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 hand. 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 the stairs. He found a steward hesitating outside the door of Ortiz's cabin. He touched Bell's arm anxiously as he was about to go in.
"Beg pardon, sir," he said, and stammered. "I – I heard Mr. Ortiz making some – very strange noises, sir. I – I thought he was sick…"
"He is," said Bell grimly. "He told me he does not want a doctor, though. I'm looking after him."
He closed the door behind him, and Ortiz grinned at him. It was a horrible, a terrible grin, and Ortiz fought it from his face with a terrific effort of will. There was foam about his lips.
"Dios! It was – it was devilish!" he gasped. "Senor Bell, amigo mio, for the love of the good God get my revolver from my trunk. Give it to me…"
Bell said shortly: "The airplane just radioed that it's going to try to swoop overhead and drop a package on board the steamer. It doesn't dare alight in this fog."
"I think," gasped Ortiz, "I think it would be well to tie my feet. Tie them fast! If – if the package comes, if I – if I am unpleasant, knock me unconscious and pour it into my mouth. I fear it is too late now. But try it…"
Through the port came the muttering of a seaplane's engines. The noise died away. Almost instantly the siren boomed hoarsely.
"Ah, Dios!" said Ortiz unsteadily. "There it is! Senor Bell, I think it is too late. Would you – would you assist me to go out on deck, where I might fling myself overboard? I – think I can control my legs so long."
"Steady!" said Bell, wrenched by the sight of the man before him fighting against unnameable horror. "Tell me – "
"It is poison," said Ortiz, his features fixed in a terrible effort of will. "A ghastly, a horrible poison of the Indios of Matto Grosso, in Brazil. It drives a man mad, murder mad. It is as if he were possessed by a devil. His hands first refuse to obey him. His feet next. And then his body. It is as if a devil had seized hold of his body and carried it about doing murder with it. A part of the brain is driven insane, and a man goes about shrieking with the horror of what crimes his body commits until the poison reaches that portion of his brain as well. Then he is mad forever. That is what I face, amigo mio. That is why I beg you, I implore you, to kill me or assist me to the side of the ship so that I may fling myself overboard! The Master had it administered to me secretly, and demanded treason as the price of the antidote. He deman – "
Steady and strong, rising from a muttering to a steady roar, the sound of airplane motors came through the port. Bell started up.
"Hold fast," he snapped savagely. "I'll go get that package when it lands. Hold fast, I tell you! Fight it!"
He flung out of the cabin and raced up the stairs. The door to the deck was open. He crowded through a group of passengers who had discounted the dampness for the sake of a novelty – an airplane far out at sea – and raced up to the upper deck. The roaring noise was receding. The siren roared hoarsely. Then the noise came back.
For minutes, then, the ship seemed to play hide-and-seek with the invisible fliers. The roaring noise overhead circled about, now near, now seeming very far away. And the siren sent its dismal blasts out into the grayness all about. Then, for an instant, a swiftly scudding shadow was visible overhead. It banked steeply and vanished, and seemed to have turned and come lower when it reappeared a moment later. It was not distinct, at first. It was merely a silhouette of darker gray against the all-enveloping mist. But its edges sharpened and became clear. One could make out struts, an aileron's trailing edge.
"Got nerve, anyhow," said Bell grimly.
It swept across the ship and disappeared, but the noise of its engines did not dwindle more than a little. The blast of the siren seemed to summon it back again. Once more it came in sight, and this time it dived steeply, flashed across the forecastle deck amid a hideous uproar, desperately, horribly close to the dangling derrick-cables, and was gone.
Bell had seen it more clearly than anyone else on the ship, perhaps. He saw a man in the pilot's cockpit between wings and tail reach high and fling something downward, something with a long streamer attached to it. Bell had an instant's glimpse of the goggled face. Then he was darting forward, watching the thing that fell.
It took only a second. Two at most. But the thing seemed to fall with infinite deliberation, the streamer shivering out behind it. It fell at a steep slant, the forward momentum of the plane's speed added to its own drop. It swooped down, slanting toward the rail…
Bell groaned. It struck the rail itself, and bounced. A sailor flung himself toward it. The streamer slipped from his fingers and slithered over the side.
Bell was at the railing just in time to see it drop into the water. He opened his mouth to shout, and saw it sink. The last of the streamer followed the dropped object down into the green water when it was directly below him.
His hands clenched. Bell stared sickly at the spot where it had vanished. An instant later he had whirled and was thrusting wide the wireless room door. The operator was returning to his key, grinning crookedly. He looked up sidewise.
"Tell them it went overside," snapped Bell. "Tell them to try it again. Ortiz is in hell! To try again! He's dying!"
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