“Strange,” mused the ruler. “And last night a star flew from the East to the West and fell into darkness.” The natives of many lands are as superstitious about the marvels of nature as were the Incas. “Is it a good omen, think you?”
“Royal Inca, son of the Sun,” answered his priest, “when the royal Atahualpa was on the eve of capture by the men of white faces, it is told by our haravecs—poets, minstrels—that a star fell!”
“Even so,” growled the Inca, “if Chasca comes to spell my doom, I care not whether he come from the Sun or from Cupay—the god of evil—I will sink an arrow into his flesh!”
“Not so!” the priest of the Sun was shaking with suppressed dismay. “Oh, Inca, royal though you be, say not thus.”
“How be, if I am of the Sun a son—shall I then fear one of his vassals—a page?”
The other noble, a high councillor, spoke softly.
“Fear not, Inca, neither anger the messenger. When gods begin to fling arrows other gods may be stronger—or weaker.”
That evening, just before the moon rose from behind the cliff on which they camped, Tom and Nicky crouched over a tiny electric battery.
“There’s Bill’s signal,” whispered Tom. Nicky closed a switch.
“Come, Incas, come and watch your first fireworks display!” chuckled Nicky. “I hope it works!” he added.