Finally he jumped up. Crashing his hand down upon the desk, he exclaimed:
“I have liberated the intra-atomic energy of copper! Copper, ‘X,’ and electric current!
“I’m sure a fool for luck!” he continued as a new thought struck him. “Suppose it had been liberated all at once? Probably blown the whole world off its hinges. But it wasn’t: it was given off slowly and in a straight line. Wonder why? Talk about power! Infinite! Believe me, I’ll show this whole Bureau of Chemistry something to make their eyes stick out, tomorrow. If they won’t let me go ahead and develop it, I’ll resign, hunt up some more ‘X,’ and do it myself. That bath is on its way to the moon right now, and there’s no reason why I can’t follow it. Martin’s such a fanatic on exploration, he’ll fall all over himself to build us any kind of a craft we’ll need … we’ll explore the whole solar system! Great Cat, what a chance! A fool for luck is right!”
He came to himself with a start. He switched on the lights and saw that it was ten o’clock. Simultaneously he recalled that he was to have had dinner with his fiancée at her home, their first dinner since their engagement. Cursing himself for an idiot he hastily left the building, and soon his motorcycle was tearing up Connecticut Avenue toward his sweetheart’s home.
II
Steel Becomes Interested
Dr. Marc DuQuesne was in his laboratory, engaged in a research upon certain of the rare metals, particularly in regard to their electrochemical properties. He was a striking figure. Well over six feet tall, unusually broad-shouldered even for his height, he was plainly a man of enormous physical strength. His thick, slightly wavy hair was black. His eyes, only a trifle lighter in shade, were surmounted by heavy black eyebrows which grew together above his aquiline nose.
Scott strolled into the room, finding DuQuesne leaning over a delicate electrical instrument, his forbidding but handsome face strangely illuminated by the ghastly glare of his mercury-vapor arcs.
“Hello, Blackie,” Scott began. “I thought it was Seaton in here at first. A fellow has to see your faces to tell you two apart. Speaking of Seaton, d’you think that he’s quite right?”
“I should say, offhand, that he was a little out of control last night and this morning,” replied DuQuesne, manipulating connections with his long, muscular fingers. “I don’t think that he’s insane, and I don’t believe that he dopes—probably overwork and nervous strain. He’ll be all right in a day or two.”
“I think he’s a plain nut, myself. That sure was a wild yarn he sprung on us, wasn’t it? His imagination was hitting on all twelve, that’s sure. He seems to believe it himself, though, in spite of making a flat failure of his demonstration to us this morning. He saved that waste solution he was working on—what was left of that carboy of platinum residues after he had recovered all the values, you know—and got them to put it up at auction this noon. He resigned from the Bureau, and he and M. Reynolds Crane, that millionaire friend of his, bid it in for ten cents.”
“M. Reynolds Crane?” DuQuesne concealed a start of surprise. “Where does he come in on this?”
“Oh, they’re always together in everything. They’ve been thicker than Damon and Pythias for a long time. They play tennis together—they’re doubles champions of the District, you know—and all kinds of things. Wherever you find one of them you’ll usually find the other. Anyway, after they got the solution Crane took Seaton in his car, and somebody said they went out to Crane’s house. Probably trying to humor him. Well, ta-ta; I’ve got a week’s work to do yet today.”
As Scott left DuQuesne dropped his work and went to his desk, with a new expression, half of chagrin, half of admiration, on his face. Picking up his telephone, he called a number.
“Brookings?” he asked, cautiously. “This is DuQuesne. I must see you immediately. There’s something big started that may as well belong to us … No, can’t say anything over the telephone … Yes, I’ll be right out.”
He left the laboratory and soon was in the private office of the head of the Washington or “diplomatic” branch, as it was known in certain circles, of the great World Steel Corporation. Offices and laboratories were maintained in the city, ostensibly for research work, but in reality to be near the center of political activity.
“How do you do, Doctor DuQuesne?” Brookings said as he seated his visitor. “You seem excited.”
“Not excited, but in a hurry,” DuQuesne replied. “The biggest thing in history has just broken, and we’ve got to work fast if we get in on it. Have you any doubts that I always know what I am talking about?”
“No,” answered the other in surprise. “Not the slightest. You are widely known as an able man. In fact, you have helped this company several times in various deal—er, in various ways.”
“Say it. Brookings. ‘Deals’ is the right word. This one is going to be the biggest ever. The beauty of it is that it should be easy—one simple burglary and an equally simple killing—and won’t mean wholesale murder, as did that …”
“Oh, no, Doctor, not murder. Unavoidable accidents.”
“Why not call things by their right names and save breath, as long as we’re alone? I’m not squeamish. But to get down to business. You know Seaton, of our division, of course. He has been recovering the various rare metals from all the residues that have accumulated in the Bureau for years. After separating out all the known metals he had something left, and thought it was a new element, a metal. In one of his attempts to get it into the metallic state, a little of its solution fizzed out and over a copper steam bath or
