The Other Side of Here

The three fugitives dived behind steel doors. Then they hunted busily. They found the lieutenant-commander in charge of the destroyer. Waldron unloaded a high-frequency pack from the festoons of ammunition and oddments with which he was burdened. He put the pack on the naval officer and turned it on. A little tongue of metal began to vibrate. A tiny blue spark flickered and danced. High-frequency currents, which could not even be felt, coursed through the officer's body.

He had been in the act of drinking a cup of coffee when the "plague" struck his ship. Now he swallowed automatically, stared at the three barbarically armored figures who stood before him. Hearing the crashing sound of dynamite explosions about and upon his ship, he leaped to his feet "Commander," said Waldron sharply, "your ship's being attacked by the gang that's responsible for the so-called plague you've probably heard of. Your crew is under its influence now and you have been. But if you'll help us, Nick and I will get an arc going and—"

From a distance, the destroyer would have seemed to be in a bad way, during the next quarter of an hour. It floated aimlessly upon the sea. Planes darted about and above it, raining down small black sticks which sometimes exploded when they hit the water and sometimes did not, but always blew up when they hit the ship. Flames and smoke arose from each impact.

But suddenly the war vessel awoke. Its commander's voice roared out of the speakers which filled every deck and compartment with sound. Order after order left his lips. And in the Navy men obey orders first and ask questions afterward.

At one instant the destroyer was a helpless, floating hulk with the reek of detonated dynamite about it. The next instant its guns stirred. Men flung themselves across its decks to anti-aircraft stations. And suddenly the ship was spitting flames exclusively its own.

And now the amateurishness of the pilots and their low-speed planes was fatal. Strictly professional anti-aircraft fire blasted the slow-flying planes. When three went down in six seconds, the others tried to flee. One vanished in a sheet of flame when its dynamite cargo was hit.

None of the planes reached shore. It appeared, however, that one of them had reported despairingly by its radio before it hit the ocean. But that discovery was made later.

As of now, the destroyer got up steam. It moved steadily for New York—not at full speed in the beginning. Its electricians worked busily. They had plenty of help.

And presently the destroyer did put on full speed. It was some hours later, mid-morning, when she approached the harbor from the sea. Smoke pouring from her funnels, white water hissing at her bows, she came steaming in the Narrows with a vengeful confidence. The invaders had gotten one great bombing plane aloft. It circled and dived upon the cocky naval ship—and such a storm of anti-aircraft fire poured upon it that it reeled dizzily and crashed into the water not far from Bedloe's Island.

Then there were monstrous detonations on shore. The forts at the Narrows were firing point-blank. But the guns were not designed for such short-range work, and their desperate, improvised gun crews did not know their jobs. The guns did not average two shots apiece. Not one was a hit.

The destroyer disdainfully refused to return such fire. She swept on.

She came up the East River, floating to a stop opposite the great powerhouse. Then small boats dropped from her sides. Each was loaded with men and each man carried contrivances designed by the ship's electricians, but often made by their wearers. They were very simple—merely battery-driven spark-makers. Leads picked up the high-frequency surges made by the sparks and conducted them to the flesh of the men. That was all there was to it.

The boats neared shore and something stirred on land. Machine-gun fire from the boats swept the landing. As the sailors came close, some hand grenades were lobbed ashore. The rifle fire from shore ceased and scale-armored figures fled.

The boats docked. Compact groups of zestful fighters swung into action, and these men were not driven into battle by "Leaders" with whips.

To the cracking of rifles, they went into the powerhouse. Tumultuous gunfire and the explosion of grenades kept up for perhaps five minutes. Then that noise stopped. Other boats put ashore from the destroyer. These were not to reinforce the landing party. They raced for the navy yard. Their crews also landed. Wearing their portable high-frequency packs and carrying extras, they vanished into other naval ships.

Then a strange quiet descended. The two cities—the city on both banks of the river—were utterly still and utterly silent. The ships of the harbor were grounded or sunk or still drifted helplessly with the tides. The streets were empty of all save stiffened, grotesquely posed bodies. Not even rats scurried in the sewers. Not even insects flew.

The only visible signs of life were close together. One was a destroyer of the United States Navy, with smoke pouring from her funnels and her screw turning just fast enough to keep her opposite the powerhouse. The powerhouse itself trickled smoke from only one of its tall stacks. From within it, at long intervals, came perhaps one shot, or two, or perhaps a flurry of three or four.