The G-Bomb. John Russell Fearn

and mind-force. They cannot devise a barrier to the mind-emanations we will send forth. Violence amongst them must be fostered to the greatest possible extent. We shall never perpetuate our race to its full glory otherwise. However, come with me now and I will show you those whom I have selected for our plan.”

      The Leader rose, and with unhurried dignity, led the way from the chamber, his contemporaries following behind him. They passed down the immaculate, polished corridors of the large vessel, and so finally gained the giant laboratory wherein was housed all the creative genius of the aliens.

      At the entrance the Leader glanced behind him at his followers. “Actual hypnosis en masse, I have found, cannot be used. The law of self-preservation, highly developed in Earthlings, prevents them from absorbing hypnotic orders to kill themselves.”

      The Leader led the way to a section of the gigantic laboratory where the astronomical observations were being conducted. Although they were a million miles above the surface of the planet the huge X-ray devices incorporated in the reflectors penetrated straight through intervening atmosphere and solids as if it were glass. Nor were the telescopic mirrors anything like those on Earth. They worked magnetically, absorbing light-photons and then amplifying them, with the result that images up to millions of miles away were reproduced with almost their original size upon the receiver screen before which the alien expedition now stood

      “First,” the Leader said, touching a button, “I wish you to see the man who, I trust, will become prime mover in our cosmic chess game. He has been intimately studied, his brain analysed, and his hopes and ambitions clarified. Here he is.”

      Under the actuation of countless controls the telescopic equipment picked up a solitary point upon the planet Earth, a million miles away, and there appeared on the screen a pin-sharp image of an elderly man, sixty perhaps, poring over a mass of sketches and scientific notes. In appearance he was nondescript with straggly grey hair, a thin face, and small body. In fact, his general attire and the surroundings amidst which he was working conveyed the impression that he was not too well-blessed with the world’s goods.

      “His name,” the Leader said, “is Jonas Glebe. To us a peculiar name: to him, as an Earthling, quite normal. He lives in a country called England in a town—or rather a city—called London. He has one daughter, Margaret, who whilst not possessing any of his scientific tendencies, is nevertheless his bosom companion when she is not engaged on a task that occupies her every day. Apparently, as did the members of our civilisation in the long-dead past. Earth people work daily at some particular task, usually one for which they are neither mentally nor physically fitted, and in return they receive money, the balance of which—after dues to the State and other bodies—they are allowed to retain to keep themselves alive. A curious, archaic mode of existence, my friends.”

      The aliens watched the elderly man busy with his papers. Presently they saw him fling them aside in disgust and sit pondering.

      “On the dial here,” the Leader said, nodding to it, “you see recorded his mental-energy quotient. It is not a high one, but finely balanced. Observe—”

      The others looked and saw a delicate electro-magnetic needle hovering around the a reading that was approximately one third of the highest possible mental rating known to their science and rarely reached even by their master-brains.

      “Yes, fairly high,” the Leader repeated, “and being finely balanced it will be capable of receiving the mental suggestions we shall project at him. By profession he is a small-time scientist and has made a little money by means of what the Earthlings call ‘gadgets’, but he could certainly do with a good deal more. Now, let us suppose that we plant in his brain the secret of the gravity-bomb. He will claim it as his own idea, of course, and endeavour to market it. Since he will not know where to start we shall have to mentally suggest to him that he deals with this person. Observe him—”

      Under the manipulation of the telescopic controls the view of Jonas Glebe faded from view and was gradually replaced by one of a man seated in an opulent office. There were six telephones on his enormous desk and behind him was an immense window giving a view over the dreary roofs of London. The man himself was very square-shouldered with iron-grey hair, closely-cut, sensual lips, and rather prominent eyes. In dress he was immaculate and costly rings glittered on his fat fingers as he thumbed through stacks of documents.

      “You are looking at Miles Rutter,” the Leader explained. “I am not sure that is his real name, but in any event he is the second protagonist in our experiment. He is a man of power, tremendous wealth and influence, and under various names controls many enterprises, most of them connected with Earth’s basic necessities like metals, food transport lines, and so forth. He has tremendous ambitions. This man Rutter wants the world, like many before him, and he has every conceivable means of achieving his ambition—except one. He has no scientific weapon powerful enough to set fire to the tinder pile. With the G-Bomb, my friends, we can provide the missing factor.”

      “Agreed.”

      “There,” the Leader said, switching off, “we have the two main characters. The one with the G-Bomb, and the other with the ruthless ambition necessary to destroy the human race in his effort to dominate it. Nothing could be simpler or, I hope, more certain of success.”

      “Who have we on the other side?” one of the expedition asked, as the Leader stood musing amidst the apparatus.

      “The other side?”

      “Yes. It has always seemed to me that no matter what destroyer a man invents, there is always somebody clever enough to devise a defence. I cannot believe that on this thickly-populated world of Earth there will not be a scientist capable of finding a deterrent to the Gravity-Bomb.”

      The Leader smiled. “You are rating the intelligence of these Earth people extremely high, my friend, which is not at all a sensible procedure. Though we have not, of course, gone through the involved task of testing every Earth mind individually we have at least discovered that the vast majority range around one fifth of our abilities. That is extremely poor. Here and there an exception does touch the thirty percent mark. In Jonas Glebe alone have we found a registration of thirty-five.”

      “Which means he is the cleverest man on Earth?”

      “Potentially, yes, but even the cleverest man cannot prove his power unless he offers something superbly brilliant—and that is what the G-Bomb will seem to be. Have no fear. There is not a man or woman on Earth capable of finding a neutraliser for the G-Bomb. All we have to do is transmit the details of it, and then watch Earth people gradually set about the task of destroying each other.”

      The aliens nodded but asked no further questions. As far as they could see there were none to ask. The fact that a pair of men on Earth were going to become pawns in their game that did not concern them in the least. They had long since passed the point where they had any sentiment for living beings, as such. All of them, even their own people, were but units to be handled as science deemed best.

      The Leader crossed to a massive apparatus with a keyboard like the manual of an organ. A switch started a pale emerald beam projecting downwards so that it completely enveloped the Ruler’s head. With a gradually deepening dreamy look in his eyes, he sat back, mechanical aids operating the keyboard for him. He concentrated—and the others watched and made no utterance.

      * * * *

      It was the click of the door latch that made Jonas Glebe glance up quickly. He blinked, surprised to notice how much the gloom of the winter afternoon had closed in. The small living room was cold and full of grey shadows. Against the solitary window with its faded net curtains the rain was battering relentlessly.

      “Why, dad, what on earth’s the idea?” Margaret Glebe came into the gloomy room and switched on the light. Her father blinked in the abrupt glare and Margaret, her wet rainproof gleaming, observed him in concern.

      “Anything the matter, dad?” She came over to him quickly. “You’re not—not ill or anything?”

      “Bless you, dear, no. I was just lost in thought. I sort of forgot everything.”

      Margaret