Part 3

"I should have thought you almost the last person in the world to become interested in a news writer," he said. "To me, the most repugnant of persons is a nosey newspaper reporter."

"Reporters are not repugnant to me," Pat replied quickly. "I've never met one in my life, so why should I feel any contempt for them?"

"Thanks," said the Prince. "That's what I wanted to know."

"Don't be a cad," Pat retorted. "There is no more harm in my knowing a reporter than in knowing you."

"Well," said the Prince, "it's like this. If I ever caught you talking to a reporter, I'd lead you away by the ear."

"Really," Pat smiled dryly, as the color mounted her cheeks. "If any one but you, Prince Matani, had made such a threat, I should refuse to have anything more to do with him. As it is--oh, why be so fussed over something that hasn't happened, and may never occur?"

I wondered why the Prince should make such a silly and indiscreet remark. I could see that this little flash of petty jealousy and cruelty that lay hidden under his formal and polite exterior had annoyed Henry, although his voice was very kind as he continued to exchange pleasantries with the princeling. In fact, Henry conversed on every topic save that nearest his heart. It was only with the entry of dessert and the departure of Orkins that he came back to realities.

"Now, listen, everyone," he said. "Olinski and I have kept something to ourselves as long as possible, and now, assuming that some ungrateful, treacherous culprit has betrayed our secret to the Daily Recorder, we have decided to announce our discovery privately tonight."

"I see," the Prince commented, with a disdainful edge to his voice; "you are going to tell us something important, and we are supposed to know nothing until, of course, this McGinity, the reporter, gets the story, and his paper is adorned with your portraits."

Henry fixed a cold and disparaging gaze on the Prince for a moment, and then continued, with an even voice. "The servants are to know nothing, and no one present here must breathe a word of it." He paused a moment. "No one has anything to say? Very well. Instead of having coffee served in the library, we shall dispense with that formality and proceed at once to the observatory."

It was not long before we were gathered in the dome-ceilinged room in one of the peaked towers, where Henry carried on his astronomical observations. I was in an exultant mood, not because we were to be let in on a great secret, but rather on account of Pat. My heart sang with glee, and I suppressed a desire to whistle and whoop; and I thanked my stars that McGinity was up to his favorite tricks again. Unwittingly, by his telephone call, I felt sure he had forestalled the announcement of Pat's engagement to the Prince.

Henry constituted himself both host and lecturer. Pat and the Prince seemed quite happy together again, their little tilt at the dinner table apparently forgotten. But the evening had not progressed very far before I was again struck by the curious mixture of impudence and rashness in the Prince. I wondered if all men of his social caste possessed this overbearing consciousness of superiority.

After we were comfortably grouped about the room, Henry touched a button in the wall, and a section of the dome-shaped glass roof slid back. Simultaneously, the electrically propelled telescope moved majestically into place. A click of an electric switch and the room was partially darkened. We gazed upward into a bright field of twinkling planets, stretching above us like a dark blue velvet canopy, studded with gilt paper stars.

At Henry's invitation, Pat and the Prince viewed the ruddy-hued planet Mars through the telescope. As they enjoyed the close-up of this most famous of faraway planets, he grew discoursive.

"Mars is now at the nearest point to the earth for the first time in one hundred years," he said, "and its south-pole is turned towards us. It is one-half the diameter of the earth, and its day is but half an hour longer than our own."

"And you really think the planet is inhabited by people like ourselves?" Pat said, her imagination seemingly enthralled by the gorgeous night spectacle of the planet.

"Why not?" Henry smiled. "Mars has oxygen, the breath of life, diluted with nitrogen, the same as the air of the earth. Its physical conditions for life closely resemble our own."

"Do I understand you to say that you believe life on Mars is similar to our own, and as far advanced as our own civilization?" the Prince interrogated.

"First, let me explain more fully the physical conditions on the planet," Henry said. "Mars has its seasons, which essentially resemble the earth's. That white spot you observed in the neighborhood of its south-pole is a polar cap of ice and snow, just now reforming after shrinking and melting away during the summer. Those greenish-blue areas you saw in the planet's southern hemisphere, parallel to the equator, are the vegetated sections--the tropical jungles."

"And what's all this tommyrot about canals being distributed like a network over the planet's surface, and supplying water from the melting polar snow-caps for the vegetation of Mars?" the Prince asked, a little impudently.

"Dr. Percival Lowell made the first study of these strange geometric tracings, on the regularity of the 'canal' patterns," Henry responded quietly. "On his studies was based largely the theory that the planet is inhabited.

"If your little country of Georgia, in southern Russia," he continued, "was slowly drying up and there were available large quantities of water from melting snow and ice at certain locations in your northern and southern boundaries, you would soon build canals, or ditches, for irrigation purposes, wouldn't you? You would--if you had any brains."

The Prince eyed him speculatively, and replied, "But I have failed to see any markings of these so-called canals on Mars, through your telescope. Why is that?"

"Objects on Mars less than ten miles in size cannot be seen clearly except through the largest telescopes," he answered. "These patterns follow the curves of great circles. Several of them appear to pass through the same point. At these spots 'lakes' are observed."

"Isn't there the possibility of an optical illusion about all this?" the Prince persisted. "Isn't it possible that you and other astronomers let your imagination run riot, and create in your mind these conditions on Mars necessary to sustain life, patterned after those existing on earth?"

"Nothing of the sort," Henry replied in exasperation. "The existence of life there is evidenced by the presence of free oxygen in the atmosphere."

"Do you mean to say that men and women of flesh and blood, with brains, like those who walk the earth, populate this dried-up planet?" the Prince said. "Ah, it is too impossible!"

"Yes, Uncle Henry, it does seem almost beyond human conception," Pat interjected.

"Furthermore," the Prince went on, "authoritative sources claim that no creature with warm blood could survive there, with the temperature ranging between 150 and 250 degrees. A cold-blooded creature might freeze and then thaw out, but a warm-blooded one would freeze and remain dead as a door nail. The indications, I fear, are that your inhabitants of Mars are in the order of--of sublimated lobsters."

"Lobsters!" Pat repeated, laughing.

"Don't be an ass, Your Highness," Olinski interposed at that point. "Or, at any rate, try not to be an ass."

"But it all sounds so deuced silly," exclaimed the Prince, in some heat. "You know yourself, Mr. Olinski, that science has definitely proved that Mars cannot support life as we know it. You may as well admit," he continued, turning again to Henry, "that you really have no proof except your own imagination that there is life on Mars. Providing there is some sort of living organisms there, it is utterly absurd and preposterous to claim that life is as much advanced, physically and intellectually, as our own."

"But I have proof," Henry announced firmly. "Mr. Olinski and I have demonstrated that fact."

"I don't catch the point, really," said the Prince.

"Then listen attentively, Your Highness," said Olinski, "and you'll get an earful." Motioning to Henry, he added: "Let's have it."

"Yes," said Henry, in a deeply serious voice, "we have completely proved that life not only exists on Mars, but that in some respects civilization there is more advanced, especially in the sciences, than on earth."

"Life as we know it here on this sphere?" Jane inquired. "How extraordinary."

Henry nodded, and said: "It is information on our discovery, which has leaked out in some mysterious way, that this reporter, McGinity, apparently, is seeking. But we are not yet ready to divulge our secret findings until we have arranged to give a public demonstration."

"Oh, how thrilling!" Pat ejaculated. "And when will that be?"

"Probably within a week," Henry replied.

The Prince whistled. "Well, somebody's going dotty," he said. "That's all I've got to say. It's too utterly absurd--impossible."

"But it is possible," Henry said. "Radio has made it technically possible. Radio has successfully bridged the hitherto impassable sidereal abyss between earth and Mars--annihilated space."

"I'm not an authority on radio," the Prince grumbled.

"Every American schoolboy knows with what tremendous velocity radio spins round the earth, seven and one-half times in one second," Henry went on. "Now, we know it jumps from planet to planet. Its echo actually has come back to us from outside the orbit of the moon."

"I dare say the Martians have been listening in to our short wave broadcasts, symphony orchestras and jazz?" the Prince remarked. "Am I right?"

"Quite," answered Henry.

"Nevertheless," said the Prince, "I've read on good authority that our short waves can't possibly penetrate the outer layer of the earth's atmosphere, and so reach outer space. However, tell us what you and Mr. Olinski have discovered."

"And remember," Olinski broke in, "no one is to breathe a word of this to any one but the five of us who already know of it."

"Except to this reporter, McGinity, of course," the Prince added, with a sarcastic note.

"Keep calm, Your Highness," Olinski murmured, impatiently.

"H'm," said Henry, and then he began. "After many months of intense application, we have at last established direct radio communication with Mars by the use of short, high frequency waves, with which, as I said before, there is no limit to distance.

"The registering of mysterious galactic radio waves from outer space has long been puzzling the scientific world. As the intensity of these waves is very low, we constructed a very delicately-strung apparatus for their reception. At first, we got a strange group of sounds which baffled us completely. Less than a month ago, however, one night, about ten o'clock, our apparatus began to register a series of distinct dots and dashes. But these signals were in no known code, beginning on a low note and ending with a sort of 'zipp.'

"Outstanding were four distinct groups of four dashes, which convinced us that some form of intelligence in the upper atmosphere was striving for inter-galactic communication. They registered regularly, night after night, about the same time, ten o'clock. Now, here comes the amazing part. While I was busily engaged making measurements, and taking photographs, Mars, at present, being on its periodic parade past the earth, Mr. Olinski succeeded in decoding these four dashes. They turned out to be the signal of the transmitting station on Mars. We could not very well be mistaken, because when we replied, giving our station signal, in the same code, we got an answer.

"Last night, at the same hour, we established definite connection with this station on Mars, after considerable difficulty in making ourselves known to them. You see, the Martians do not know this planet by the name of 'Earth,' as we call it. They have given this world the appellation of the 'Blue Sphere,' which is quite natural, as the earth to Mars appears to be veiled in blue.

"On the other hand, we made the mistake of calling their planet, 'Mars.' Apparently, by their signaling, they were curious as to the meaning of the word. This gave us cause to think that it might be known to its inhabitants under an entirely different name. Later, it was proved that we were right, because the Martian station said so. They call their own planet, the 'Red Sphere.'"

At that point, Henry brought his startling disclosures to an abrupt conclusion. A sort of awe fell among us. The news of this wonderful scientific achievement had petrified us all in complete silence.

IV

As we sat in silence, my brain seemed somewhat numbed and dulled after the exaltation and excitement of the strange revelation. My mental condition was such that I wanted to believe that Henry and his co-worker, Olinski, had done this extraordinary thing, and yet I was unable, somehow, to believe that they had. How could it be possible? And yet it was certainly as possible as it was utterly improbable.

I wondered if the reaction of the others to this tremendous discovery had been similar to mine. As far as the Prince was concerned, it struck me that it had. I had never known him to be so daring, assured, and insolent before, and I felt quite sure that he had shown himself to Henry in such an unfavorable light that his chances for winning Pat's hand had already passed outside the realm of the possible.

Thank God the wretched business was going to end--and yet, and yet ... my mind was just going off on a new tack when, without warning, a thunder-storm broke over our heads. A summer squall, which so often sweeps down on the Sound, playing havoc with all sailing-craft.

Scarcely half an hour before, the sky over us had been serenely starlit and cloudless. Now it had become black as ink and streaked with lightning. The wind howled and the tower seemed to tremble under the heavy assault of the elements.

Before Henry could get the sectional glass roof closed, the rain poured in, collecting in little pools on the floor. Jane climbed up on her chair, fearful of getting her feet wet. Alarmed in the semi-darkness, I managed to find the switch, and turned on all the lights.

To my great dismay, the sudden illumination disclosed that Pat was quite under the Prince's spell again. They were discovered, snuggled together on a divan, the Prince's arm encircling her waist. She extricated herself gracefully, with a half-nervous laugh, and then went back again to his protecting embrace with a little squeal of fright, when a flash of lightning showed through the glass dome like red fire, followed instantly by a deafening crash of thunder that seemed to rend the castle in twain.

"What a relief it would be," said Jane, as she climbed down from her chair, "if the Creator had given us thunderless lightning."

Her feet had no sooner touched the floor when we all, with one accord, stared inquiringly at each other. In the lull that so often follows a thunder-clap, we heard from the outside a distant, muffled cry of distress. A few moments later, in the renewed rush and beat of the wind and rain, we heard it again. This time it was a distinct cry of "Help! Help!"

Visions of the angry sea taking its toll raced through my mind, while I thought: "Oh, God! Pity the poor sailor that has to be out on a night like this!" And while these things were going through my mind, Henry was taking action. He had jumped to the house telephone, and was giving orders downstairs for our two strong-armed chauffeurs, George and William, to get their flashlights, and seek out and save the person in distress.

While Henry was searching frantically in a wardrobe for his rain-coat, which he always kept conveniently near him for emergencies, the dark, excited face of Niki, the valet, suddenly appeared at the stairs, just showing above the floor level like a head without a body.

"Oh, Meester Royce!" cried Niki, in a high-pitched, nervous voice. "Come--queeck! A man he has been washed ashore. He call for--help."

Niki's head disappeared, and there was a general and excited rush from the observatory. Pat led the way. She was down the narrow stairs, and flying along the dark corridor to the elevator before Henry could get into his rain-coat. Some minutes passed before we found ourselves assembled in the entrance hall on the main floor.

Henry stood just outside the front door, shouting instructions to the two chauffeurs. Pat and the Prince stood at a French window, which opened on the terrace, peering out into the black and tempestuous night.

Greatly to Henry's annoyance, I kept the front door open just a crack. I felt it my duty to see what was going on, and to impart such information to those inside. Presently, I heard one of the chauffeurs calling to Henry. "There's a man lying on the sand near the dock," he shouted.

Henry cupped his mouth with his hands, megaphone fashion, and called back: "Do you think he fell off the cliff?"

"No," came the reply, to a very foolish question, I thought.

"Who is he?" Henry shouted again; really a more foolish question than the first one. "Anybody you know?"

"A stranger," was the chauffeur's reply.

Ten minutes later, the two husky chauffeurs came slowly across the terrace, supporting between them a bedraggled, hatless young man, who seemed to have some difficulty in walking. The stranger's fortunate rescue--from what cruel fate, of course, we did not know at the time--was a signal for Pat to let out a cry of mingled thankfulness and relief. "Oh, goody! He's alive!" she exclaimed. Then, pressing her face closer to the rain-washed window, she added: "I--I wonder who he is?"

One glance was sufficient to show Henry who he was. But I'm sure I gave a far louder exclamation of astonishment than my brother.

"God bless my life and soul!" I exclaimed. "It's Bob McGinity, the Daily Recorder reporter!"

Just as suddenly as the recognition had come, the reporter shook himself free of the two chauffeurs, and rushed up to Henry.

"Mr. Royce!" he said, excitedly. "Will--will you please confirm the report that--er--that you and Serge Olinski have established radio connection with Mars?"

Henry for a moment remained perfectly still and mute. His face looked as dark as the thunder-clouds that were sweeping over the castle. I saw the whole thing now, clearly enough. The reporter's predicament had been self-imposed; a ruse to gain personal contact with Henry which had been denied him by telephone. Anxiously, and puzzled, I watched closely the two of them.

"Can't I have a word with you--inside?" the reporter pleaded desperately. The rain ran in little rivers down his face; his dark, disheveled, kinky hair fringed his brow like the little, curled, rat-tail bangs that were fashionable when my grandmother was a girl. "I'm sorry, sir, if I've put you to so much inconvenience," he went on, "but in a case like this--momentous discovery--well, I've got--"

He got no further. "Not another word!" Henry interrupted sternly, raising his hand as though to command silence. Turning to the chauffeurs, he ordered, in a low, harsh voice: "Take him round to the garage, and dry him out. Then turn him loose--and--be damned with him!"

Just then, I heard a slight sound at my elbow. Pat, somehow, had wedged her pretty head under my arm, and was peering through the crack of the door. I had been so engrossed in the unhappy but thrilling scene outside, I hadn't noticed her presence. Apparently she had seen and heard everything. As the two chauffeurs, with a firm grip on the reporter, marched him off to the garage, she spoke. But what she said was inarticulate. It sounded to me like a heart-cry.

And then, suddenly, an idea came to me. Under her little harmless affectations and artificialities, Pat was very human. She had contacted very few young men outside her own exclusive social set; she knew very little of the outside world. Since childhood, she had been guarded and protected from the world's disillusions and ugliness, a protection which only great wealth like ours can give; and she still had the sweet and tender heart of a child.

Now, it was plain to me, she did not approve of the way Henry was treating the reporter. A fleeting glimpse of his youth and good looks, so unlike Henry's description, seemed to increase her interest in him. Oldish, fat, and almost bald--indeed! Pity for the handsome young stranger had touched her heart; and pity so often borders on that emotional danger zone: love.

Of all the unlooked for contingencies which could have arisen, this seemed to be about the worst. While I shared with Henry the honest indignation he felt at what he considered unjustifiable trickery and intrusion, yet I knew, deep down in me, I would side with Pat should she take the reporter's part. On this she seemed determined, judging from the expression on her face, cold and resolute, as Henry entered the hall, still snorting with anger.

In the clatter of voices that followed his return from the field of storm and conflict, the voice of Pat rose in steady crescendo.

"Uncle Henry! How could you be so inhuman?" she exclaimed. "You make us all feel--so cheap."

Jane stretched out a warning hand. "Now, darling!" she admonished; "this is not necessary."

"It is necessary!" replied Pat. "Uncle Henry has behaved shamefully, and should be scolded. I've half a mind to go to the garage myself, and apologize to this reporter for Uncle's cruel and unspeakable behavior."

Henry regarded her quizzically for a moment, then smiled. "This has nothing to do with you, my dear," he said, as Orkins relieved him of his rain-coat and hat. "Why, I acted in the reporter's best interests. I sent him to the garage to be dried out when I should have booted him off the premises."

"But he's wet--and miserable--and disappointed," said Pat, gravely.

"And whose fault is it? Not mine, certainly." Henry chuckled.

"He hasn't a dry stitch on him," moaned Pat; "he may catch pneumonia. You should send him some dry clothes, and go yourself, and give him this information he's worked so hard to get. You really ought!"

"No!" thundered Henry, suddenly. "No matter if the papers send an army of reporters in motors, ships or airplanes, I refuse to give any information until the proper time, not if they tear the roof off." He took several fierce strides up and down the hall, then stopped dead, and again faced Pat. "Why, may I ask, are you so concerned in this driveling lunatic for news--this interfering, meddlesome young swine? Why?"

There was a pause. Pat's face took on a wistful look. Then she replied: "Why? Because I feel sorry for him, I guess. Oh, you don't know, Uncle, how wonderful this reporter seems to me. Never thinking of himself--taking dangerous risks--just to get news for his paper. I never realized until now how people who haven't much money, have to struggle to make a living. But I suppose life is like that--outside," she went on, half meditatively: "struggle and disappointment. In time, I dare say I'll find out more about life and get used to it, and pretend not to care--"

"Now, my dear, you're tired out," Jane broke in, in gentle solicitude. "You've had a tiring day." She laid an entreating hand on Pat's arm. "Better go to bed."

But once an idea was planted in Pat's brain, she clung to it tenaciously. Disregarding Jane, and still addressing Henry, she continued: "But I wouldn't get used to it, and I shall always care--always!"

"Care about what?" snapped Henry.

"Oh, just feeling I'm better than other people--poor, common people, and not caring what happens to them. No! I'll be darned if I will!"

"Patricia!" Jane chided.