“I could not speak of this openly in front of General Vaughn. He represents the interest of the American War Department, and I need their money in order to continue my research. In reality, my intentions are quite different.” Barron brought his hands together in a thoughtful gesture. “Do you recall the expression that became popular during the Great War? ‘The war to end all wars’? A naïve sentiment, and perhaps all the more terrible because of what it portends. Tens of millions of people died in that war; how many more will die in the next? Hundreds of millions, perhaps? How many young men will perish in a senseless struggle to move the lines on a map?”
As he spoke, Barron’s normally calm demeanor became more agitated. “Machine guns, poisonous gas, and now, armies desire death rays — a weapon that can turn men’s bones to dust.”
Newcombe shook his head. “They why would you build it for them?”
“I am building the device at their direction, but I am not building it for them.” Barron smiled cryptically, but the storm in his eyes did not abate. “I fought in the Great War. I believed in the romance of the struggle; the glory of sacrifice. I believed, and I raised my son to believe it as well.”
Barron did not elaborate, and he didn’t need to. The sorrow in his voice when he mentioned his son spoke volumes. The Great War had cost Barron his child, and in his grief, he had found a new purpose: to put an end to war. If that meant creating a weapon so terrible that no one would ever dare fight again, then that at least was rationale the scientist could understand. Any doubts that Newcombe might have harbored as to Barron’s sincerity were swept away with the revelation.
Barron shook his head, as if to banish the rising emotional tide, and then turned to Lafayette. “I promised that I would make amends, did I not?”
“You mean there’s more?”
“Oh, indeed, Mr. Lafayette.” He set his goggles on the table and gestured to the door. As they walked back into the corridor, Barron continued. “As you know, it was never my intention for you to be brought aboard. Unlike Dr. Newcombe, your presence here was completely accidental. But there is a word for accidents such as this: serendipity.
“You know that you are here because the October Brotherhood intended to abduct David Dalton, along with Dr. Newcombe, to prevent them from accepting my invitation to come aboard the Majestic. My reasons for wanting to have Dr. Newcombe here are quite apparent, but have you asked yourself why I wanted Mr. Dalton along?”
Lafayette glanced at Newcombe and then shrugged.
“The reason is not so complicated.” Barron opened another door and stood aside to permit the men to enter.
As fantastic as the laboratory had been, Newcombe was thoroughly awestruck by the Majestic’s library. The room looked like it might have been transplanted in its entirety from an Ivy League university, or perhaps a private club. Plush Chesterfield sofas and chairs lined the walls. The shelves and desks were fashioned of tropical hardwoods. The former contained countless leather bound volumes, many of them classics that Newcombe recognized by name, and many that he did not. Yet these were the appointments one would expect to find in a reading room; Newcombe’s amazement stemmed from a different source.
“I owe you yet another apology, Mr. Lafayette. I was not familiar with your work, but since your arrival, I have made an effort to rectify that situation. And I must say, I am suitably impressed. Your stories are lurid and sensational, as one would expect to find in the pulp magazines, but that cannot disguise your talent as a wordsmith. I hope you will not think I am praising you with faint damns, but Mr. Lafayette, you are a much better writer than I expected.”
Lafayette shuffled his feet uncomfortably, unable to meet Barron’s gaze. “You have my books in your library?”
Barron smiled patiently. “My collection is quite comprehensive, but no. I read your stories… only a few of them, mind you, but that was enough… I read them on this.”
He gestured to the desk that had immediately caught Newcombe’s eye. Sitting atop it was an object the scientist had instantly recognized. The electrically powered device was turned on and humming, and displayed on its large slightly convex cathode ray tube screen was the image of an open book. The picture was slightly grainy, but by holding his borrowed glasses a little further from his eyes, he found he could read the print.
“You have a television,” Newcombe gasped.
“Yes. This is, I’ll grant you, a rather unusual way to use the medium, but it was preferable to having someone transcribe the entire document and send it by teletype.” Barron picked up a telephone receiver and spoke into it. “Turn the page, please.”
A hand appeared on the screen and carried out the command.
“I don’t understand,” Lafayette said. “This is a camera image of my book?”
Barron nodded. “A television camera to be precise. In New York City. The camera captures the images and then sends them out as radio waves. This device turns the signal back into a picture.”
Newcombe rested a hand on the television. “Imagine if it were possible to somehow record an entire library this way. You could have access to thousands of books.”
“That—” an aghast Lafayette pointed an accusing finger at the screen, “is not a book. A book is something you hold in your hand. It has a certain feel… the smell of the paper. I can’t imagine a world where books are just pictures on some kind of electronic machine.”
“Once upon a time,” Newcombe argued, “men believed that only birds should fly. The idea of speaking across vast distances by radio or telephone would have been considered witchcraft.”
“It is a useful tool, nothing more.” Barron turned to the writer and fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “I know that you have expressed a desire to return to New York at the first opportunity, but I would like you to entertain another possibility. You see, Mr. Lafayette, I want you to write my story.”
Chapter 10—Catching Up
Like I didn’t have enough to worry about, Dodge thought as he read Nora’s telegram again. The note had been waiting for him when he and Anya had arrived in New York, and now, almost several hours later, he was still trying to digest it.
ARRESTED IN AZORES [STOP] NORA
That was the whole of the message; no explanation, no context. Dodge’s first impulse was to fire off a request for more information, but he knew that the best course of action was to keep moving. At least he knew where Hurricane and Nora were. The same could not be said for Newcombe and Lafayette.
And so, with Anya in tow, he had gone to the seaport where the Catalina boat plane was moored, and set out across the Atlantic.
Dodge had known the flight from New York to the Azores would be a physical ordeal, but he was unprepared for the emotional toll the journey was exacting. In his relatively brief experience as a world traveler, Dodge had always been accompanied by friends — and sometimes enemies posing as friends. Now, even though Anya sat in the co-pilot’s seat, he felt completely alone.
She did not know how to fly, and even if she had, Dodge wasn’t about to trust her alone at the controls — there was no telling where they might end up — so there would be no relief from the task at hand, but there were other ways that she might have helped alleviate some of the stress. Yet, she seemed completely uninterested in conversing with him. She answered his direct questions with monosyllabic replies, and his casual attempts at conversation with nothing more than a shrug. Less than an hour after lifting off, he looked over to find her apparently napping in the co-pilot’s chair. Anya’s aloofness, though, was only a very small part of what troubled him.