A little less than an hour later, Captain Lacey and Mr. Thorn were in the dining room of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York. Most clubs in New York are labeled as “exclusive” because they exclude certain people who do not measure up to their standards of wealth. A man who makes less than, say, one hundred thousand dollars a year would not even qualify for scrutiny by the Executive Committee. There is one club in Manhattan which reaches what is probably close to the limit on that kind of exclusiveness: Members must be white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant Americans who can trace their ancestry as white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant Americans back at least as far as the American Revolution without exception, and who are worth at least ten millions, and who can show that the fortune came into the family at least four generations back. No others need apply. It is said that this club is not a very congenial one because the two members hate each other.
The club in which Lacey and Thorn ate their dinner is not of that sort. It is composed of military and naval officers and certain civilian career men in the United States Government. These men are professionals. Not one of them would ever resign from government service. They are dedicated, heart, body, and soul to the United States of America. The life, public and private, of every man Jack of them is an open book to every other member. Of the three living men who have held—and the one who at present holds—the title of President of the United States, only one was a member of the club before he held that high office.
As an exclusive club, they rank well above England’s House of Peers and just a shade below the College of Cardinals of the Roman Catholic Church.
Captain Lacey was a member. Mr. Richard Thorn was not, but he was among those few who qualify to be invited as guests. The carefully guarded precincts of the club were among the very few in which these two men could talk openly and at ease.
After the duck came the brandy, both men having declined dessert. And over the brandy—that ultra-rare Five Star Hennessy which is procurable only by certain people and is believed by many not to exist at all—Captain Lacey finally asked the question that had been bothering him for so long.
“Thorn,” he said, “three months ago that battery didn’t exist. I know it and you know it. Who was the genius who invented it?”
Thorn smiled, and there was a subtle wryness in the smile. “Genius is the word, I suppose. Now that the contracts with the Navy have been signed, I can give you the straight story. But you’re wrong in saying that the thing didn’t exist three months ago. It did. We just didn’t know about it, that’s all.”
Lacey raised his bushy, iron-gray eyebrows. “Oh? And how did it come to the attention of North American Carbide & Metals?”
Thorn puffed out his cheeks and blew out his breath softly before he began talking, as though he were composing his beginning sentences in his mind. Then he said: “The first I heard about it was four months ago. Considering what’s happened since then, it seems a lot longer.” He inhaled deeply from his brandy snifter before continuing. “As head of the development labs for NAC&M, I was asked to take part as a witness to a demonstration that had been arranged through some of the other officers of the company. It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats, where—”
It was to take place out on Salt Lake Flats, where there was no chance of hanky-panky. Richard Thorn—who held a Ph.D. from one of the finest technological colleges in the East, but who preferred to be addressed as “Mister”—