Poison in Their Blood
I listened no more, for we were dropping swiftly to a broad platform of the red metal. Upon it were long lines of the thick-bodied red airplanes. And at one side was the larger ship into which I had seen three prisoners taken.
"—the army, ready to start," I heard the red-faced man again. "I'll be over New York tomorrow." He raised his bottle unsteadily.
Our machine was dropped lightly to the top of the great ship. Two red-clad mechanics moved through our compartment, toward the rear. In the next little room we found them waiting, when my guard had made me follow. They held a round metal door, above a dark opening in the floor. It seems that the machines were placed with openings opposite, and were clamped together to prevent loss of air.
"Crawl through. Pronto!" said the guard, giving me another prod with his bayonet and pointing to the hole.
I put my hands on the edge of the opening, dropped through, and found myself in a dark chamber—for a second, alone. It was the opportunity I had been awaiting. I slipped out the little tube of the Doctor's. On the night before, I had set the little dial. Now I pushed over the little lever that lit the tube, and played the invisible beam through the opening.
My guard climbed through, suspicious and in haste, evidently unconscious of the beam. I slipped the tube under my coat, to hide its crimson glow, playing the ray over him again, and over the mechanics and my two fellow-passengers, as they came through. I heard footsteps, and a light flashed on. I saw that we were in a long, low room, with a door at the farther end. Four men, in red uniform, with rifles, were approaching. Hopelessly, I gave them the benefit of the ray, but still nothing happened.
"Move on, Pard," my guard muttered. "The Master waits." He gave me another vigorous prod with the blade. (He seemed to enjoy his prerogative immensely.)
I still had the tube in my hand, concealed against my coat. Though it seemed to have no effect, I was missing no chances. We passed through a door at the end of the room, into another fitted up like a luxurious office. At a paper-littered desk, the lunatic, Vars, was sitting with three other men, who, for all their looks, might have been ex-pugilists or bootlegger kings (or both).