The death crystal

by George O. Smith

A mile across the plain, a billowing white cloud was rising.

Claverly greeted Dave. Claverly was a bit shaken, and more than a little abashed. "The relay station," he said, pointing at the rising cloud.

"Oh?" remarked Crandall. He asked, frowning, "Anybody in there?"

"No."

Crandall smiled wryly. "That's a relief," he said. "But I didn't have time to ask where that tube went. I might have blown up the administration building."

Claverly laughed. "About all you've done is to cut a large hole in the coast-to-coast pneumo," he said. "No jury in the world would convict you."

DeLieb came around from the other side of the building. "There," he said, "but for the Grace of God—" pointing at the billowing pillar of smoke. "Thanks, Dave. This makes you unique, you know."

"Unique?"

"You are the only living man who has seen one of those devils' rocks in operation."

"We were all there," objected Dave, "and how about the Manhattan Crystal?"