Sir John Pilrig decided that it was a fortunate circumstance, this interview with a scientist unknown and lacking credentials. Not only had Brian Strong afforded valuable information, but he had unreservedly placed his invention at the Government's disposal. Should the invention come up to expectations—and there was no reason why it should not, judging by the results obtained by the Rioguayan flying-boats on the Cerro Algarrobo engagement—it would reduce the rival aerial forces to a state of stalemate. It was, of course, unfortunate that the secret was in hostile hands, he mused, but there was some satisfaction to be derived from the knowledge that the Rioguayan air forces were not the sole possessors of the mysterious rays.
And—a remarkable fact, decided the Deputy Chief of Staff—the inventor had asked nothing, either for himself or his nephew—a rarity in these days of mercenary offers in the name of patriotism.
By eleven o'clock on the morning following the momentous interview, Brian Strong, with Peter Corbold as his chief assistant, reported for duty at Whale Island Naval Gunnery Establishment—an artificially-constructed island in the upper reaches of Portsmouth Harbour.
Already a large building had been allocated to them as an experimental workshop, complete with lathes, benches, moulds, and drawing-office, with electric light and power, and with a small staff of armourers and electricians—the pick of the highly-skilled naval artificers of the Gunnery School.
There, behind closed doors—for no one save the Commodore was allowed entrance—Brian Strong set to work to reconstruct the device that, for all time, it was hoped, was to draw the sting from the terror of the skies.
At 4.45 of the same afternoon, a look-out of the R.N. signal station at Culver Cliff in the Isle of Wight heard the rumble of distant gunfire. There was nothing extraordinary in that. Men-of-war carrying out gunnery practice in the Channel, he decided.
But when, almost simultaneously, he heard the shriek of a projectile, his interest became aroused. It was part of his duty to warn ships, when, as sometimes happened, the ricochetting shells pitched against the chalk cliff, of the possible danger to life and property of His Majesty's liege subjects.
"Bill!" he shouted to his opposite number, who was industriously engaged in mending frayed signal flags in the room under the look-out place. "Stand by to 'oist 'height nought nine'. The Spanker—'er wot went out this mornin'—is a-lobbin' 4.7's ashore."
Having shared the responsibility of taking action, the signalman applied his eye to a large telescope mounted on a tripod.
From his elevated post, the look-out hut being 350 feet above sea-level, the horizon line was roughly twenty-five miles away. The sea was calm, the atmosphere clear, except for a few patches of mist that threatened to develop into a sea-fog.