nold of the Thirtieth Century.
"As you know, my seventeenth experimental process was successful in producing a deadly gas, which spreads over unbelievable distances, killing all living things, even penetrating to the depths of the seas. I can not stress this too forcibly—it is this identical gas which I have given freely to my new compatriots.
"A fleet of Martian ships, loosing this horror in Earth's atmosphere, would destroy all life, within minutes after the bombs had burst. No known gas-mask protects the wearers. One whiff—blotto!"
Mrs. Downs sat erect, with a little cry of recognition. Blotto—an ancient slang word that Hugh had picked up from one of his father's dog-eared books from the Twentieth Century. No one else said that!
"It's Hugh, all right!" she cried. Shame drew her whitened head down to her breast again. The tears rolled down her withered cheeks, unchecked, unheeded.
"At present I am a prisoner at Roalla, it is true, but I have been treated very well, and not harmed in any way. When my adopted Empire is victorious, I shall become Governor of Kokkalla Province. I acted as I thought best—without coercion—" The low voice faltered for a moment, then continued, more forcibly. "Heed this warning, and do not act rashly."
THE President nodded, his strong, deep-lined face full of sympathy. He motioned to the technician, who shut off the machine and removed it from the room.
No one spoke, momentarily. The racking sobs of the little, heart-broken mother moved the men, deeply. She fought for control, and raised her head, bravely, expecting to see scorn written on every face. Instead, the President smiled at her, encouragingly. The others looked grimly sympathetic.
"Mrs. Downs," said the President, slowly, "we accept the identification of the voice, without question. We suspected a Martian ruse. Now we know how to proceed."
"Please don't think too harshly of my boy," she pleaded, brokenly. "He's all I have, since his father was lost with the 'Idaho,' off Saturn."
"When this is over, your son will be rewarded as he deserves," said Admiral Newton.
"Does that mean—a heat-ray squad?" she asked, tearfully.
"Mrs. Downs," replied the President, gently, "it happens that the result of the seventeenth experiment was deadly, all right, but it proved very unstable, especially in the presence of one substance. Your son had completed an eighteenth experiment, correcting the faults of the seventeenth."
"Oh—I see. But what—?"
"The Martians do not know that. Your son managed to dispatch the eighteenth formula to us, before he was kidnaped. The Martians are using the seventeenth formula, a gas which explodes with great violence after being in the vicinity of Erotane for about twenty hours, even though tightly sealed in containers."
A dawning light of hope and pride checked the tears. Could he mean that Hugh was not a traitor, after all?
"Your son merits the highest honors we are able to bestow. The Martians will load their battle fleet with his deadly gas, but will never reach Earth. You see, they use Erotane in all Martian ships, as fuel."
FOR THE BEST IN FANTASY FICTION—FANTASTIC ADVENTURES
