CHAPTER II

_Escape_

Two days, while a cold sun peeped above an icy horizon! Two days of

driving, eager work on the installation of massive motors--yet motors

so light that one man could lift them--then Harkness prepared to

leave.

"Wealth brings care when it comes," he told Chet, "but it leaves

plenty of trouble behind it when it goes. I must get back to New York

and throw what is left of my holdings to the wolves; they must be

howling by this time to find out where I am. I'll drop back here in a

week."

There were instruments to be installed, and Chet would look after

that. He would test the motors where the continuous explosion of

super-detonite would furnish the terrific force for their driving

power. Then the exhaust from each port must be measured and thrusts

equalized, where needed, by adjustment of great valves. All this Chet

would finish. And then--a test flight. Harkness hoped to be back for

the first try-out of the new ship.

"I'll be seeing you in a week," he repeated. "You'll be that long

getting her tuned up."

But Chet Bullard grinned derisively. "Two days!" he replied. "You'll

have to step some if you get in on the trial flight. But don't worry;

I won't take off for the Dark Moon. I'll just go up and play around

above the liner lanes and see how the old girl stunts."

Harkness nodded. "Watch for patrol ships," he warned. "There's no

traffic directly over here--that's one reason why I chose this

spot--but don't let anyone get too close. Our patents have not been

applied for."

* * * * *

Harkness spent a day in New York. Then a night trip by Highline

Express took him to London where he busied himself for some hours.

Next, a fast passenger plane for Vienna.

In other days Walter Harkness would have chartered a private ship to

cut off a few precious hours, but he was traveling more economically

now. And the representatives of his foreign competitors were not now

coming to see him; he must go to them.

At the great terminal in Vienna a man approached him. "Herr Harkness?"

he inquired, and saluted stiffly.

He was not in uniform. He was not of the Allied Patrol nor of any

branch of the police force that encircled the world in its operations.

Yet his military bearing was unmistakable. To Harkness it was

reminiscent of old pictures of Prussian days--those curious pictures

revived at times for the amusement of those who turned to their

television sets for entertainment. He had to repress a smile as he

followed where the other led him to a gray speedster in a distant

corner of the open concourse.

He stepped within a luxurious cabin and would have gone on into the

little control room, but his guide checked him. Harkness was mildly

curious as to their course--Schwartzmann was to have seen him in

Vienna--but the way to the instrument board was barred. Another

precise salute, and he was motioned to the cabin at the rear.

"It is orders that I follow," he was told. And Walter Harkness

complied.

"It could happen only here," he told himself. And he found himself

exasperated by a people who were slow to conform to the customs of a

world whose closely-knit commerce had obliterated the narrow

nationalism of the past.

* * * * *

They landed in an open court surrounded by wide lawns. He glimpsed

trees about them in the dusk, and looming before him was an old-time

building of the chateau type set off in this private park. He would

have followed his guide toward the entrance, but a flash of color

checked him.

Like a streak of flame a ship shot in above them; hung poised near the

one that had brought them and settled to rest beside it. A little red

speedster, it made a splash of crimson against the green lawns beyond.

And, "Nice flying," Harkness was telling himself.

The hold-down clamps had hardly gripped it when a figure sprang out

from an opened door. A figure in cool gray that took warmth and color

from the ship behind--a figure of a girl, tall and slender and

graceful as she came impulsively toward him.

"Monsieur Harkness!" she exclaimed. "But this is a surprise. I thought

that Herr Schwartzmann was to see you in Vienna!" For a brief moment

Harkness saw a flicker of puzzled wonderment in her eyes.

"And I am sorry," she went on, "--so very sorry for your misfortune.

But we will be generous."

She withdrew her hand which Harkness was holding. He was still

phrasing a conventional greeting as she flung him a gay laugh and a

look from brown eyes that smiled encouragement. She was gone before

he found words for reply.

Walter Harkness had been brought up in a world of business, and knew

little of the subtle message of a woman's eyes. But he felt within him

a warm response to the friendly companionship that the glance implied.

Within the chateau, in a dark-paneled room, Herr Schwartzmann was

waiting. He motioned Harkness to a chair and resumed his complacent

contemplation of a picture that was flowing across a screen. Color

photography gave every changing shade. It was coming by wireless, as

Harkness knew, and he realized that the sending instrument must be in

a ship that cruised slowly above a scene of wreckage and desolation.

He recognized the ruins of his great plant; he saw the tiny figures of

men, and he knew that the salvage company he had placed in charge was

on the job. Beyond was a stretch of rippling water where the great

wave had boiled over miles of land and had sucked it back to the

ocean's depths. And he realized that the beginning of his conference

was not auspicious.

After the warmth of the girl's greeting, this other was like a plunge

into the Arctic chill of his northern retreat.

* * * * *

"I have listed every dollar's worth of property that I own," he was

saying an hour later, "and I have turned it over to a trustee who will

protect your rights. What more do you want?"

"We have heard of some experimental work," said Herr Schwartzmann

smoothly. "A new ship; some radical changes in design. We would like

that also."

"Try and get it," Harkness invited.

The other passed that challenge by. "There is another alternative,"

he said. "My principals in France are unknown to you; perhaps, also,

it is not known that they intend to extend their lines to New York and

that they will erect great terminals to do the work that you have

done.

"Your father was the pioneer; there is great value in the name of

Harkness--the 'good-will' as you say in America. We would like to

adopt that name, and carry on where you have left off. If you were to

assign to us the worthless remains of your plant, and all right and

title to the name of Harkness Terminals, it might be--" He paused

deliberately while Harkness stiffened in his chair. "It might be that

we would require no further settlement. The balance of your

fortune--and your ship--will be yours."

Harkness' gray eyes, for a moment, betrayed the smouldering rage that

was his.

"Put it in plain words," he demanded. "You would bribe me to sell you

something you cannot create for yourselves. The name of Harkness has

stood for fair-dealing, for honor, for scrupulous observance of our

clients' rights. My father established it on that basis and I have

continued in the same way. And you?--well, it occurs to me that the

Schwartzmann interests have had a different reputation. Now you would

buy my father's name to use it as a cloak for your dirty work!"

He rose abruptly. "It is not for sale. Every dollar that I own will be

used to settle my debt. There will be enough--"

* * * * *

Herr Schwartzmann refused to be insulted. His voice was unruffled as

he interrupted young Harkness' vehement statement.

"Perhaps you are right; perhaps not. Permit me to remind you that the

value of your holdings may depreciate under certain influences that

we are able to exert--also that you are in Austria, and that the laws

of this country permit us to hold you imprisoned until the debt is

paid. In the meantime we will find your ship and seize it, and

whatever it has of value will be protected by patents in our name."

His unctuous voice became harsh. "Honor! Fair dealing!" He spat out

the words in sudden hate. "You Americans who will not realize that

business is business!"

Harkness was standing, drawn unconsciously to his full height. He

looked down upon the other man. All anger had gone from his face; he

seemed only appraising the individual before him.

"The trouble with you people," he said, "is that you are living in the

past--way back about nineteen fourteen, when might made

right--sometimes."

He continued to look squarely into the other's eyes, but his lips set

firmly, and his voice was hard and decisive.

"But," he continued, "I am not here to educate you, nor to deal with

you. Any further negotiations will be through my counsellors. And now

I will trouble you to return me to the city. We are through with

this."

* * * * *

Herr Schwartzmann's heavy face drew into lines of sardonic humor. "Not

quite through," he said; "and you are not returning to the city." He

drew a paper from his desk.

"I anticipated some such _verdammpt_ foolishness from you. You see

this? It is a contract; a release, a transfer of all your interests in

Harkness, Incorporated. It needs only your signature, and that will be

supplied. No one will question it when we are done: the very ink in

the stylus you carry will be duplicated. For the last time, I repeat

my offer; I am patient with you. Sign this, and keep all else that

you have. Refuse, and--"

"Yes?" Harkness inquired.

"And we will sign for you--a forgery that will never be detected. And

as for you, your body will be found--a suicide! You will leave a

letter: we will attend to all that. Herr Harkness will have found this

misfortune unbearable.... We shall be very sad!" His heavy smile grew

into derisive laughter.

"I am still patient, and kind," he added. "I give you twenty-four

hours to think it over."

A touch of a button on his desk summoned the man who had brought

Harkness there. "Herr Harkness is in your charge," were the

instructions to the one who stood stiffly at attention. "He is not to

leave this place. Is it understood?"

As he was ushered from the room, Walter Harkness also understood, and

he knew that this was no idle threat. He had heard ugly rumors of Herr

Schwartzmann and his methods. One man, he knew, had dared to oppose

him--and that man had gone suddenly insane. A touch of a needle, it

was whispered....

There had been other rumors; Schwartzmann got what he wanted; his

financial backing was enormous. And now he would bring his ruthless

methods to America. But there he needed the Harkness standing, the

reputation for probity--and Walter Harkness was grimly resolved that

they should never buy it from him. But the problem must be faced, and

the answer found, if answer there was, in twenty-four hours.

* * * * *

An amazing state of affairs in a modern world! He stood meditating

upon his situation in a great, high-ceilinged room. A bed stood in a

corner, and other furniture marked the room as belonging to an earlier

time. Even mechanical weather-control was wanting; one must open the

windows, Harkness found, to get cooling air.

He stood at the open window and saw storm clouds blowing up swiftly. They

blotted the stars from the night sky; they swept black and ominous

overhead, and seemed to touch the giant trees that whipped their branches

in the wind. But he was thinking not at all of the storm, and only of the

fact that this room where he stood must be directly above the one where

Schwartzmann was seated. Schwartzmann--who would put an end to his life as

casually as he would bring down a squirrel from one of those trees!

And again he thought: "Twenty-four hours!... Why hours? Why not

minutes?... Whatever must be done he must do now. And might made

right: it was the only way to meet this unscrupulous foreign

scoundrel."

A wind-tossed branch lashed at him. On the ground below he saw the man

who had brought him, posting another as a guard. They glanced up at

his window. There would be no escape there.

And yet the branch seemed beckoning. He caught it when again it

whipped toward him, and, without any definite plan, he lashed it fast

with a velvet cord from the window drapes.

But his thoughts came back to the room. He snatched suddenly at the

covers of the bed. What were the sheets?--fabric as old-fashioned as

the room, or were they cellulex? The touch of the soft fabric

reassured him: it was as soft as though woven of spider's web, and

strong as fibres of steel.

It took all of his strength to rip it into strips, but it was a matter

of minutes, only, until he had a rope that would bear his weight. The

storm had broken; the black clouds let loose a deluge of water that

drove in at the window. If only the window below was still open!

He found the middle of his rope, looped it over a post of the bed,

and, with both strands in his grasp, let himself out and over the

dripping sill.

Would the guard see him, or had he taken to shelter? Harkness did not

pause to look. He left the branch tied fast. "A squirrel in a tree,"

he thought: the branch would mislead them. His feet found the

window-sill one story below. He drew himself into the room and let

loose of one strand of his rope as he entered.

Schwartzmann was gone. Harkness, with the bundle of wet fabric in his

hands, glanced quickly about. A door stood open--it was a closet--and

the rain-drenched man was hidden there an instant later. But he

stepped most carefully across the floor and touched his wet shoes only

to the rugs where their print was lost. And he held himself

breathlessly silent as he heard the volley of gutteral curses that

marked the return of Herr Schwartzmann some minutes later.

"Imbecile!" Schwartzmann shouted above the crash of the closing

window. "_Dumkopff!_ You have let him escape.

"Give me your pistol!" Harkness glimpsed the figure of his recent

guard. "Get another for yourself--find him!--shoot him down! A little

lead and detonite will end this foolishness!"

From his hiding place Harkness saw the bulky figure of Schwartzmann,

who made as if to follow where the other man had gone. The pistol was

in his hand. Walt Harkness knew all too well what that meant. The tiny

grain of detonite in the end of each leaden ball was the same terrible

explosive that drove their ships: it would tear him to pieces. And he

had to get this man.

He was tensed for a spring as Schwartzmann paused. From the wall

beyond him a red light was flashing; a crystal flamed forth with the

intense glare of a thousand fires. It checked the curses on the

other's thick lips; it froze Harkness to a rigid statue in the

darkness of his little room.

* * * * *

An emergency flash broadcast over the world! It meant that the News

Service had been commandeered. This flashing signal was calling to the

peoples of the earth!

What catastrophe did this herald? Had it to do with the Dark Moon? Not

since the uprising of the Mole-men, those creatures who had spewed

forth from the inner world, had the fiery crystal called!... It seemed

to Harkness that Schwartzmann was hours in reaching the switch.... A

voice came shouting into the room:

"By order of the Stratosphere Control Board," it commanded, "all

traffic is forbidden above the forty level. Liners take warning.

Descend at once."

Over and over it repeated the command--an order whose authority could

not be disregarded. In his inner vision Harkness saw the tumult in the

skies, the swift dropping of huge liners and great carriers of fast

freight, the scurrying of other craft to give clearance to these

monsters whose terrific speed must be slowly checked. But why? What

had happened? What could warrant such disruption of the traffic of the

world? His tensed muscles were aching unheeded; his sense of feeling

seemed lost, so intently was he waiting for some further word.

"Emergency news report," said another voice, and Harkness strained

every faculty to hear. "Highline ships attacked by unknown foe. Three

passenger carriers of the Northpolar Short Line reported crashed.

Incomplete warnings from their commanders indicate they were attacked.

Patrol ship has spotted one crash. They have landed beside it and are

reporting....

"The report is in; it is almost beyond belief. They say the liner is

empty, that no human body, alive or dead, is in the ship. She was

stripped of crew and passengers in the air.

"We await confirmation. Danger apparently centered over arctic

regions, but traffic has been ordered from all upper levels--"

The voice that had been held rigidly to the usual calm clarity of an

official announcer became suddenly high-pitched and vibrant. "Stand

by!" it shouted. "An S. O. S. is coming in. We will put it through our

amplifiers; give it to you direct!"

* * * * *

The newscaster crackled and hissed: they were waiving all technical

niceties at R. N. Headquarters, Harkness knew. The next voice came

clearly, though a trifle faint.

"Air Patrol! Help! Position eighty-two--fourteen north,

ninety-three--twenty east--Superliner Number 87-G, flying at R. A. plus

seven. We are attacked!--Air Patrol!--Air Patrol!--Eighty-two--fourteen

north, ninety-three--twenty--"

The voice that was repeating the position was lost in a pandemonium of

cries. Then--

"Monsters!" the voice was shouting. "They have seized the ship! They

are tearing at our ports--" A hissing crash ended in silence....

"Tearing at our ports!" Harkness was filled with a blinding nausea as

he sensed what had come with the crash. The opening ports--the

out-rush of air released to the thin atmosphere of those upper levels!

Earth pressure within the cabins of the ship; then in an

instant--none! Every man, every woman and child on the giant craft,

had died instantly!

The announcer had resumed, but above the sound was a guttural voice

that shouted hoarsely in accents of dismay. "Eighty-seven-G!"

Schwartzmann was exclaiming, "--Mein Gott! It iss our own ship, the

Alaskan! Our crack flyer!"

* * * * *

Harkness heard him but an instant, for another thought was hammering

at his brain. The position!--the ship's position!--it was almost above

his experimental plant! And Chet was there, and the ship.... What had

Chet said? He would fly it in two days--and this was the second day!

Chet had no radio-news; no instrument had been installed in the shop;

they had depended upon the one in Harkness' own ship. And now--

Walt Harkness' clear understanding had brought a vision that was

sickening, so plainly had he glimpsed the scene of terror in that

distant cabin. And now he saw with equal clarity another picture.

There was Chet, smiling, unafraid, proud of their joint accomplishment

and of the gleaming metal shape that he was lifting carefully from its

bed. He was floating it out to the open air; he was taking off, and

up--up where some horror awaited.

"Monsters!" that thin voice had cried in a tone that was vibrant with

terror. What could it be?--great ships out of space?--an invasion? Or

beasts?... But Harkness' vision failed him there. He knew only that a

fast ship was moored just outside. He had planned vaguely to seize it;

he had needed it for his own escape; but he needed it a thousand times

more desperately now. Chet might have been delayed, and he must warn

him.... The thoughts were flashing like hot sparks through his brain

as he leaped.

* * * * *

He bore the heavier body of Schwartzmann to the floor. He rained

smashing blows upon him with a furious frenzy that would not be

curbed. The weapon with its deadly detonite bullet came toward him.

In the same burst of fury he tore the weapon from the hand that held

it; then sprang to his feet to stand wild-eyed and panting is he aimed

the pistol at the cursing man and dragged him to his feet.

"The ship!" he said between heavy breaths, "--the ship! Take me to it!

You will tell anyone we meet it is all right. One word of alarm, one

wrong look, and I'll blow you to hell and make a break for it!"

The pistol under Harkness' silken jacket was pressed firmly into

Schwartzmann's side; it brought them safely past excited guards and

out into the storm; it held steady until the men had fought their way

through blasts of rain to the side of the anchored ship. Not till then

did Schwartzmann speak.

"Wait," he said. "Are you crazy, Harkness? You can never take off; the

trees are close; a straight ascent is needed. And the wind--!"

He struggled in the other's grasp as Harkness swung open the cabin

door, his fear of what seemed a certain death overmastering his fear

of the weapon. He was shouting for help as Harkness threw him roughly

aside and leaped into the ship.

Outside Harkness saw running figures as he threw on the motors. A

pistol's flash came sharply through the storm and dark. A window in

the chateau flashed into brilliance to frame the figure of a girl.

Tall and slender, she leaned forward with outstretched arms. She

seemed calling to him.

* * * * *

Harkness seized the controls, and knew as he did so that Schwartzmann

was right: he could never lift the ship in straight ascent. Before her

whirling fans could raise her they would be crashed among the trees.

But there were two helicopters--dual lift, one forward and one aft.

And Walt Harkness, pilot of the second class, earned immediate

disbarment or a much higher rating as he coolly fingered the controls.

He cut the motor on the big fan at the stern, threw the forward one on

full and set the blades for maximum lift, then released the hold-down

grips that moored her.

The grips let go with a crashing of metal arms. The bow shot upward

while a blast of wind tore at the stubby wings. The slim ship tried to

stand erect. Another furious, beating wind lifted her bodily, as

Harkness, clinging desperately within the narrow room, threw his full

weight upon the lever that he held.

The full blast of a detonite motor, on even a small ship, is terrific,

and the speedster of Herr Schwartzmann did not lack for power. Small

wonder that the rules of the Board of Control prohibit the use of the

stern blast under one thousand feet.

The roaring inferno from the stern must have torn the ground as if by

a mammoth plow; the figures of men must have scattered like leaves in

a gusty wind. The ship itself was racked and shuddering with the

impact of the battering thrust, but it rose like a rocket, though

canted on one wing, and the crashing branches of wind-torn trees

marked its passage on a long, curving slant that bent upward into the

dark. Within the control room Walter Harkness grinned happily as he

drew his bruised body from the place where he had been thrown, and

brought the ship to an even keel.

* * * * *

Nice work! But there was other work ahead, and the smile of

satisfaction soon passed. He held the nose up, and the wireless

warning went out before as the wild climb kept on.

Forty thousand was passed; then fifty and more; a hundred thousand;

and at length he was through the repelling area, that zone of

mysterious force, above which was a magnetic repulsion nearly

neutralizing gravity. He could fly level now; every unit of force

could be used for forward flight to hurl him onward faster and faster

into the night.

Harkness was flying where his license was void; he was flying, too,

where all aircraft were banned. But the rules of the Board of Control

meant nothing to him this night. Nor did the voluble and sulphurous

orders to halt that a patrol-ship flashed north. The patrol-ship was

on station; she was lost far astern before she could gather speed for

pursuit.

Walter Harkness had caught his position upon a small chart. It was a

sphere, and he led a thin wire from the point that was Vienna to a dot

that he marked on the sub-polar waste. He dropped a slender pointer

upon the wire and engaged its grooved tip, and then the flying was out

of his hands. The instrument before him, with its light bulbs and

swift moving discs, would count their speed of passage; it would hold

the ship steadily upon an unerring course and allow for drift of

winds. The great-circle course was simple; the point he marked was

drawing them as if it had been a magnet--drawing them as it drew the

eyes of Walt Harkness, staring strainingly ahead as if to span the

thousands of miles of dark.