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Eliot James swore. “That’s a lousy libel. Why—Von Beitz is one of the whitest men I know. A great brain. And nerve! I fought side by side with that guy in Michigan, and—why—hell! He’s practically a brother of mine. Why do you think I went out scouring the other cities last month, and why do you think I’ve been in every corner of this burg looking? Because Von Beitz wouldn’t turn us in for his life—that’s why.”
The handsome Shirley Cotton nodded. “I agree. But everybody’s nervous these days.”
“The Lord knows there’s enough to make them nervous—”
They were interrupted by a banging on the door.
“Come in!” James called.
The door swung inward automatically. On the threshold stood Duquesne. He was ordinarily of ruddy complexion, but now his face was white. “Have you seen Tony?” he asked.
“No. What’s the trouble?”
The Frenchman stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him. “I have searched everywhere.”
James leaped to his feet. “You don’t mean that Tony—”
“Oh—no, not lost. Just busy somewhere.” Duquesne regarded the man
and woman for a moment. “I was in a hurry to find him, because I have some very interesting information. I shall tell you. It is for the moment confidential.”
“Sit,” said the writer, as he had to his previous guest. “What’s it about?”
“The source of our power.”
James leaned forward. “You found it?”
“Not specifically. I have clung to the theory that power was generated under the city. When we learned that the interior of the planet was still warm, it seemed plausible that the power was generated from that heat—deep in the earth. So I explored. It was difficult. All the electrical connections are built into the very foundation of the city. They cannot be traced. My assistants meanwhile studied the plans of the city—we found many. The clew in them pointed always toward a place in the earth. We finally—this morning—located that place. It is far underground. But it is not a generating plant. No.”
“What is it, then?” James asked.
“A relay-station. A mere series of transformers. Stupendous in size and capacity. From it lead the great conduits—out, underground, deep down—toward the north. The station for this city is not here. It is as we suspected, in some other city—or place. And all the cities near here derive their power from that place. That is the explanation of why, when the lights came in one city, they came in all. It was a central plant which had been turned on—and which supplied every city.”
“That’s a very interesting confirmation,” James said.
Duquesne snorted. “My dear young man! Can’t you think of more to say than that it is interesting?”
James leaned back. “I see. You mean that now it is sure that they have control of our power.”
“Exactly.”
“And they can shut it off whenever they wish.”
“Precisely.”
“So that—when it gets colder—they can cut our power and not only put out our lights, but stop our heat.”
“Right.”
James tapped on his desk with the pencil he had been using.
“How much chance,” he asked, “have we of setting up a power-station of our own—a station big enough to heat a couple of buildings, and light them, all winter?”
Duquesne shrugged. “What do we use for fuel?”
“Not coal—we’ve seen none. Or oil. How about wood? Those forests?”
“And how do we get wood here?”
