He swung on his heel, crossed the room, and stood quiet, with a firm hand upon the Elton switch.
Jim called impatiently, “Come on, everybody. Let’s get away.”
For one brief instant my gaze through the forward opened end of the building caught a brief vista of the peaceful Hudson countryside. Hills, and trees in the starlight, my own earth—my home.
The huge convex door of the vehicle swung ponderously closed upon us.
“Come to the instrument room,” said Dr. Weatherby.
We sat on the couch, huddled in a group. The bull’s-eye windows, made to withstand any pressure, were nevertheless ground in such a way that vision through them was crystal clear. The one beside me showed the interior of the workshop with Mascar standing at the Elton switch.
He had already thrown it. I could not hear the hum. But I saw the current’s effect upon Mascar. He was standing rigid, tense, and gripping the switch as though clinging. And then, with his other hand, he seized a discharging wire planted near at hand, so that the current left him comparatively unaffected.
Still I could feel nothing. My mind was whirling. What was it I expected to feel? I do not know. Dr. Weatherby had assured us we would undergo no terrifying experience; he seemed to have no fear for the girls. But how could he be sure?
The walls of the workshop now were luminous; Mascar’s motionless figure was a black blob of shadow in the glowing, snapping interior of the room. Sparks were crackling out there. But here in the vehicle there was nothing save a heavy silence; and the air was cold, dank, tomblike.