Ardmore cut back in. "Where?"
"Couldn't catch it. Every frequency is jammed with traffic, and about half of it is incoherent. They don't give each other time to clear -- send right through another message."
There was a gentle knock at the outer door of Ardmore's office. It opened a few inches and Dr. Brooks' head appeared. "May I come in?"
"Oh -- certainly, Doctor. Come in. We are listening to what Captain Downer can pick up from the radio."
"Too bad we haven't a dozen of him -- translators, I mean. "
"Yes, but there doesn't seem to be much to pick up but a general impression." They listened to what Downer could pick up for the better part of an hour, mostly disjointed or partial messages, but it was made increasingly evident that the sabotage of the palace organization, plus the terrific emotional impact of the disgrace of key administrators, had played hob with the normal, smooth functioning of the PanAsian government. Finally Downer said, "Here's a general order going out Wait a minute -- It orders a radio silence on all clear-speech messages; everything has to be coded."
Ardmore glanced at Thomas. "I guess that is about the right point, Jeff. Somebody with horse sense and poise is trying to whip them back into shape -- probably our old pal, the Prince. Time to stymie him." He rang the communications office. "O.K., Steeves," he said to the face of the watch officer, "give them power!"
"Jam 'em?
"That's right. Warn all temples through Circuit A, and let them all do it at once."
"They are standing by now, sir. Execute?"
"Very well -- execute!"
Wilkie had developed a simple little device whereby the tremendous power of the temple projectors could be rectified, if desired, to undifferentiated electromagnetic radiation in the radio frequencies -- static. Now they cut loose like sunspots, electrical storms, and aurora, all hooked up together.
Downer was seen to snatch the headphones from his ears. "For the love o' -- Why didn't somebody warn me?" He reapproached one receiver cautiously to an ear, and shook his head. "Dead. I'll bet we've burned out every receiver in the country."
"Maybe so," observed Ardmore to those in his office, "but we'll keep jamming them just the same. " At that moment, in all the United States, there remained no general communication system but the pararadio of the cult of Mota. The Asiatic rulers could not even fall back on wired telephony; the obsolete ground lines had long since been salvaged for their copper.
"How much longer, Chief?" asked Thomas.
"Not very long. We let 'em talk long enough for them to know something, hellacious is happening all over the country. Now we've cut 'em off. That should produce a feeling of panic. I want to let that panic have time to ripen and spread to every PanAsian in the country. When I figure they are ripe, we'll sock it to 'em!"
"How will you tell?"
"I can't. It will be on hunch, between ourselves.
We'll let the little darlings run around in circles for a while, not over an hour, then give 'em the works."
Dr. Brooks nervously attempted to make conversation. "It certainly will be a relief to have this entire matter settled once and for always. It's been very trying at times --" His voice trailed off.
Ardmore turned on him. "Don't ever think we can settle things 'once and for always.' "
"But surely -- if we defeat the PanAsians decisively --"
"That's where you are wrong about it." The nervous strain he was under showed in his brusque manner. "We got into this jam by thinking we could settle things once and for always.. We met the Asiatic threat by the Nonintercourse Act and by big West coast defenses -- so they came at us over the north pole!
"We should have known better; there were plenty of lessons in history. The old French Republic tried to freeze events to one pattern with the Versailles Treaty. When that didn't work they built the Maginot Line and went to sleep behind it. What did it get them? Final blackout!
"Life is a dynamic process and can't be made static. '-- and they all lived happily ever after' is fairy-tale stu --" He was interrupted by the jangling of a bell and the red flashing of the emergency transparency.
The face of the communications watch officer snapped into view on the reflectophone screen. "Major Ardmore!"
It was gone and replaced by the features of Frank
Mitsui, contorted .with apprehension. "Major!" he burst out. "Colonel Calhoun -- he's gone crazy!" "Easy, man, easy! What's happened?" "He gave me the slip -- he's gone up the temple. He thinks he's the god Mota!"
666CHAPTER TWELVE
Ardmore cut frank off by switching to the communications watch officer. "Get me the control board in the great altar -- move!"
He got it, but it was not the operator on watch that Ardmore saw. Instead it was Calhoun, bending over the console of controls. The operator was collapsed in his chair, head lolled to the right. Ardmore cut the connection at once and dived for the door.
Thomas and Brooks competed for second place, leaving the orderly a hopelessly outdistanced fourth. The three swept up the gravity chute to the temple level at maximum acceleration, and slammed out onto the temple floor. The altar lay before them, a hundred feet away.
"I assigned Frank to watch him," Thomas was trying to say when Calhoun stuck his head over the upper rail of the altar.
"Stand fast!"
They stood. Brooks whispered, "He's got the heavy projector trained on us. Careful, Major!"
"I know it," Ardmore acknowledged, letting the words slip out of one side of his mouth. He cleared his throat. "Colonel Calhoun!"
"I am the great Lord Mota. Careful how you speak to me!"
"Yes, certainly, Lord Mota. But tell thy servant something -- isn't Colonel Calhoun one of your attributes?"
Calhoun considered this. "Sometimes," he finally answered, "sometimes I think that he is. Yes, he is."
"Then I wish to speak to Colonel Calhoun." Ardmore eased forward a few steps.
"Stand still!" Calhoun crouched rigid over the projector. "My lightnings are set for white men -- take care!"
"Watch it, Chief," whispered Thomas, "he can blast the whole damn place with that thing."
"Don't I know it!" Ardmore answered voicelessly, and started to resume the verbal tight-rope walk. But something had diverted Calhoun's attention. They saw him turn his head, then hastily swing the heavy projector around and depress its controls with both hands. He raised his head almost immediately, seemed to make some readjustment of the projector, and depressed the controls again. Almost simultaneously some heavy body struck him; he fell from sight behind the rail.
On the floor of the altar platform they found Calhoun struggling. But his arms were held, his legs pinioned by the limbs of a short stocky brown man -- Frank Mitsui. Frank's eyes were lifeless china, his muscles rigid.
It took four men to force Calhoun into an improvised straitjacket and to carry him down to sick bay. "As I figure it," said Thomas, watching the work party remove their psychotic burden, "Dr. Calhoun had the projector set to kill white men. The first blast didn't harm Frank, and he had to stop to reset the controls. That saved us."
"Yes -- but not Frank."
"Well -- you know his story. That second blast must have hit him while he was actually in the air -- full power. Did you feel his arms? Coagulated instantaneously -- like a hard-boiled egg."