“Their comparative isolation in the last century seems to have bred a race of malcontents and war-mongers,” Hurst commented.
The Master brooded, then said: “Thank you, Ambassador Hurst. That will be all.”
Hurst rose, inclined his head, and took his departure. He had not been gone five minutes before the Master again pressed a button on his desk, and this time it was a thick-necked young man with broad shoulders, powerful hands, and a slightly intelligent forehead who came into the office. He had the easy stride of a man used to physical activity and, though well-dressed, gave the impression that he would have been happier in. an open-necked shirt and working slacks.
“You have been trying to see me for some time, Mister Bradley,” the Master commented, eyeing him. “I have admired your persistence, but not until now have I deemed it worth my while to grant you an interview. Take a seat.”
“Thank you, Master.” Clem Bradley sat down, his sharp gray eyes on the Master’s tired, intellectual features.
“I understand,” the Master continued, “that you are the technical chief of the Roton Gun Engineering Company?”
“That’s right, Master. At the moment it is a very small company, I’m afraid, but at least I appreciate your kindness in granting me a license to get started.”
“That was not kindness, Mister Bradley. You were granted a license because it appeared to me, and my technical experts that you had developed a blast gun with significant possibilities. It would have been foolish to baulk you in your efforts to use this revolutionary gun. I am glad your little company is on its feet. What kind of contracts have you been getting?”
Clem shrugged. “Oh, small ones. Doing a little mining in one place, blasting away ancient buildings in another. But we’ll grow. I’ve got the business knowledge and my partner Buck Cardew is the right one to handle men. Between us we’ll have a powerful company one day.”
“I am glad to hear it.” The Master consulted a file and then sat back in his chair. “However, Mister Bradley, I did not of course summon you here to congratulate you upon your company. I am going to assign to you a project which calls exclusively for blasting equipment such as you possess.”
Clem’s expression changed suddenly. “You — you mean a Government contract, sir?”
“Obviously. I wonder if you recall, some little while ago, there being talk of a protective tower for this city in case of missile attack? You may remember that it was suggested we should have a mile-high tower, its summit equipped with every known radiation, the projectors emitting them to have universal movement to protect the city below on every side.”
“I remember it vaguely,” Clem admitted. “It was not given a very big public airing.”
“For obvious reasons. The public at that time would have reacted unfavorably to such an expenditure of money. Today, when hints keep leaking out of an impending crisis with the East, it is only sensible that we look to our defenses. So the Protection Tower — to give it its correct name — will come into being. The plans were drawn up long ago and I shall instruct the necessary engineers to go to work, immediately. Before they can do so the foundation shafts must be made, and for a tower a mile high they must of necessity be extremely deep.”
“You want the Roton Gun Company to drill them?” Clem asked eagerly.
“Exactly. The site we have selected, some fifteen miles from the southern coast, has a great deal of bedrock in it, chiefly to hold the tower foundations secure, and only the very finest blasting equipment will be able to make an impression. I am giving you the chance, Mister Bradley. When complete the tower will dominate the city at its southern end and also be the guardian of the sea as well. Now, here is the sketch plan of the foundation depth.”
Clem leaned forward, and from that moment onwards for the next half-hour he and the Master were in deep consultation. By the time he left Clem was not quite sure whether he was dreaming or not. A Government contract was the one thing needed to put any scientific business on its feet, and it seemed that the miracle had happened.
It definitely had, for the next day Clem, and his burly, iron-fisted partner Buck Cardew, transferred their men and equipment to the selected site fifteen miles from the south coast and began operations.
It was on the ninth day that they ran into difficulties, though when the morning shift began, there was no hint of trouble. Clem, looking about him on the surging activity deep below ground, mopped his face with his sweat-rag and settled his steel helmet more comfortably on his head.
“Another thousand feet ought to see this foundation space fully cleared,” he commented. “We’ve been cutting clean since we started and the next push should finish it.”
Square-jawed Buck Cardew nodded. In appearance there was little to choose between him and Clem — except that Clem was obviously the man with the brains whereas, for handling gangs of men and moving equipment, there couldn’t have been a better man anywhere than Buck Cardew.
“The Company’s on its feet to stay,” Buck grinned. “Thanks to the Master and his mile-high building—” He broke off and released a throaty bellow. “Hey there? What in hell are you boys wasting time about over there? Don’t you realize we’ve got a deadline? Stop standing around and get on with the job.”
“Can’t!” the ganger called back through his radiophone. “There’s a barrier here which even the blast-gun won’t cut. Come and take a look.”
“He’s crazy,” Clem growled. “That gun of mine will blast anything in earth or space. Maybe they’re just plain sick of groping around down here, and I wouldn’t blame ’em. A surface demolition’s much more interesting and healthy.”
“They’re paid to work, and they will!” Buck retorted. “I’ll soon settle ’em! Let’s see what they’re grousing about.”
Together he and Clem strode through the loose rubble of the floodlit space where the men were standing around the drilling apparatus. Buck put his hands on his hips and stared at the barrier facing the gun’s blunted nozzle.
“Turn it on there!” he ordered.
A blasting, ear-shattering roar instantly followed, but that stream of livid, tearing energy which had been known to go through successive walls of steel, granite and diamond simply deflected itself in a coiling streamer of brilliant blue sparks.
“Kill it!” Clem yelled. “What do you want to do? Blow us up with a backlash?”
Then as the commotion died down he clambered to the barrier and examined it carefully. It seemed to be dead black. “Put out those lights!” he ordered.
The moment they went out and darkness descended it became clear that the barrier was not black but swarming with violet radiance. There seemed to be a multitude of pinpricks floating around in a vast bowl.
“What in blazes is it?” Buck Cardew demanded, as the lights returned.
“As a scientist,” Clem answered slowly, “I’d say that it is force!”
“Huh? Force? But how did it get there?”
“Don’t ask me. But I believe it is force built up into a resilient wall that simply deflects our gun-blast, much the same as the force-shields on our modern spaceships deflect meteorites. Looks as if we’ve run into something unusual. Have to weigh it up.”
Clem stepped back and started making a rough plan and sketch of the situation. Then, under his direction, prompted by Buck Cardew’s bellowing voice, the gun was trained until it struck ordinary rock around the edge of the area. Gradually a way was cut round until the blue-black circle remained isolated.
Mystified, Clem and Buck clambered through into a deep cavern and stood staring in the light of their helmet lamps.