Within half an hour the main details of what we had to tell were drawn from us by swift questions. There were no by-paths. No astonishment; no theories. Half a dozen men of science arrived shortly after we were brought in. They listened; they stated the scientific laws—well known in this age—which made credible what we had to say.
It was a narrow room of metallic, vaultlike aspect. Ten men sat around a table littered with documents, reports and summaries of the Turber affair; and the more recently compiled data on us. Mirrors and grids with moving images of distant scenes were on the walls; ovals of windows and a swinging door disclosed an adjacent room humming with the sounds of instruments; messengers passed in and out. There was a table in a corner with instruments and two intent operators.
The business concerning us was dispatched with a celerity that left us both confused. The interrogation of us was suddenly nearly over. The president of the Great New York Branch of Anglo-Saxonia demanded of Alan:
"You say your tower will return with a weapon for us to use against Turber?"
"Yes. That is, we hope so."
"What sort of a weapon?"
"We don't know. A projector—"
"Electronic, probably." He was obviously greatly interested.
I said: "But you must have such weapons here."
"No. Our world aerial power makes them inoperative. There was a class of weapons up to the years around 2000, called explosives. And then came the electronic weapons. We have none of them. They would not operate—and war itself is obsolete—"