by Earl
THOSE men who work at the super-sonic testing apparatus—they are infinitely sensitive to rhythm and vibration. The post-pituitary extract gives them that over-developed sense, which in us ordinary mortals is displayed when we keep time to music with a tapping foot, or beat a drum in a certain cadence.
“Then, the workers at the electrical apparatus are hyper-sensitive to even the magnetic field of a small helix. They substitute for galvanometric meters quite well, and have the added faculty of being able to reason, which a meter does not. They eliminate hours of rechecking and testing because they feel differences in potential and make immediate corrections.
“But the core of the work that is going on in this humanized workshop is shaped in my scientific laboratory. In the third sub-level are my prize gland-men. Some are fed with the thymus hormone, to give them the eidetist perceptions, or the ability to photograph on their minds what they see and hear, and refer to those things hours later without the slightest loss of memory. They are storehouses of valuable knowledge—human reference books.
“Others are fed with the pineal hormone to give them psychic and super-normal perceptions. Such men can see ultra-violet light, and even radio waves! They can telepathize their thoughts, and read those of the eidetist-sensitive; and they can perceive the answer to a mathematical problem before it is finished! To explain fully would involve technicalities not understandable to the layman.
“But my greatest results have been with the thyroid-hormone. This substance increases the rare quality of imagination! Most of these criminal minds are too coarse for the use, but some few have responded admirably to thyroid feeding. They are my right-hand men in my scientific work. With their help I have been enabled to invent the dozen and one important things which come from this place—including the great Super-Sonic Gun.
“One gland-man in particular is my pet. He responded splendidly to three hormone feedings—the pineal, thymus, and thyroid. As a result he is a peculiar super-genius in certain lines, with a photographic mind, three extra ‘senses’ like the ‘sixth sense’, and a virile, leaping imagination that amazes even me. Furthermore, I have had his parathyroid glands removed surgically, which makes him hypersensitive to all stimuli, as the parathyroid-hormone is the only ‘checking’ hormone in the human body. And whenever he fags and becomes enervated, I feed him insulin, which tones up his blood instantaneously, as it does for diabetes. It was he that conceived of a pseudo-magnetic field of force to bend light rays around and past obstructing molecules in solid matter. That resulted in the Invisibility Cloak.”
The baron twisted uneasily around at the mention of the Invisibility Cloak. He still had that indefinable feeling of being spied upon by invisible eyes. The Americans had no Invisibility Cloaks—or weren’t supposed to have any—but suppose they did—
“Ach! Are you listening to me, Baron Laiglon, or searching for ghosts?” growled the director, peeved that his words had so little effect on the military man.
THE baron turned slightly as though to answer. Instead, he suddenly leaped sideward. His hands clutched for empty air in the corner just behind the director. To the latter’s amazement, the baron did not crash his head against the wall, as he feared, but struck something and rolled to the floor. His body miraculously raised; at the same time his chin bobbed back with a jerk and a welt appeared below his lip.
The baron’s own powerful fists raised and beat downward, to fall upon something just off the floor with the sound of bone on flesh. Too stupefied to cry out, the director edged back a step and watched the strange scene. Suddenly there was a sharp snap, and immediately a cloaked figure appeared under the baron. The officer leaped back, leveling a pistol with menacing Intent.
“Ach! An Invisibility Cloak he had—”
“So, a spy!” panted the baron. “Keep your hands up, American dog, if you do not wish to die on the spot!”
James Wistert, facing the menacing pistol, cursed bitterly to himself. To have got so far and then to be trapped like a child!
“You see, M. Bergmann,” said the baron, keeping his sharp eye on the American, “that I was right about feeling eyes on me. I happened to glimpse, as I peered around, a faint human outline in that comer near us.”
“One of the slight defects of the Invisibility Cloak,” said the director as though apologizing. “It can be corrected—”
The baron interrupted. “Let us get our prisoner to a suitable place—a room from which he cannot escape. This will bear investigation.”
“A spy!” screamed the director, suddenly cognizant that his sanctum had been invaded by the enemy. “Shoot him! Kill him—”
“A death he deserves and which awaits him. But for the present we must try to find his accomplice, if any. Call your guards.”
The director hastened to comply, shouting loudly. As though from nowhere, uniformed men appeared, all heavily armed.
“You will give me. your gun, monsieur?” said the baron politely.
For a mad moment Wistert thought of shooting it out. Then he shook that thought from his mind. The difference between a spy and a soldier was just ability to see when the odds were too great. He parted the overlapped slit in the cloak at his hip and pulled out his automatic, handing it over silently.
At the point of the baron’s gun, Wistert doffed his now-useless cloak. The baron had been clever in ripping loose a wire, instead of merely snapping the switch. It had rendered the cloak useless, and had automatically cut off Wistert’s chance of escape. After some discussion the guards were given orders and Wistert was conducted below to the lowermost level, and locked in a musty, cement-lined room bare of even a chair.
CHAPTER III
Y-44
AN hour later the American spy ill was thoroughly disgusted. The silence and darkness were getting on his nerves. Suddenly he heard footsteps. The heavy wooden door creaked open. At the same time a glaring beam of light crawled questingly along the wall.
The flashlight beam centered on him, blinding him for a moment.
“Ach, there he is, the verdammte Atnerikaner!”
“Monsieur?” came Baron Laiglon’s deep voice right after, although Wistert couldn’t see him. “Your name, monsieur?’
“Suppose you guess,” responded Wistert laconically.
The baron smiled, and then his voice became suddenly malicious. “He is intelligent, else he would not be a spy,” he said to the director. “He would make an excellent subject for you, monsieur. Perhaps he would be an exceptional gland-man!” His tones hardened. “This place and its secret must never get to American headquarters. I wish to inform you, Monsieur Spy, that, in accordance with a time-honored custom, you will be shot at sunrise!”
There was a scraping of shoes and the flashlight beam swung away. “Sunrise will be here in one hour, verdammte Amerikaner!”
And with these words of harsh farewell ringing in his ears, Wistert was left alone.
One hour to live! If only he could die knowing the information he had would be passed on. Priceless information! Possessing it, America could gather her mighty air fleets and hordes of ground tanks, and penetrate to this spot—blast it from the earth.
Wistert tried his last hope, a forlorn one indeed. Putting one finger in his mouth, he rubbed vigorously the aide of the tooth in front of his first lower molar. It was an artificial hollow tooth, of white amber, containing a minute apparatus which responded to the static electricity produced by friction on its outside, radiating a faint etheric emanation. It was like a broadcasting radio; any fellow American spy within range—one hundred feet—would, feel an ache in his jaw.
A forlorn hope, for Wistert had tried it several times already during this night. He wondered, as he rubbed diligently, what had happened to Y-44, who had been assigned to this place a month before.
Wistert almost bit his finger as his lower jaw suddenly began to ache. Lord, could it be possible, or was this some hallucination? In another moment he knew better, and with beating heart he crept stealthily to th
e door. There was a small barred opening in it, and to this he put his ear.
He heard the faintest of footsteps, and then a whispering voice hissed into his ear: “This is Y-44. Stand back; I’ll open the door.”
Wistert’s heart was in his mouth as the key grated noisily. Then the ponderous door opened. He heard the panting of the newcomer, then his voice, a low whisper:
“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Knew you were here an hour ago—when you were captured. First chance I had—”
“I’m S-23,” said Wistert eagerly. “I thought, though, that you’d been caught long ago. H.Q. thought so too.”
“It’s a long story,” returned Y-44. “I tried undercover stuff, you see—got in here as a menial, or general servitor. Forged papers, cock-and-bull life history, and all that. But believe it or not, it took me till three days ago to find out anything important. I worked upstairs; never got past the steel door to get down here.”
“Well, now that we both know what we do, we’d better busy ourselves getting it out where it will do some good. Damn Bergmann and his gland-men I Can’t tell what they’ll cook up next, to America’s almighty surprise. That Super-Sonic Gun alone—”
“But there’s something worse on the way!” interrupted Y-44. “Heard of Bergmann’s prize gland-man?”
“The one with thyroid, pineal, and I don’t know what-all, who dug up the idea of Invisibility?”
“Yeah. Well, he’s working right now on controlled Atomic Power. If you know any physics. He’s getting places too; he has a vortex core—as they call it—of live energy in a lead-screened-box. They’re adapting it to long-range transmission. If it works it will disintegrate airships at a hundred miles!”
“YE gods! We’ve got to get away. We’ve just got to! Any suggestions?”
“I’ve got your Invisibility Cloak—took it along when I stole the key to this room from Bergmann’s office. Clipped back the ripped wire and it’s as good as gold.”
“Why, you’re the goods!” exclaimed Wistert joyfully.
“Ought to be,” sniffed the other. “I’m not Y-44 for nothing. Put it on and follow me. I won’t need a Cloak because I’ve been recently transferred to the lowest level, and the guards know me.”
The two spies—only one visible to unwary eyes—crept noiselessly down the hallway outside the room that had been Wistert’s prison, in a darkness broken only by a few faint beams of light from a barred opening in a door at the corridor’s end.
“This used to be a section of storerooms,” informed Y-44 in a whisper. “Unused now, though. See that door? Right outside of it stands a guard. I got past him wearing the Invisibility Cloak, while he was pacing up and down. I think—”
“Yes, I know,” returned Wistert grimly. “You walk out—talk to him for a second; I’ll do the rest.”
Y-44 listened at the barred opening till the guard’s footsteps came close; then he pulled open the door, stepping out.
“Halt! Who’s there?” challenged the guard, whipping out his pistol.
“It’s I, Dobran,” said Y-44 in perfect French. “Put up your gun, fool.
Would you shoot one who wears the service-blue?”
The guard stared suspiciously. “What are you doing in there—how did you get in there, anyway? Mon dieu!” His eyes sparkled dangerously. “Is it possible that you were attempting to aid the pris—uh!”
The guard instinctively reached for his throat, dropping his gun, as something clamped, viciously about his windpipe.
“Of course I was,” grinned Y-44, as invisible fingers choked the breath from the guard’s throat. Wistert lowered the body only when assured the man would never again call a challenge.
“In there,” pointed Y-44, and Wistert dragged the corpse into the dark hallway they had just come from. “You did a quick job of it, S-23.”
“I would willingly do a dozen more of such quick jobs, if it assured us of escape,” said Wistert grimly. “Now, what’s the layout?”
“We’re in the third sub-level,” informed Y-44, “the lowermost, in which are contained all the scientific laboratories. Since our chances of going up through the whole place are practically nil, I suggest we try for the freight depot of this underground factory. It, too, is a sub-surface department, for purposes of secrecy; the freight-planes are taxied underground and unloaded there. There is a corridor connection to the depot from this level—at the other end. But guards are not so numerous down here; we have a good chance.”
“Lead the way. If it comes to a showdown, this”—Wistert displayed the gun the guard had dropped to the floor—“will help considerably.” He slipped the weapon beneath his garment so that it too was invisible.
Y-44 led the way along the dimly lighted passageways, peering ahead anxiously. Wistert, following ghostlike, noticed for the first time that his companion’s dark-blue outfit covered a rather small and slight form. Beneath the tam, also of service-blue, was a delicately molded face—almost an effeminate one. It was hardly the picture Wistert had formed of Y-44, one of America’s most trusted agents. Yet brains were more important in a spy than brawn, and that Y-44 was soon to prove.
“ON your toes,” whispered Y-44, without slackening pace. “We must skirt the laboratory section.”
Wistert gripped his pistol tighter. They passed doorways from which came the whining of dynamos, crackling of arcs, and other signs of scientific activity.
“This way!” said Y-44, leading the way straight into a laboratory. They threaded their way between towering apparatus attended by bewilderingly staring gland-men in denim.
“No guards in this section,” explained Y-44, increasing the pace to half run. “These gland-men—under orders—higher—type—do not require guards—”
Wistert was amazed at the ramifications of the huge laboratory, and at the astounding things spread about in what seemed disorderly array. Denim-clad gland-men—human machines—seemed everywhere, but they offered no resistance; most were so intent on their work that they did not look up.
Passing through an arched doorway that led into a long low chamber filled with great quartz tubes, Y-44 pulled Wistert behind a bulwark of bakelite studded with switches and buttons, then pointed eloquently at the back of the unsuspecting guard. Without compunction Wistert took careful aim and pulled the trigger. Y-44 leaped forward as soon as the man fell, jerking his pistol, from its holster.
As they started forward, a bell clanged loudly. Y-44 yarned a grave face to Wistert. “The alarm! I’ve been expecting it, yet hoping against it. Every guards in the whole place will be on the lookout for us now!”
“How far yet to the depot?”
“Not far—if we can make it!” Y-44 dashed forward recklessly. They plunged into a corridor, raced around a corner. Two guards whirled, guns spitting. Y-44 threw himself flat. Before the enemy could aim again for the one figure visible to them, lying prone, Wistert’s gun had spoken twice. His deadly aim stretched the men low with bullets in their brains.
As the two Americans ran past, both paused to reload their pistols from the guards’ ammunition belts.
“Better take along some extras,” admonished Y-44. In another moment they had supplied themselves, Y-44 filling a pocket, Wistert stuffing the shells in his belt pouch.
No more guards appeared for a time, and the two spies raced down a narrow corridor. Back of them the clanging of the alarm system died away.
“We’re in Bergmann’s personal laboratory section,” panted Y-44. “Don’t think they’ll look for us here for a while. Now—”
Wistert brought up his gun as a figure appeared suddenly from a side corridor.
“No—” Y-44 struck his gun aside. “That’s him—Bergmann’s prize gland-man, the inventor of the Invisibility Cloak!”
“What’s he doing here?” demanded Wistert. “Looking for us too?”
“No. He often wanders around the corridors—when in deep thought with his gland-impregnated mind. He’s privileged.”
He stepped fo
rward eagerly. “I want to talk to him.”
“Good heavens, now?” spluttered Wistert. “When every second—”
Y-44 turned on him almost fiercely. “I’ve planned this for days! I wanted to come here, to meet him! Your coming to this place and getting me in a mess almost spoiled it, but I’m going through with it. If you’re eager to get out, go up the steps at the end of this hallway, and turn to the right. It leads to the freight depot.”
But Wistert did not take the hint; instead he followed Y-44, who approached the gland-man standing apathetically in the middle of the corridor.
“MORVAINE!” said Y-44, standing directly in front of the gland-man. “Do you hear the loud clanging of the alarm bells?”
The gland-man looked at the spy coldly, as though brought down from some Olympian height of thought. “Alarm bell? That noise! Yes, I hear it.”
“It is ringing for us,” continued Y-44, speaking slowly and distinctly. “They want to capture us—Bergmann and his men.”
A frown came over the gland-man’s brooding face. “Bergmann is—”
“Yes, he wants to kill us! Do you know why? Because we are his enemies. We tried to kill Bergmann and now he wants to kill us.”
Something akin to interest came into the gland-man’s face. A vague emotion was working through his somnolent nervous system—drugged by Bergmann to kill all personal initiative. Wistert, impatient at the strange delay’, began to wonder what Y-44 had in mind.
“We tried to kill Bergmann,” went on Y-44, “because he wishes to subjugate all the world, and make them a!! gland-men—make them slaves, as you are!”
The gland-man pondered this. Presently he spoke: “Slave? But I am a great scientist. I am a super-mind!”
