By the dim light that filtered through the doorway, Beatrice looked at his deep-lined, bearded face, now reeking with sweat and grimed with dust and coal. An ugly face—but not to her. For through that mask she read the dominance, the driving force, the courage of this versatile, unconquerable man.
“Well,” suddenly laughed Stern, with a strange accent in his voice, “well then, here goes for the operator in the Eiffel Tower, eh?”
Again he glanced keenly, in the failing light, at the apparatus there before him.
“She’ll do, I guess,” judged he, slipping on the rusted head-receiver. He laid his hand upon the key and tried a few tentative dots and dashes.
Breathless, the girl watched, daring no longer to question him. In the dielectric, the green sparks and spurts of living flame began to crackle and to hiss like living spirits of an unknown power.
Stern, feeling again harnessed to his touch the life-force of the world that once had been, exulted with a wild emotion. Yet, science-worshiper that he was, something of reverent awe tinged the keen triumph. A strange gleam dwelt within his eyes; and through his lips the breath came quick as he flung his very being into this supreme experiment.
He reached for the ondometer. Carefully, slowly, he “tuned up” the wave-lengths; up, up to five thousand metres, then back again; he ran the whole gamut of the wireless scale.
Out, ever out into the thickening gloom, across the void and vacancy of the dead world, he flung his lightnings in a wild appeal. His face grew hard and eager.
“Anything? Any answer?” asked Beatrice, laying a hand upon his shoulder—a hand that trembled.
He shook his head in negation. Again he switched the roaring current on; again he hurled out into ether his cry of warning and distress, of hope, of invitation—the last lone call of man to man—of the last New Yorker to any other human being who, by the merest chance, might possibly hear him in the wreck of other cities, other lands. “S. O. S.!” crackled the green flame. “S. O. S! S. O. S.!—”
Thus came night, fully, as they waited, as they called and listened; as, together there in that tiny structure on the roof of the tremendous ruin, they swept the heavens and the earth with their wild call—in vain.
Half an hour passed and still the engineer, grim as death, whirled the chained lightnings out and away.
“Nothing yet?” cried Beatrice at last, unable to keep silence any longer. “Are you quite sure you can’t —”
The question was not finished.
For suddenly, far down below them, as though buried in the entrails of the earth, shuddered a stifled, booming roar.
Through every rotten beam and fiber the vast wreck of the building vibrated. Some wall or other, somewhere, crumbled and went crashing down with a long, deep droning thunder that ended in a sliding diminuendo of noise.
“The boiler!” shouted Stern.
Off he flung the head-piece. He leaped up; he seized the girl.
Out of the place he dragged her. She screamed as a huge weight from high aloft on the tower smashed bellowing through the roof, and with a shower of stones ripped its way down through the rubbish of the floors below, as easily as a bullet would pierce a newspaper.
The crash sent them recoiling. The whole roof shook and trembled like honey-combed ice in a spring thaw.
Down below, something rumbled, jarred, and came to rest.
Both of them expected nothing but that the entire structure would collapse like a card-house and shatter down in ruins that would be their death.
But though it swayed and quivered, as in the grasp of an earthquake, it held.
Stern circled Beatrice with his arm.
“Courage, now! Steady now, steady!” cried he.
The grinding, the booming of down-hurled stones and walls died away; the echoes ceased. A wind- whipped cloud of steam and smoke burst up, fanlike, beyond the edge of the roof. It bellied away, dim in the night, upon the stiff northerly breeze.
“Fire?” ventured the girl.
“No! Nothing to burn. But come, come; let’s get out o’ this anyhow. There’s nothing doing, any more. All through! Too much risk staying up here, now.”
Silent and dejected, they made their cautious way over the shaken roof. They walked with the greatest circumspection, to avoid falling through some new hole or freshly opened crevasse.
To Stern, especially, this accident was bitter. After nearly a fortnight’s exhausting toil, the miserable fiasco was maddening.
“Look!” suddenly exclaimed the engineer, pointing. A vast, gaping canon of blackness opened at their very feet—a yawning gash forty feet long and ten or twelve broad, with roughly jagged edges, leading down into unfathomed depths below.
Stern gazed at it, puzzled, a moment, then peered up into the darkness above.
“H-m!” said he. “One of the half-ton hands of the big clock up there has just taken a drop, that’s all. One drop too much, I call it. Now if we—or our rooms—had just happened to be underneath? Some excitement, eh?”
They circled the opening and approached the tower wall. Stern picked up the rough ladder, which had been shaken down from its place, and once more set it to the window through which they were to enter.
But even as Beatrice put her foot on the first rung, she started with a cry. Stern felt the grip of her trembling hand on his arm.
“What is it?” exclaimed he.
“Look! Look!”
Immobile with astonishment and fear, she stood pointing out and away, to westward, toward the Hudson.
Stern’s eyes followed her hand.
He tried to cry out, but only stammered some broken, unintelligible thing.
There, very far away and very small, yet clearly visible in swarms upon the inky-black expanse of waters, a hundred, a thousand little points of light were moving.
CHAPTER XV. PORTENTS OF WAR
STERN and Beatrice stood there a few seconds at the foot of the ladder, speechless, utterly at a loss for any words to voice the turmoil of confused thoughts awakened by this inexplicable apparition.
But all at once the girl, with a wordless cry, sank on her knees beside the vast looming bulk of the tower. She covered her face with both hands, and through her fingers the tears of joy began to flow.
“Saved—oh, we’re saved!” cried she. “There are people—and they’re coming for us!”
Stern glanced down at her, an inscrutable expression on his face, which had grown hard and set and ugly. His lips moved, as though he were saying something to himself; but no sound escaped them.
Then, quite suddenly, he laughed a mirthless laugh. To him vividly flashed back the memory of the flint spear-head and the gnawed leg-bone, cracked open so the marrow could be sucked out, all gashed with savage tooth-marks.
A certain creepy sensation began to develop along his spine. He felt a prickling on the nape of his neck, as the hair stirred there. Instinctively he reached for his revolver.
“So, then,” he sneered at himself, “we’re up against it, after all? And all my calculations about the world being swept clear, were so much punk? Well, well, this is interesting! Oh, I see it coming, all right—good and plenty—and soon!”
But the girl interrupted his ugly thoughts as he stood there straining his eyes out into the dark.
“How splendid! How glorious!” cried she. “Only to think that we’re going to see people again! Can you
