had impressed him strongly. The man was such a thorough scientist, possessed of such complete delight in the work he did, that for the first time in his life Kidder found himself actually wanting to see someone again. But he feared for Johansen's life if he brought him to the laboratory, for Johansen's work was done on the island, and Conant would most certainly have the engineer killed if he heard of his visit, fearing that Kidder would influence him to sabotage the great transmitter.
And if Kidder went to the power plant he would probably be shot on sight.
All one day Kidder wrangled with himself, and finally determined to call Conant.
Fortunately he gave no signal, but turned up the volume on the receiver when the little red light told him that Conant's transmitter was functioning. Curious, he heard everything that occurred in the president's chamber three thousand miles away.
Horrified, he realized what Conant's engineers had done. Built into tiny containers were tens of thousands of power receivers. They had no power of their own, but, by remote control, could draw on any or all of the billions of horsepower the huge plant on the island was broadcasting.
Kidder stood in front of his receiver, speechless. There was nothing he could do.
If he devised some means of destroying the power plant, the government would certainly step in and take over the island, and then—what would happen to him and his precious Neoterics?
Another sound grated out of the receiver—a commercial radio program. A few bars of music, a man's voice advertising stratoline fares on the installment plan, a short silence, then:
'Station RPRS, voice of the nation's Capital, District of South Colorado.'
The three-second pause was interminable.
'The time is exactly ... er... agreed. The time is exactly seven p.m., Mountain Standard Time.'
Then came a half-insane chuckle. Kidder had difficulty believing it was Conant. A phone clicked. The banker's voice:
'Bill? All set. Get out there with your squadron and bomb up the island. Keep away from the plant, but cut the rest of it to ribbons. Do it quick and get out of there.'
Almost hysterical with fear, Kidder rushed about the room and then shot out the door and across the compound. There were five hundred innocent workmen in barracks a quarter mile from the plant. Conant didn't need them now, and he didn't need Kidder. The only safety for anyone was in the plant itself, and Kidder wouldn't leave his Neoterics to be bombed. He flung himself up the stairs and to the nearest teletype. He banged out, 'Get me a defense. I want an impenetrable shield. Urgent!'
The words ripped out from under his fingers in the functional script of the Neoterics. Kidder didn't think of what he wrote, didn't really visualize the thing he ordered. But he had done what he could. He'd have to leave them now, get to the barracks; warn those men. He ran up the path toward the plant, flung himself over the white line that marked death to those who crossed it.
A squadron of nine clip-winged, mosquito-nosed planes rose out of a cover on the mainland. There was no sound from the engines, for there were no engines. Each plane was powered with a tiny receiver and drew its unmarked, light-absorbent wings through the air with power from the island. In a matter of minutes they raised the island. The squadron leader spoke briskly into a microphone.
'Take the barracks first. Clean 1em up. Then work south.'
Johansen was alone on a small hill near the center of the island. He carried a camera, and though he knew pretty well that his chances of ever getting ashore again were practically nonexistent, he liked angle shots of his tower, and took innumerable pictures. The first he knew of the planes was when he heard their whining dive over the barracks. He stood transfixed, saw a shower of bombs hurtle down and turn the barracks into a smashed ruin of broken wood, metal and bodies. The picture of Kidder's earnest face flashed into his mind. Poor little guy—if they ever bombed his end of the island he would—But his tower! Were they going to bomb the plant?
He watched, utterly appalled, as the planes flew out to sea, cut back and dove again. They seemed to be working south. At the third dive he was sure of it. Not knowing what he could do, he nevertheless turned and ran toward Kidder's place. He rounded a turn in the trail and collided violently with the little biochemist. Kidder's face was scarlet with exertion, and he was the most terrified-looking object Johansen had ever seen.
Kidder waved a hand northward. 'Conant!' he screamed over the uproar. 'It's Conant! He's going to kill us all!'
'The plant?' said Johansen, turning pale.
'It's safe. He won't touch that! But... my place ... what about all those men?'
'Too late!' shouted Johansen.
'Maybe I can—Come on!' called Kidder, and was off down the tail, heading south.
Johansen pounded after him. Kidder's little short legs became a blur as the squadron swooped overhead, laying its eggs in the spot where they had met.
As they burst out of the woods, Johansen put on a spurt, caught up with the scientist and knocked him sprawling not six feet from the white line.
'Wh...wh—'
'Don't go any farther, you fool! Your own damned force field—it'll kill you!'
'Force field? But—I came through it on the way up—Here. Wait. If I can—'
Kidder began hunting furiously about in the grass. In a few seconds he ran up to the line, clutching a large grasshopper in his hand. He tossed it over. It lay still.
'See?' said Johansen. 'It—'
'Look! It jumped! Come on! I don't know what went wrong, unless the Neoterics shut it off. They generated that field—I didn't.'
'Neo—huh?'
'Never mind,' snapped the biochemist, and ran.
They pounded gasping up the steps and into the Neoterics' control room. Kidder clapped his eyes to a telescope and shrieked in glee. 'They've done it! They've done it!'
'Who's—'
'My little people! The Neoterics! They've made the impenetrable shield! Don't you see—it cut through the lines of force that start up that field out there. Their generator is still throwing it up, but the vibrations can't get out! They're safe! They're safe!' And the overwrought hermit began to cry. Johansen looked at him pityingly and shook his head.
'Sure—your little men are all right. But we aren't,' he added as the floor shook to the detonation of a bomb.
Johansen closed his eyes, got a grip on himself and let his curiosity overcome his fear. He stepped to the binocular telescope, gazed down it. There was nothing there but a curved sheet of gray material. He had never seen a gray quite like that. It was absolutely neutral. It didn't seem soft and it didn't seem hard, and to look at it made his brain reel. He looked up.
Kidder was pounding the keys of a teletype, watching the blank yellow tape anxiously.
'I'm not getting through to them,' he whimpered. 'I don't know what's the mat—
Oh, of course!'
'What?'
'The shield is absolutely impenetrable! The teletype impulses can't get through or I could get them to extend the screen over the building— over the whole island!
There's nothing those people can't do!'
'He's crazy,' Johansen muttered. 'Poor little—'
The teletype began clicking sharply. Kidder dove at it, practically embraced it. He read off the tape as it came out. Johansen saw the characters, but they meant nothing to him.
'Almighty,' Kidder read falteringly, 'pray have mercy on us and be forbearing until we have said our say. Without orders we have lowered the screen you ordered us to raise. We are lost, O great one. Our screen is truly impenetrable, and so cut off your words on the word machine. We have never, in the memory of any Neoteric, been without your word before. Forgive us our action. We will eagerly await your answer.'
Kidder's fingers danced over the keys. 'You can look now,' he gasped. 'Go on—
the telescope!'
Johansen, trying to ignore the whine of sure death from above, looked.
