Wiley stood regarding his fellow plotters in silence. An unpleasant smirk formed itself upon his lips.
"Well, don't worry, boys. In the long run, a day or two more or less won't matter."
"No, I'll be cursed if it will!" growled Hogarth. "Nothing in hell will matter if we die along with everybody else!"
Wiley gasped. "What makes you so damned cheerful?"
"Well, how we going to save ourselves? I'm putting it to you straight, old man. What if we are world dictators? We're doomed like every beetle and rat on this crazy planet. The whole rotten globe is going to freeze!"
"Afraid that's so," agreed Malvine, with a wry puckering of his long, fox-like face. "We've tried hard enough, but we've about shot our bolt. Frankly, there isn't any known principle by which we can get the Deflector working again."
For the first time, a pallor had come across Wiley's features. He was the scheming brains of the firm, but had not kept up on his science, and always took his colleagues' word on technical matters.
For a while, he remained silent, his saturnine face grave with thought. "By thunder," he finally broke out, "I'm not going to let myself die just yet—not when I've got the world in my hands! There's one man who'll be able to help out with that damned Deflector."
"Who's your genius?" sneered Malvine.
"Well, who but this fellow Holcomb?"