Astounding Stories of Super-Science January 1931 Page 6

  _The great ship tore apart._]

  The Eye of Allah

  _By C. D. Willard_

  On the fatal seventh of September a certain Secret Service man sat in the President's chair and--looked back into the Eye of Allah.

  Blinky Collins' part in this matter was very brief. Blinky lasted justlong enough to make a great discovery, to brag about it as wasBlinky's way, and then pass on to find his reward in whateverhereafter is set apart for weak-minded crooks whose heads are not hardenough to withstand the crushing impact of a lead-filled pacifier.

  The photograph studio of Blinky Collins was on the third floor of adisreputable building in an equally unsavory part of Chicago. Therewere no tinted pictures of beautiful blondes nor of stern,square-jawed men of affairs in Blinky's reception room. His clients,who came furtively there, were strongly opposed to having theirpictures taken--they came for other purposes. For the photographicwork of Mr. Collins was strictly commercial--and peculiar. There werefingerprints to be photographed and identified for purpose of privaterevenge, photographs of people to be merged and repictured incompromising closeness for reasons of blackmail. And even X-Rayphotography was included in the scope of his work.

  * * * * *

  The great discovery came when a box was brought to the dingy room andMr. Collins was asked to show what was inside it without the botherand inconvenience of disturbing lock and seals. The X-Ray machinesizzled above it, and a photographic plate below was developed to showa string of round discs that could easily have been pearls.

  The temporary possessor of the box was pleased with the result--butBlinky was puzzled. For the developer had brought out an odd result.There were the pearls as expected, but, too, there was a small picturesuperimposed--a picture of a bald head and a body beneath seatedbeside a desk. The picture had been taken from above looking straightdown, and head and desk were familiar.

  Blinky knew them both. The odd part was that he knew also that both ofthem were at that instant on the ground floor of the same disreputablebuilding, directly under and two floors below his workshop.

  Like many great discoveries, this of Blinky's came as the result of anaccident. He had monkeyed with the X-Ray generator and had madecertain substitutions. And here was the result--a bald head and adesk, photographed plainly through two heavy wood floors. Blinkyscratched his own head in deep thought. And then he repeated theoperation.

  This time there was a blonde head close to the bald one, and twopeople were close to the desk and to each other. Blinky knew then thatthere were financial possibilities in this new line of portrait work.

  It was some time before the rat eyes of the inventor were able to seeexactly what they wanted through this strange device, but Blinkylearned. And he fitted a telescope back of the ray and found that hecould look along it and see as if through a great funnel what wastranspiring blocks and blocks away; he looked where he would, andbrick walls or stone were like glass when the new ray struck throughthem.

  Blinky never knew what he had--never dreamed of the tremendouspotentialities in his oscillating ethereal ray that had a range andpenetration beyond anything known. But he knew, in a vague way, thatthis ray was a channel for light waves to follow, and he learned thathe could vary the range of the ray and that whatever light was shownat the end of that range came to him as clear and distinct as if hewere there in the room.

  He sat for hours, staring through the telescope. He would train thedevice upon a building across the street, then cut down the currentuntil the unseen vibration penetrated inside the building. If therewas nothing there of interest he would gradually increase the power,and the ray would extend out and still out into other rooms and beyondthem to still others. Blinky had a lot of fun, but he never forgot thepractical application of the device--practical, that is, from thedistorted viewpoint of a warped mind.

  * * * * *

  "I've heard about your machine," said a pasty-faced man one day, as hesat in Blinky's room, "and I think it's a lot of hooey. But I'd givejust one grand to know who is with the district attorney this minute."

  "Where is he?" asked Blinky.

  "Two blocks down the street, in the station house ... and if PokeyBarnard is with him, the lousy stool-pigeon--"

  Blinky paid no attention to the other's opinion of one Pokey Barnard;he was busy with a sputtering blue light and a telescope behind ashield of heavy lead.

  "Put your money on the table," he said, finally: "there's the dicks ...and there's Pokey. Take a look--"

  It was some few minutes later that Blinky learned of another valuablefeature in his ray. He was watching the district attorney when thepasty-faced man brushed against a hanging incandescent light. Therewas a bit of bare wire exposed, and as it swung into the ray the fusesin the Collins studio blew out instantly.

  But the squinting eyes at the telescope had seen something first. Theyhad seen the spare form of the district attorney throw itself from thechair as if it had been dealt a blow--or had received an electricshock.

  Blinky put in new fuses--heavier ones--and tried it again on anothersubject. And again the man at the receiving end got a shot of currentthat sent him sprawling.

  "Now what the devil--" demanded Blinky. He stood off and looked at themachine, the wire with its 110 volts, the invisible ray that wasstreaming out.

  "It's insulated, the machine is," he told his caller, "so the juicewon't shoot back if I keep my hands off; but why," he demandedprofanely, "don't it short on the first thing it touches?"

  * * * * *

  He was picturing vaguely a ray like a big insulated cable, with lightand current both traveling along a core at its center, cut off,insulated by the ray, so that only the bare end where the ray stoppedcould make contact.

  "Some more of them damn electrons," he hazarded; then demanded of hiscaller: "But am I one hell of a smart guy? Or am I?"

  There was no denying this fact. The pasty-faced man told Blinky withlurid emphasis just how smart. He had seen with his own eyes and thiswas too good to keep.

  He paid his one grand and departed, first to make certain necessaryarrangements for the untimely end of one Pokey Barnard, squealer,louse, et cetera, et cetera, and then to spread the glad news throughthe underworld of Collins' invention.

  That was Blinky's big mistake, as was shown a few days later. Not manyhad taken seriously the account of the photographer's experiments, butthere was one who had, as was evident. A bearded man, whose eyesstared somewhat wildly from beneath a shock of frowzy hair, enteredthe Collins work-room and locked the door behind him. His English wasimperfect, but the heavy automatic in his hand could not bemisunderstood. He forced the trembling inventor to give ademonstration, and the visitor's face showed every evidence ofdelight.

  "The cur-rent," he demanded with careful words, "the electreekcur-rent, you shall do also. Yes?"

  Again the automatic brought quick assent, and again the visitor showedhis complete satisfaction. Showed it by slugging the inventor quietlyand efficiently and packing the apparatus in the big suitcase he hadbrought.

  Blinky Collins had been fond of that machine. He had found a form oftelevision with uncounted possibilities, and it had been for him theperfect instrument of a blackmailing Peeping Tom; he had learned thesecret of directed wireless transmission of power and had seen it as ameans for annoying his enemies. Yet Blinky Collins--the late BlinkyCollins--offered no least objection, when the bearded man walked offwith the machine. His body, sprawled awkwardly in the corner, wasquite dead....

  * * * * *

  And now, some two months later, in his Washington office, the Chief ofthe United States Secret Service pushed a paper across his desk to awaiting man and leaned back in his chair.

  "What would you make of that, Del?" he asked.

  Robert Delamater reached leisurely for the paper. He regarded it withsleepy, half-closed eyes.

  There was a cru
de drawing of an eye at the top. Below was printed--notwritten--a message in careful, precise letters: "Take warning. The Eyeof Allah is upon you. You shall instructions receive from time totime. Follow them. Obey."

  Delamater laughed. "Why ask me what I think of a nut letter like that.You've had plenty of them just as crazy."

  "This didn't come to me," said the Chief; "it was addressed to thePresident of the United States."

  "Well, there will be others, and we will run the poor sap down.Nothing out of the ordinary I should say."

  "That is what I thought--at first. Read this--" The big, heavy-set manpushed another and similar paper across the desk. "This one wasaddressed to the Secretary of State."

  Delamater did not read it at once. He held both papers to the light;his fingers touched the edges only.

  "No watermark," he mused; "ordinary white writing stock--sold in allthe five and ten cent stores. Tried these for fingerprints Isuppose?".

  "Read it," suggested the Chief.

  "Another picture of an eye," said Delamater aloud, and read: "'Warning.You are dealing with an emissary from a foreign power who is anunfriend of my country. See him no more. This is the first and lastwarning. The Eye of Allah watches.'

  "And what is this below--? 'He did not care for your cigars, Mr.Secretary. Next time--but there must be no next time.'"

  * * * * *

  Delamater read slowly--lazily. He seemed only slightly interestedexcept when he came to the odd conclusion of the note. But the Chiefknew Delamater and knew how that slow indolence could give place to afeverish, alert concentration when work was to be done.

  "Crazy as a loon," was the man's conclusion as he dropped the papersupon the desk.

  "Crazy," his chief corrected, "like a fox! Read the last line again;then get this--

  "The Secretary of State _is_ meeting with a foreign agent who is herevery much incog. Came in as a servant of a real ambassador. Slippedquietly into Washington, and not a soul knew he was here. He met theSecretary in a closed room; no one saw him come or leave--";

  "Well, the Secretary tells me that in that room where nobody could seehe offered this man a cigar. His visitor took it, tried to smoke it,apologized--and lit one of his own vile cigarettes."

  "Hm-m!" Delamater sat a little straighter in his chair; his eyebrowswere raised now in questioning astonishment. "Dictaphone? Someemployee of the Department listening in?"

  "Impossible."

  "Now that begins to be interesting," the other conceded. His eyes hadlost their sleepy look. "Want me to take it on?"

  "Later. Right now. I want you to take this visiting gentleman underyour personal charge. Here is the name and the room and hotel where heis staying. He is to meet with the Secretary to-night--he knows where.You will get to him unobserved--absolutely unseen; I can leave that toyou. Take him yourself to his appointment, and take him without abrass band. But have what men you want tail you and watch out forspies.... Then, when he is through, bring him back and deliver himsafely to his room. Compray?"

  "Right--give me Wilkins and Smeed. I rather think I can get this birdthere and back without being seen, but perhaps they may catch Allahkeeping tabs on us at that." He laughed amusedly as he took the paperwith the name and address.

  * * * * *

  A waiter with pencil and order-pad might have been seen some hourslater going as if from the kitchen to the ninth floor of a Washingtonhotel. And the same waiter, a few minutes later, was escorting a guestfrom a rear service-door to an inconspicuous car parked nearby. Thewaiter slipped behind the wheel.

  A taxi, whose driver was half asleep, was parked a hundred feet behindthem at the curb. As they drove away and no other sign of life wasseen in the quiet street the driver of the taxi yawned ostentatiouslyand decided to seek a new stand. He neglected possible fares until aman he called Smeed hailed him a block farther on. They followedslowly after the first car ... and they trailed it again on its returnafter some hours.

  "Safe as a church," they reported to the driver of the first car."We'll swear that nobody was checking up on that trip."

  And: "O. K." Delamater reported to his chief the next morning. "Putone over on this self-appointed Allah that time."

  But the Chief did not reply: he was looking at a slip of paper likethose he had shown his operative the day before. He tossed it toDelamater and took up the phone.

  "To the Secretary of State," Delamater read. "You had your warning.Next time you disobey it shall be you who dies."

  The signature was only the image of an eye.

  * * * * *

  The Chief was calling a number; Delamater recognized it as that of thehotel he had visited. "Manager, please, at once," the big man wassaying.

  He identified himself to the distant man. Then: "Please check up onthe man in nine four seven. If he doesn't answer, enter the room andreport at once--I will hold the phone...."

  The man at the desk tapped steadily with a pencil; Robert Delamatersat quietly, tensely waiting. But some sixth sense told him what theanswer would be. He was not surprised when the Chief repeated what thephone had whispered.

  "Dead?... Yes!... Leave everything absolutely undisturbed. We will beright over."

  "Get Doctor Brooks, Del," he said quietly; "the Eye of Allah waswatching after all."

  Robert Delamater was silent as they drove to the hotel. Where had heslipped? He trusted Smeed and Wilkins entirely; if they said his carhad not been followed it had not. And the visitor had been disguised;he had seen to that. Then, where had this person stood--this being whocalled himself the Eye of Allah?

  "Chief," he said finally. "I didn't slip--nor Wilkins or Smeed."

  "Someone did," replied the big man, "and it wasn't the Eye of Allah,either."

  The manager of the hotel was waiting to take them to the room. Heunlocked the door with his pass key.

  "Not a thing touched," he assured the Secret Service men; "there heis, just the way we found him."

  In the doorway between the bedroom and bath a body was huddled. DoctorBrooks knelt quickly beside it. His hands worked swiftly for a moment,then he rose to his feet.

  "Dead," he announced.

  "How long?" asked the Chief.

  "Some time. Hours I should say--perhaps eight or ten."

  "Cause?" the query was brief.

  "It will take an autopsy to determine that. There is no blood or woundto be seen."

  * * * * *

  The doctor was again examining the partly rigid body. He opened onehand; it held a cake of soap. There was a grease mark on the hand.

  Delamater supplied the explanation. "He touched some grease on the oldcar I was using," he said. "Must have gone directly to wash it off.See--there is water spilled on the floor."

  Water had indeed been splashed on the tile floor of the bath room; apool of it still remained about the heavy, foreign-looking shoes ofthe dead man.

  Something in it caught Delamater's eye. He leaned down to pick upthree pellets of metal, like small shot, round and shining.

  "I'll keep these," he said, "though the man was never killed with shotas small as that."

  "We shall have to wait for the autopsy report," said the Chiefcrisply; "that may give the cause of death. Was there anyone in theroom--did you enter it with him last night, Del?"

  "No," said the operative; "he was very much agitated when we gothere--dismissed me rather curtly at the door. He was quite upset aboutsomething--spoke English none too well and said something about awarning and damned our Secret Service as inefficient."

  "A warning!" said the Chief. The dead man's brief case was on the bed.He crossed to it and undid the straps; the topmost paper told thereason for the man's disquiet. It showed the familiar, staring eye.And beneath the eye was a warning: this man was to die if he did notleave Washington at once.

  The Chief turned to the hotel manager. "Was the door locked?"

  "Yes."


  "But it is a spring lock. Someone could have gone out and closed itafter him."

  "Not this time. The dead-bolt was thrown. It takes a key to do thatfrom the outside or this thumb-turn on the inside." The hotel mandemonstrated the action of the heavy bolt.

  "Then, with a duplicate key, a man could have left this room andlocked the door behind him."

  "Absolutely not. The floor-clerk was on duty all night. I havequestioned her: this room was under her eyes all the time. She sawthis man return, saw your man, here"--and he pointed toDelamater--"leave him at the door. There was no person left the roomafter that."

  "See about the autopsy, Doctor," the Chief ordered.

  And to the manager: "Not a thing here must be touched. Admit only Mr.Delamater and no one else unless he vouches for them.

  "Del," he told the operative, "I'm giving you a chance to make up forlast night. Go to it."

  And Robert Delamater "went to it" with all the thoroughness at hiscommand, and with a total lack of result.

  * * * * *

  The autopsy helped not at all. The man was dead; it was apparently anatural death. "Not a scratch nor a mark on him," was the report. But:"... next time it will be you," the note with the staring eye hadwarned the Secretary of State. The writer of it was taking full creditfor the mysterious death.

  Robert Delamater had three small bits of metal, like tiny shot, and heracked his brain to connect these with the death. There werefingerprints, too, beautifully developed upon the mysteriousmissives--prints that tallied with none in the records. There wereanalyses of the paper--of the ink--and not a clue in any of them.

  Just three pellets of metal. Robert Delamater had failed utterly, andhe was bitter in the knowledge of his failure.

  "He had you spotted, Del," the Chief insisted. "The writer of thesenotes may be crazy, but he was clever enough to know that this man_did_ see the Secretary. And he was waiting for him when he came back;then he killed him."

  "Without a mark?"

  "He killed him," the Chief repeated; "then he left--and that's that."

  "But," Delamater objected, "the room clerk--"

  "--took a nap," broke in the Chief. But Delamater could not besatisfied with the explanation.

  "He got his, all right," he conceded, "--got it in a locked room ninestories above the street, with no possible means of bringing it uponhimself--and no way for the murderer to escape. I tell you there issomething more to this: just the letter to the Secretary, as if thisEye of Allah were spying upon him--"

  The Chief waved all that aside. "A clever spy," he insisted. "Tooclever for you. And a darn good guesser; he had us all fooled. Butwe're dealing with a madman, not a ghost, and he didn't sail inthrough a ninth story window nor go out through a locked door; neitherdid he spy on the Secretary of State in his private office. Don't tryto make a supernatural mystery out of a failure, Del."

  The big man's words were tempered with a laugh, but there was an edgeof sarcasm, ill-concealed.

  * * * * *

  And then came the next note. And the next. The letters were mailed atvarious points in and about the city; they came in a flood. And theywere addressed to the President of the United States, to the Secretaryof War--of the Navy--to all the Cabinet members. And all carried thesame threat under the staring eye.

  The United States, to this man, represented all that was tyrannicaland oppressive to the downtrodden of the earth. He proposed to endit--this government first, then others in their turn. It was theoutpouring of a wildly irrational mind that came to the office of theharassed Chief of the United States Secret Service, who hadinstructions to run this man down--this man who signed himself The Eyeof Allah. And do it quickly for the notes were threatening. OfficialWashington, it seemed, was getting jumpy and was making causticinquiries as to why a Secret Service department was maintained.

  The Chief, himself, was directing the investigation--and gettingnowhere.

  "Here is the latest," he said one morning. "Mailed at New York."Delamater and a dozen other operatives were in his office: he showedthem a letter printed like all the others. There was the eye, andbeneath were words that made the readers catch their breath.

  "The Eye of Allah sees--it has warned--now it will destroy. The day ofjudgment is at hand. The battleship _Maryland_ is at anchor in theHudson River at New York. No more shall it be the weapon of a despotgovernment. It will be destroyed at twelve o'clock on Septemberfifth."

  "Wild talk," said the Chief, "but today is the fourth. The Commanderof the _Maryland_ has been warned--approach by air or water will beimpossible. I want you men to patrol the shore and nail this man if heshows up. Lord knows what he intends--bluffing probably--but he maytry some fool stunt. If he does--get him!"

  * * * * *

  Eleven-thirty by the watch on Robert Delamater's wrist found himseated in the bow of a speed-boat the following morning. Theypatrolled slowly up and down the shore. There were fellow operatives,he knew, scores of them, posted at all points of vantage along thedocks.

  Eleven forty-five--and the roar of seaplanes came from above where airpatrols were-guarding the skies. Small boats drove back and forth onset courses; no curious sight-seeing craft could approach the_Maryland_ that day. On board the battleship, too, there was activityapparent. A bugle sounded, and the warning of bellowing Klaxons echoedacross the water. Here, in the peace and safety of the big port, thegreat man-of-war was sounding general quarters, and a scurry ofrunning men showed for an instant on her decks. Anti-aircraft gunsswung silently upon imaginary targets--

  The watcher smiled at the absurdity of it all--this preparation torepel the attack of a wild-eyed writer of insane threats. And yet--andyet-- He knew, too, there was apprehension in his frequent glances athis watch.

  One minute to go! Delamater should have watched the shore. And,instead, he could not keep his eyes from the big fighting-shipsilhouetted so clearly less than a mile away, motionless andwaiting--waiting--for what? He saw the great turreted guns, uselessagainst this puny, invisible opponent. Above them the fighting topswere gleaming. And above them--

  Delamater shaded his eyes with a quick, tense hand: the tip of themast was sparkling. There was a blue flash that glinted along thesteel. It was gone to reappear on the fighting top itself--then lower.

  * * * * *

  What was it? the watching man was asking himself. What did it bring tomind? A street-car? A defective trolley? The zipping flash of acontact made and broken? That last!

  Like the touch of a invisible wire, tremendously charged, a wire thattouched and retreated, that made and lost its contact, the flashingarc was working toward the deck. It felt its way to the body of theship; the arc was plain, starting from mid-air to hiss against thearmored side; the arc shortened--went to nothing--vanished.... A puffof smoke from an open port proved its presence inside. Delamater hadthe conviction that a deadly something had gone through the ship'sside--was insulated from it--was searching with its blazing, arcingend for the ammunition rooms....

  The realization of that creeping menace came to Delamater with agripping, numbing horror. The seconds were almost endless as hewaited. Slowly, before his terrified eyes, the deck of the great shipbulged upward ... slowly it rolled and tore apart ... a mammoth turretwith sixteen-inch guns was lifting unhurriedly into the air ... therewere bodies of men rocketing skyward....

  The mind of the man was racing at lightning speed, and the havocbefore him seemed more horrible in its slow, leisurely progress. If hecould only move--do something!

  The shock of the blasted air struck him sprawling into the bottom ofthe boat; the listener was hammered almost to numbness by thedeafening thunder that battered and tore through the still air. At topspeed the helmsman drove for the shelter of a hidden cove. They madeit an instant before the great waves struck high upon the sand spit.Over the bay hung a ballooning cloud of black and gray--lifting for aninstant
to show in stark ghastliness the wreckage, broken and twisted,that marked where the battleship _Maryland_ rested in the mud in theharbor of New York.

  * * * * *

  The eyes of the Secret-Service men were filled with the indelibleimpress of what they had seen. Again and again, before him, came thevision of a ship full of men in horrible, slow disintegration; hismind was numbed and his actions and reactions were largely automatic.But somehow he found himself in the roar of the subway, and later hesat in a chair and knew he was in a Pullman of a Washington train.

  He rode for hours in preoccupied silence, his gaze fixed unseeingly,striving to reach out and out to some distant, unknown something whichhe was trying to visualize. But he looked at intervals at his handthat held three metal pellets.

  He was groping for the mental sequence which would bring the few knownfacts together and indicate their cause. A threat--a seeming spyingwithin a closed and secret room--the murder on the ninth floor, amurder without trace of wound or weapon. Weapon! He stared again atthe tangible evidence he held; then shook his head in perplexedabstraction. No--the man was killed by unknown means.

  And now--the _Maryland_! And a visible finger of death--touching,flashing, feeling its way to the deadly cargo of powder sacks.

  Not till he sat alone with his chief did he put into words histhoughts.

  "A time bomb did it," the Chief was saying. "The officials deny it,but what other answer is there? No one approached that ship--you knowthat, Del--no torpedo nor aerial bomb! Nothing as fanciful as that!"

  Robert Delamater's lips formed a wry smile. "Nothing at fanciful asthat"--and he was thinking, thinking--of what he hardly dared express.

  "We will start with the ship's personnel," the other continued; "findevery man who was not on board when the explosion occurred--"

  "No use," the operative interrupted; "this was no inside job, Chief."He paused to choose his words while the other watched him curiously.

  "Someone _did_ reach that ship--reached it from a distance--reached itin the same way they reached that poor devil I left at room nineforty-seven. Listen--"

  * * * * *

  He told his superior of his vigil on the speed-boat--of the almostinvisible flash against the ship's mast. "He reached it, Chief," heconcluded; "he felt or saw his way down and through the side of thatship. And he fired their ammunition from God knows where."

  "I wonder," said the big man slowly; "I wonder if you know just whatyou are trying to tell me--just how absurd your idea is. Are youseriously hinting at long-distance vision through solidarmor-plate--through these walls of stone and steel? And wirelesspower-transmission through the same wall--!"

  "Exactly!" said the operative.

  "Why, Del, you must be as crazy as this Eye of Allah individual. It'simpossible."

  "That word," said Delamater, quietly, "has been crossed out ofscientific books in the past few years."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You have studied some physical science, of course?" Delamater asked.The Chief nodded.

  "Then you know what I mean. I mean that up to recent years science hadall the possibilities and impossibilities neatly divided andcatalogued. Ignorance, as always, was the best basis for positiveassurance. Then they got inside the atom. And since then your realscientist has been a very humble man. He has seen the impossibility ofyesterday become the established fact of to-day."

  The Chief of the United States Secret Service was tapping with nervousirritation on the desk before him.

  "Yes, yes!" he agreed, and again he looked oddly at his operative."Perhaps there is something to that; you work along that line, Del:you can have a free hand. Take a few days off, a little vacation ifyou wish. Yes--and ask Sprague to step in from the other office; hehas the personnel list."

  * * * * *

  Robert Delamater felt the other's eyes follow him as he left the room."And that about lets me out," he told himself; "he thinks I've gonecuckoo, now."

  He stopped in a corridor; his fingers, fumbling in a vest pocket, hadtouched the little metal spheres. Again his mind flashed back to thechain of events he had linked together. He turned toward an inneroffice.

  "I would like to see Doctor Brooks," he said. And when the physicianappeared: "About that man who was murdered at the hotel, Doctor--"

  "Who died," the doctor corrected; "we found no evidence of murder."

  "Who was murdered," the operative insisted. "Have you his clothingwhere I can examine it?"

  "Sure," agreed the physician. He led Delamater to another room andbrought out a box of the dead man's effects.

  "But if it's murder you expect to prove you'll find no help in this."

  The Secret Service man nodded. "I'll look them over, just the same,"he said. "Thanks."

  Alone in the room, he went over the clothing piece by piece. Again heexamined each garment, each pocket, the lining, as he had done beforewhen first he took the case. Metal, he thought, he must find metal.

  But only when a heavy shoe was in his hands did the anxious frownrelax from about his eyes.

  "Of course," he whispered, half aloud. "What a fool I was! I shouldhave thought of that."

  The soles of the shoes were sewed, but, beside the stitches were metalspecks, where cobbler's nails were driven. And in the sole of one shoewere three tiny holes.

  "Melted!" he said exultantly. "Crazy, am I, Chief? This man wasstanding on a wet floor; he made a perfect ground. And he got a joltthat melted these nails when it flashed out of him."

  He wrapped the clothing carefully and replaced it in the box. And hefingered the metal pellets in his pocket as he slipped quietly fromthe room.

  * * * * *

  He did not stop to talk with Doctor Brooks; he wanted to think, toponder upon the incredible proof of the theory he had hardly daredbelieve. The Eye of Allah--the maniac--was real; and his power forevil! There was work to be done, and the point of beginning was notplain.

  How far did the invisible arm reach? How far could the Eye of Allahsee? Where was the generator--the origin of this wireless power; alongwhat channel did it flow? A ray of lightless light--an unseen etherealvibration.... Delamater could only guess at the answers.

  The current to kill a man or to flash a spark into silken powder bagsneed not be heavy, he knew. Five hundred--a thousand volts--if themysterious conductor carried it without resistance and without loss.People had been killed by house-lighting currents--a mere 110volts--when conditions were right. There would be no peculiar orunusual demand upon the power company to point him toward the hiddenmaniac.

  He tossed restlessly throughout the night, and morning brought noanswer to his repeated questions. But it brought a hurry call from hisChief.

  "Right away," was the instruction; "don't lose a minute. Come to theoffice."

  He found the big man at his desk. He was quiet, unhurried, but theoperative knew at a glance the tense repression that was beingexercised--the iron control of nerves that demanded action and foundincompetence and helplessness instead.

  "I don't believe your fantastic theories," he told Delamater."Impractical--impossible! But--" He handed the waiting man a paper."We must not leave a stone unturned."

  Delamater said nothing; he looked at the paper in his hand. "To thePresident of the United States," he read. "Prepare to meet your God.Friday. The eighth. Twelve o'clock."

  The signature he hardly saw; the staring, open eye was all toofamiliar.

  "That is to-morrow," said Delamater softly. "The President diesto-morrow."

  * * * * *

  "No!" exploded the Chief. "Do you realize what that means? ThePresident murdered--more killings to follow--and the killer unknown!Why the country will be in a panic: the whole structure of theGovernment is threatened!"

  He paused, then added as he struck his open hand upon the desk: "Iwill have every available man at the White House."
<
br />   "For witnesses?" asked Delamater coldly.

  The big man stared at his operative; the lines of his face weresagging.

  "Do you believe--really--he can strike him down--at his desk--from adistance?"

  "I know it." Delamater's fingers played for a moment with three bitsof metal in his pocket. Unconsciously he voiced his thoughts: "Doesthe President have nails in his shoes, I wonder?"

  "What--what's that?" the Chief demanded.

  But Delamater made no reply. He was picturing the President. He wouldbe seated at his desk, waiting, waiting ... and the bells would beringing and whistles blowing from distant shops when the bolt wouldstrike.... It would flash from his feet ... through the thick rug ...through the rug.... It would have to ground.

  He paid no heed to his Chief's repeated question. He was seeing, notthe rug in the Presidential office, but below it--underneath it--aheavy pad of rubber.

  "If he can be insulated--" he said aloud, and stared unseeingly at hiseagerly listening superiors--"even the telephone cut--no possibleconnection with the ground--"

  "For God's sake, Del, if you've got an idea--any hope at all! I'm--I'mup against it, Del."

  The operative brought his distant gaze back to the room and the manacross from him. "Yes," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "I've got thebeginning of an idea; I don't see the end of it yet.

  "We can cut him off from the ground--the President, I mean--make aninsulated island where he sits. But this devil will get him theinstant he leaves ... unless ... unless...."

  "Yes--yes?" The Chief's voice was high-pitched with anxiousimpatience; for the first time he was admitting to himself hiscomplete helplessness in this emergency.

  "Unless," said Delamater, as the idea grew and took shape, "unlessthat wireless channel works both ways. If it does ... if it does...."

  The big man made a gesture of complete incomprehension.

  "Wait!" said Robert Delamater, sharply. If ever his sleepy indolencehad misled his Chief, there was none to do so now in the voice thatrang like cold steel. His eyes were slits under the deep-drawn brows,and his mouth was one straight line.

  * * * * *

  To the hunter there is no greater game than man. And Robert Delamater,man-hunter, had his treacherous quarry in sight. He fired staccatoquestions at his Chief.

  "Is the President at his desk at twelve?"

  "Yes."

  "Does he know--about this?"

  "Yes."

  "Does he know it means death?"

  The Chief nodded.

  "I see a way--a chance," said the operative. "Do I get a free hand?"

  "Yes--Good Lord, yes! If there's any chance of--"

  Delamater silenced him. "I'll be the one to take the chance," he saidgrimly. "Chief, I intend to impersonate the President."

  "Now listen-- The President and I are about the same build. I know aman who can take care of the make-up; he will get me by anything but aclose inspection. This Eye of Allah, up to now, has worked only in thelight. We'll have to gamble on that and work our change in the dark.

  "The President must go to bed as usual--impress upon him that he maybe under constant surveillance. Then, in the night, he leaves--

  "Oh, I know he won't want to hide himself, but he must. That's up toyou.

  "Arrange for me to go to his room before daylight. From that minute onI am the President. Get me his routine for that morning; I must followit so as to arouse no least suspicion."

  * * * * *

  "But I don't see--" began the Chief. "You will impersonatehim--yes--but what then? You will be killed if this maniac makes good.Is the President of the United States to be a fugitive? Is--"

  "Hold on, hold on!" said Delamater. He leaned back in his chair; hisface relaxed to a smile, then a laugh.

  "I've got it all now. Perhaps it will work. If not--" A shrug of theshoulders completed the thought. "And I have been shooting it to youpretty fast haven't I! Now here is the idea--

  "I must be in the President's chair at noon. This Allah person will bewatching in, so I must be acting the part all morning. I will have theheaviest insulation I can get under the rug, and I'll have somethingto take the shot instead of myself. And perhaps, perhaps I will send amessage back to the Eye of Allah that will be a surprise.

  "Is it a bet?" he asked. "Remember, I'm taking the chance--unless youknow some better way--"

  The Chief's chair came down with a bang. "We'll gamble on it, Del," hesaid; "we've got to--there is no other way.... And now what do youwant?"

  "A note to the White House electrician," said Robert Delamater, "andfull authority to ask for anything I may need, from the U. S. Treasurydown to a pair of wire-cutters."

  His smile had become contagious; the Chief's anxious look relaxed. "Ifyou pull this off, Del, they may give you the Treasury or the Mint atthat. But remember, republics are notoriously ungenerous."

  "We'll have to gamble on that, too," said Robert Delamater.

  * * * * *

  The heart of the Nation is Washington. Some, there are, who would haveus feel that New York rules our lives. Chicago--San Francisco--theseand other great cities sometimes forget that they are mere ganglia onthe financial and commercial nervous system. The heart is Washington,and, Congress to the contrary notwithstanding, the heart of that heartis not the domed building at the head of Pennsylvania Avenue, but anAmerican home. A simple, gracious mansion, standing in quiet dignityand whiteness above its velvet lawns.

  It is the White House that draws most strongly at the interest andcuriosity of the homely, common throng that visits the capital.

  But there were no casual visitors at the White House on the seventh ofSeptember. Certain Senators, even, were denied admittance. ThePresident was seeing only the members of the Cabinet and some fewothers.

  It is given to a Secret Service operative, in his time, to play manyparts. But even a versatile actor might pause at impersonating aPresident. Robert Delamater was acting the role with never a fumble.He sat, this new Robert Delamater, so startlingly like the ChiefExecutive, in the chair by a flat top desk. And he worked diligentlyat a mass of correspondence.

  Secretaries came and went; files were brought. Occasionally he repliedto a telephone call--or perhaps called someone. It would be hard tosay which happened, for no telephone bells rang.

  On the desk was a schedule that Delamater consulted. So much time forcorrespondence--so many minutes for a conference with this or thatofficial, men who were warned to play up to this new Chief Executiveas if the life of their real President were at stake.

  * * * * *

  To any observer the busy routine of the morning must have passed withnever a break. And there was an observer, as Delamater knew. He hadwondered if the mystic ray might carry electrons that would prove itspresence. And now he knew.

  The Chief of the U. S. Secret Service had come for a consultation withthe President. And whatever lingering doubts may have stifled hisreluctant imagination were dispelled when the figure at the deskopened a drawer.

  "Notice this," he told the Chief as he appeared to search for a paperin the desk. "An electroscope; I put it in here last night. It isdischarging. The ray has been on since nine-thirty. No current toelectrocute me--just a penetrating ray."

  He returned the paper to the drawer and closed it.

  "So that is that," he said, and picked up a document to which hecalled the visitor's attention.

  "Just acting," he explained. "The audience may be critical; we musttry to give them a good show! And now give me a report. What are youdoing? Has anything else turned up? I am counting on you to stand byand see that that electrician is on his toes at twelve o'clock."

  "Stand by is right," the Chief agreed; "that's about all we can do. Ihave twenty men in and about the grounds--there will be as many morelater on. And I know now just how little use we are to you, Del."

  "Your expression!" warned Delama
ter. "Remember you are talking to thePresident. Very official and all that."

  "Right! But now tell me what is the game, Del. If that devil fails toknock you out here where you are safe, he will get you when you leavethe room."

  "Perhaps," agreed the pseudo-executive, "and again, perhaps not. Hewon't get me here; I am sure of that. They have this part of the roominsulated. The phone wire is cut--my conversations there are allfaked.

  "There is only one spot in this room where that current can pass. Aheavy cable is grounded outside in wet earth. It comes to a copperplate on this desk; you can't see it--it is under those papers."

  * * * * *

  "And if the current comes--" began the visitor.

  "When it comes," the other corrected, "it will jump to that plate andgo off harmlessly--I hope."

  "And then what? How does that let you out?"

  "Then we will see," said the presidential figure. "And you've beenhere long enough, Chief. Send in the President's secretary as you goout."

  "He arose to place a friendly, patronizing hand on the other'sshoulder.

  "Good-by," he said, "and watch that electrician at twelve. He is tothrow the big switch when I call."

  "Good luck," said the big man huskily. "We've got to hand it to you,Del; you're--"

  "Good-by!" The figure of the Chief Executive turned abruptly to hisdesk.

  There was more careful acting--another conference--some dictating. Theclock on the desk gave the time as eleven fifty-five. The man beforethe flat topped desk verified it by a surreptitious glance at hiswatch. He dismissed the secretary and busied himself with somepersonal writing.

  Eleven fifty-nine--and he pushed paper and pen aside. The movementdisturbed some other papers, neatly stacked. They were dislodged, andwhere they had lain was a disk of dull copper.

  "Ready," the man called softly. "Don't stand too near that line." Thefirst boom of noonday bells came faintly to the room.

  The President--to all but the other actors in the morning'sdrama--leaned far back in his chair. The room was suddenly deathlystill. The faint ticking of the desk clock was loud and rasping. Therewas heavy breathing audible in the room beyond. The last noonday chimehad died away....

  The man at the desk was waiting--waiting. And he thought he wasprepared, nerves steeled, for the expected. But he jerked back, tofall with the overturned chair upon the soft, thick-padded rug, at theripping, crackling hiss that tore through the silent room.

  * * * * *

  From a point above the desk a blue arc flamed and wavered. Its unseenterminal moved erratically in the air, but the other end of the deadlyflame held steady upon a glowing, copper disc.

  Delamater, prone on the floor, saw the wavering point that marked theend of the invisible carrier of the current--saw it drift aside tillthe blue arc was broken. It returned, and the arc crashed again intoblinding flame. Then, as abruptly, the blue menace vanished.

  The man on the floor waited, waited, and tried to hold fast to somesense of time.

  Then: "Contact!" he shouted. "The switch! Close the switch!"

  "Closed!" came the answer from a distant room. There was a shoutedwarning to unseen men: "Stand back there--back--there's twentythousand volts on that line--"

  Again the silence....

  "Would it work? Would it?" Delamater's mind was full of delirious,half-thought hopes. That fiend in some far-off room had cut thecurrent meant as a death-bolt to the Nation's' head. He would leavethe ray on--look along it to gloat over his easy victory. Hisgenerator must be insulated: would he touch it with his hand, now thathis own current was off?--make of himself a conductor?

  In the air overhead formed a terrible arc.

  From the floor, Delamater saw it rip crashingly into life as twentythousand volts bridged the gap of a foot or less to the invisible ray.It hissed tremendously in the stillness....

  And Delamater suddenly buried his face in his hands. For in his mindhe was seeing a rigid, searing body, and in his nostrils, acrid,distinct, was the smell of burning flesh.

  "Don't be a fool," he told himself fiercely. "Don't be a fool!Imagination!"

  The light was out.

  "Switch off!" a voice was calling. There was a rush of swift feet fromthe distant doors; friendly hands were under him--lifting him--as theroom, for Robert Delamater, President-in-name of the United States,turned whirlingly, dizzily black....

  * * * * *

  Robert Delamater, U. S. Secret Service operative, entered the officeof his Chief. Two days of enforced idleness and quiet had been all hecould stand. He laid a folded newspaper before the smiling, welcomingman.

  "That's it, I suppose," he said, and pointed to a short notice.

  "X-ray Operator Killed," was the caption. "Found Dead in Office inWatts Building." He had read the brief item many times.

  "That's what we let the reporters have," said the Chief.

  "Was he"--the operative hesitated for a moment--"pretty well fried?"

  "Quite!"

  "And the machine?"

  "Broken glass and melted metal. He smashed it as he fell."

  "The Eye of Allah," mused Delamater. "Poor devil--poor, crazy devil.Well, we gambled--and we won. How about the rest of the bet? Do I getthe Mint?"

  "Hell, no!" said the Chief. "Do you expect to win all the time? Theywant to know why it took us so long to get him.

  "Now, there's a little matter out in Ohio, Del, that we'll have to getafter--"