long-drawn-out moaning of the fog-horn. Nothing else. . . . Yes! A dim and distant muttering. It drew nearer and died away again.
"That is a plane," said Bell. "Yes. It's out of hearing now."
Ortiz clamped his jaws together.
"I was about to speak," he said steadily, "to tell you—many things. Which your government should know. Instead, I ask you to go to the wireless room and have the wireless operator try to get in touch with that plane. It is a two-motored seaplane and it has a wireless outfit. It will answer the call M.S.T.R. Ask him to use his directional wireless and try to guide it to the ship. It brings the antidote to the poison which affects me."
Bell made for the door. Ortiz raised his head with a ghastly smile.
"Close the door tightly," he said quietly. "I—I feel as if I shall be unpleasant."
CLOSING the door behind him. Bell felt rather like a man in a nightmare. He made for the stairway, bolted for the deck, and fairly darted up the ladder to the wireless room.
"Ortiz sent me," he said to the operator. "You heard that plane just now. See if you can get it."
The operator looked up at him beneath a green eyeshade and grinned crookedly.
"Talking to 'em now," he said.
The key flicked up and down, and a tiny dancing spark leaped into being and vanished beneath its contact-point. The wireless room was dark save for the bright, shaded light above the sending table. A file of sent messages by an elbow. A pad for messages received was by a band. Stray wreaths of tobacco smoke floated about the room, leaping into view as they drifted beneath the lamp.
"Is he bad?" asked the operator fascinatedly, his eyes fixed on his key.
Bell felt his eyelids flicker.
"Very bad," he said shortly.
"They tell me," said the operator, and shuddered, "your hands get working and you can't stop 'em. . . . I'm playing, I am! I'm playing The Master's game!"
THE key stopped. He listened.
"They're going to try to swoop over the ship and drop it," he said a moment later. "I don't think they can. But tell Ortiz they're going to try."
Bell's eyes were narrow. It is not customary for a radio operator on a passenger ship to speak of an ex-Cabinet Minister of the Argentine Republic by his surname only. It bespeaks either impertinence or a certain very peculiar association. Bell frowned imperceptibly for an instant, thinking.
"You've—had it?" he asked sharply.
"God, no! I never took the chance! I saw the red spots once, and I went to Rib—Say! You got a password?"
He was staring up at Bell. Bell shrugged.
"I'm trying to help Senor Ortiz now."
The operator continued to stare, his eyes full of suspicion. Then he grimaced.
"All right. Go tell him they're going to drop it."
BELL went out. Gray fog, and washing seas, and the big ship ploughing steadily on toward the south. . . . The horn blared, startlingly loud and unspeakably doleful. Bell listened for other sounds. There were none.
Down the steep ladder to the promenade deck. Paula Canalejas nodded to him.
"I saw you speak to Senor Ortiz," she said quietly. "You see?"
Bell was beginning to have a peculiar, horrible suspicion. It was incredible, but it was inevitable.
"I think I see," he said harshly. "But I don't dare believe it. Keep quiet and don't speak to me unless I give you some sign it's safe! It's—hellish!"
He went inside and swiftly down
