. The accident that had jarred his well-laid plans
had unnerved him.
Frantically
Quest strove to answer him, to explain his utter subjection, as Agent, to say
that if he had possessed the will to oppose or trick him he would have turned
him over to the police, or might even have killed him, at the very outset. But
in his frenzy, Keane had so tightened his control that Quest was speechless.
Now he tried to substitute gesture for words, but Philip was rooted to the spot
like a statue; even his hands were immovable.
He
might have remained in this state indefinitely had not Keane's fears withdrawn
his mind from his immediate surroundings. Momentarily he forgot Quest, Philip -
everything but himself and his predicament. And in the instant that his
vigilance relaxed, Quest's enslaved will experienced a sudden lease of strength
and hope. Independently of his Control, he found that he could move Philip's
hand, could take a faltering step.
But
now, what to do? How might he fan this feeble spark of volition to sufficient
strength for decisive resistance? The idea came to him: if only he could place
distance between himself and Keane, perhaps with one titanic effort he might
launch himself against the Master Will, take him by surprise, crush him down,
and reverse him to the status of Agent instead of Control.
With
infinite effort Quest forced Philip's body step by step across the room. He
must reach that window, get a signal of distress to someone in the street.
But
Keane began to sense a mutiny. He followed. He crossed the floor with slinking,
tigerish steps and snaking body. His wet lips writhed back over his teeth, and
his contorted features wove the leer of the abyss. Now as his Control drew
physically near, Quest felt his mite of strength ebbing fast. Slowly Keane
reached up with his clawed fingers and grasped his Agent by the arm.
"Remember!"
he hissed, "if these deaths are traced to us, you break down - you confess
- you take the blame - you paint me lily white - you describe the cowardly
means by which you moulded me to your will - you plead only for a quick trial
and the full penalty of the law. You understand?"
Quest
made no reply, but he understood all too well the hideous intention of his
betrayer. What a fool he had been to imagine that Keane Clason would ever
restore him to his body! Philip to the chair, Quest a homeless spirit wandering
in space, and for the body at the bottom of the tank, the brief regrets of the
Department!
A
sudden rushing sound filled the air with a sense of action and alarm.
Two
– three - four speeding automobiles swung in recklessly to the curb and
shrieked to a standstill under smoking brakes. Men leaped out and deployed on
the run to surround the factory. Keane darted to the door and twisted the key.
"Come
on!" he spat at Philip as he snatched back the rug and threw open the trap
door.
The
command galvanized Quest to action. In two bounds he had Philip on the stairs.
A heavy impact rattled the office door just as he dropped the trap into place
over his head. Then, infected with Keane's panic, he was running down the
passageway like mad.
Inside
the tank chamber the brilliantly colored rings of liquid flashed back the rays
of the arclight. Half crazed with anxiety, Keane danced on the black ledge like
a monkey on a griddle. His face was ashen, drool ran from his twisted mouth,
his eyes were two black pools of terror.
Again
Quest experienced the peculiar sensation which came with the slackening of
control. New hope sprang up in his agonized being as heavy blows boomed against
the air-locked door. Great waves of fear poured along the conduits, betraying
to the Agent the state of mind of his Control. Now what would Keane do? What
could he do? Why, of all places, had he fled down into this blind burrow?
Thud,
thud! Then came a series of sharp reports. Outside, they were trying to shoot
away the deep-sunk disk hinges.
Still
the door stood fast, but the fury of the assault on it whipped the faltering
Keane to action. In a bound he was on the platform. With a lightning hand he
threw the switch to plus, starting electrolytic action in the tank. Then he
pressed a button concealed under the edge of the switch-mount and a panel slid
silently aside in the wall, revealing a narrow outlet.
To
Quest everything went a flaming red. He might have known that this fox would
have something in reserve - a way of escape when danger threatened!
But
his Control gave him no time for independent thought. He forced Quest to turn
Philip's eyes up to his own. Without disconnecting that grip of his glittering
eyes, Keane leaped back to the ledge. Quest felt the silent order:
"Get
up on that plank! Dive into the tank! Get back into your own body, let Philip
have his! Then come up - the two of you - and face the music. For I'll be gone,
and your story will sound like the ravings of a maniac."
Quest
took an obedient step toward the platform. But at the same instant a tremendous
crash shivered the door. It seemed to unnerve Keane Clason. With a gasp he sank
down upon the steps, his body doubled in pain, his hand clutching at his heart.
Another crash followed, and he shuddered and cried out.
Instantly
Quest felt an expansion of the will. Keane's sudden physical weakness had
loosened his control. Philip's lips worked painfully as Quest forced him to
pause, to disobey the command of the Master Will. In a spasm of will he fought
to wrench himself free from the countless clinging tentacles of his Control. In
great surges, Quest's reviving volition pounded against the walls of his
borrowed body. Now he sought to force this sluggish body back to the wall, so
that he might release the airlock and spring the door. But Philip seemed to
ossify, every cord and muscle of his body frozen to stone by the conflict that
raged within him.
Braced
against the wall, Keane was rising slowly to his feet. His seizure was easing,
and so he was able to exert a better pressure upon his rebellious Agent.
"Come!"
he gasped, realizing that he lacked the strength to escape alone and must
therefore change his plan. "Lift me - quick! Carry me out! Slide the panel
back into place. We will escape together!"
The
spoken command turned the balance against Quest. His will yielded to the
master. At the same instant Philip's body relaxed like an object relieved of a
great excess of electrical potential. Suddenly strong and supple, he lifted the
trembling Keane and tossed him across his shoulder.
For
a moment there had been a lull in the assault on the door. Now the battering
resumed with a fury that jarred the whole chamber and sent ripples dancing
across the varicolored liquids in the osmotic tank.
"Quick!"
gasped Keane. "Move! I say. Carry me out."
But
he was in a fainting condition. Crash after crash rocked the chamber, and with
every blow Quest's will felt a stimulation that enabled him to stand off the
commands of his Control. Then a wave of nausea swept over him and left him
reeling. It seemed that Philip's blood had turned to boiling oil. A dazzling
mist swallowed him up, and with a weird sense of inflation he felt full
strength returning to his will.
A
booming blow that bulged the door inward acted upon him like a stage player's
cue. He leaped to the platform. The gurgling sound of remonstrance rattled from
Keane's throat. But Quest paid no heed. Philip was walking the plank - away
from the open panel - out over the tank.
Rapidly
he dropped down the ladder to the bottom rung, snatched Keane's wrist in a
gorillalike grip, and hurled him down into the vat.
Then Philip
was clinging desperately to the ladder, his strength gone, his body shivering
as if with ague.
"Go
on up!" came a strange, impatient voice from below him. "For heaven's
sake let me out of here!"
A
downward glance, and with a shout of alarm Philip was scrambling up the ladder,
for there was a head down there, and a pair of naked shoulders, and the face of
a man he had never seen before. Hand over hand Quest followed. Philip had
collapsed and lay prone on the plank. Quest lifted him to his feet and shook
him anxiously.
"Philip!"
he urged. "Philip! Can you walk?"
The
tattoo on the battered door helped to revive the older man.
"Quick!"
whispered Quest, kneading Philip's arms. "There's barely an hour left. Get
to your office. Burn the papers. Refuse the money. Do you hear me?"
Philip
nodded dazedly.
"Hurry!"
puffed Quest, thrusting him through the opening that Keane had reserved for his
own escape, and sliding the panel back into place.
Quest
was himself now - young, strong, free. Instantly he threw the electrolytic
switch to minus. For Keane had failed to emerge from the tank, and since he was
submerged alone, he could not escape until electrolysis was halted.
Just
as Quest leaped from the platform to release the airlock, the door burst in and
three men with drawn guns rushed into the chamber.
The
leader stopped with a startled oath and stood blinking his unbelieving eyes.
Quest was poised like a statue, his naked body gleaming an unearthly white
against the lusterless black of the wall.
"Quest,"
came from the three in chorus. Then a rush of questions: "What's the
matter? What's happened to you? Where are the Clasons?"
Quest
turned toward the platform, expecting to see Keane.
"Something's
wrong!" he shouted. "Quick! Somebody get Philip. He's gone to his
Loop office. Keane Clason's at the bottom of this tank. I'm not sure how this
thing works, but Philip can get him out! I'm sure of it!"
Despite
the confident predictions of both Quest and Philip Clason, osmotic association
failed to restore Keane to life, and at last the coroner ordered the removal of
the body. The autopsy revealed heart disease as the cause of his death.
For
reasons best understood at Washington, the cause of the five launch deaths was
withheld from the public. Quest's punishment for his part in the crime
consisted of a promotion and a warm personal letter from the President of the
United States.
