"Schenec—"
"Schenectady Project." Mooney nodded. "You've heard of the atom bomb? Uncle Lester, this is bigger!"
"Bigger than the at—"
"Bigger. It's the molecule bomb. There aren't seventy-five men in the country that know what that so-called driver in the truck was up to, and now you're one of them."
Mooney nodded soberly, feeling his power. The old man was hooked, tied and delivered. He could tell by the look in the eyes, by the quivering of the lips. Now was the time to slip the contract in his hand; or, in the present instance, to—
"I'll tell you what to do," whispered Mooney. "Here's my key. You go up to my room. Don't knock—we don't want to attract attention. Walk right in. You'll see a man there and he'll explain everything. Understand?"
"Why—why, sure, Howard. But why don't you come with me?"
Mooney raised a hand warningly. "You might be followed. I'll have to keep a lookout."
Five minutes later, when Mooney tapped on the door of the room—three taps, pause, three taps—and cautiously pushed it open, the pale blue mist was just disappearing. Harse was standing angrily in the center of the room with the jointed metal thing thrust out ominously before him.
And of Uncle Lester, there was no trace at all.