CHAPTER I

"How serene the joy,

when things that are made for each other meet

and are joined;

but ah,--

how rarely they meet and are joined, the things

that are made for each other!"

--SAO-NAN.

When Peter Moore entered the static-room, picked his way swiftly and

unnoticingly across the littered floor, and jerked open the frosted

glass door of the chief operator's office, the assembled operators

followed him with glances of admiration and concern. No one ever

entered the Chief's office in that fashion. One waited until called

upon.

But Moore was privileged. Having "pounded brass" for five useful and

adventurous years on the worst and best of the ships which minimize the

length and breadth of the Pacific Ocean, he was favored; he had become

a person of importance. He had performed magical feats with a wireless

machine; he had had experiences.

His first assignment was a fishing schooner, a dirty, unseaworthy

little tub, which ran as far north sometimes as the Aleutians; and he

had immediately gained official recognition by sticking to his

instruments for sixty-eight hours--recorded at fifteen-minute intervals

in his log--when the whaler _Goblin_ encountered a submerged pinnacle

rock in the Island Passage and flashed the old C.Q.D. distress signal.

It was brought out in the investigation that the distance at which

Peter Moore had picked up the signals of the sinking _Goblin_ exceeded

the normal working range of either apparatus. When pressed, the young

man confessed the ownership of a pair of abnormally keen ears.

Afterward, it was demonstrated for the benefit of doubters that Moore

could "read" signals in the receivers when the ordinary operator could

detect only a far away scratching sound.

Beginning his second year in the Marconi uniform, Peter Moore was

recognized as material far too valuable to waste on the fishing boats;

and he was stationed on the _Sierra_, which was then known in wireless

circles as a supervising ship. Her powerful apparatus could project

out a long electric arm over any part of the eastern Pacific, and the

duty of her operator was to reprimand sluggards who neglected answering

calls from ship or shore stations, and inexperienced men who violated

the strict rules governing radio intercourse.

It was whispered that Peter Moore grew tired of the nagging to which

his position on the supervisor ship gave him privilege, for he shortly

made application for a berth in the China run. Now every operator on

the Pacific cherishes the hope that his fidelity will some day be

rewarded by a China run, and there are applications always on file for

those romantic berths. The Chief granted Peter Moore his whim

unhesitatingly; and Moore selected the _Vandalia_, perhaps the most

desirable of the transpacific fleet, because she stayed away from San

Francisco the longest.

That the supersensitiveness of his ears was not waning was soon proved

by his receipt of a non-relayed message, afterward verified, from the

shore station in Seattle, when the _Vandalia_ lay at anchor in the

harbor at Hong-Kong. That was a new record. Marconi himself is

believed to have written the young magician a complimentary letter.

But Peter Moore showed that letter to no one. That was his nature. He

was something of a mystery even to the members of his own profession.

Many of the younger operators knew him only as a symbol, a genius

behind a key, or as a hand. Professionally speaking, it was his hand

that made his personality unique and enviable. There was a queer

vitality in the signals sent into the air from a wireless machine when

his strong white fingers played upon the key; his touch was as familiar

to them as the voice of a friend.

There was a general simmering down of coastwise gossip in the

static-room when the frosted glass door of the Chief's office closed

behind him. Voices trailed off into curious whisperings. Then--

"But great guns, man, I need you!" boomed the cranky voice of the Chief.

Followed then the low hum of Peter Moore as he explained himself.

"Makes no difference!" the Chief roared. "Can't get along without you.

Short handed. Gotta stay!"

In irritation the Chief always abbreviated his remarks quite as if they

were radiograms to be transmitted at dollar-a-word rates.

The truth then dawned and burst upon those ardent listeners in the

static-room. Peter Moore was resigning! It was incredible.

A more daring head pressed its audacious ear against the snowy glass.

This was a fat, excitable little man, long in the service, but destined

forever, it seemed, to hammer brass in the Panama intermediate run. A

skillful operator, but his arm broke, as wireless men say, whenever

faced by emergency. He distinctly heard Peter Moore state in a voice

of emotion: "Too much China. God, man, I'll be smuggling opium next!"

"Rubbish!" the Chief snorted.

The Panama Line man waved a pale hand behind him for absolute silence.

"Want a shore station for a while?"

"Intend to rest up and then look around," Moore answered.

"You'll be back. Mark my word. The sea and the wireless house is a

winning combination. The old cities--new faces--freedom----"

"I'm tired."

"Pah! You've only begun. When does the _Vandalia_ clear for China?"

"Thursday night."

"I'll hold your berth open till Thursday noon. Hoping you'd break in a

new operator. Queer chap. Glass eye. 'Member--Thursday noon."

The frosted door went inward abruptly. The intense blue eyes in the

pale face of the man who had resigned closed half way upon encountering

the blushing eavesdropper. The Panama Line operator moved uncertainly

toward a vacant chair. Unaware of the curious stares addressed at him

Moore went to the outer door. A wave of exquisite nervousness rippled

through the silence of the static-room as the door clicked.

When the rumor reached the _Vandalia_, lying in state at her pier, that

Peter Moore had resigned, Captain Jones, after bluntly airing his

disappointment, advanced the theory to his chief engineer that Sparks

had "taken the East too much to heart. The fangs are in too deep."

"He will be on hand sailing time," added the chief engineer, who had

been trying to retire from active duty in the China run for eleven

years.

But Moore did not come back to the _Vandalia_ for that reason at all.