Even though I was appalled by the fact of such power in Kavanagh’s irresponsible hands, I was spellbound by it; I couldn’t speak. Slade, too, was dumbstruck.
“I had a vision of a plague spreading across the world as in Biblical times,” Kavanagh said, “created not by God, but by man. A plague so deadly and so relentless that the combined power of all the nations in the world couldn’t stop it. That was when I conceived the idea of inventing a weapon of war, based on my discovery.”
Nor had it occurred to him that he might use his knowledge for the benefit of his fellow humans. Their welfare had never meant anything to him, as his mother had explained.
“From a jar of dust to a weapon of war. That is quite a big leap,” Slade said.
Kavanagh appeared not to notice Slade’s sarcastic tone. “Too big a leap for small minds to follow,” he said smugly. “I became aware of that when I tried to interest the British government in my invention. I’d run out of money to develop my weapon, and I thought that the government would be glad to provide it.” A scowl darkened his face. “None of the officials I approached was interested. Everyone thought I was a crackpot.”
“Not everyone,” Slade murmured to me. “I gather that Wilhelm Stieber has spies inside the government who heard about the weapon. That must be how he caught wind of Kavanagh.”
“All except for Lord Eastbourne,” Kavanagh said. “He advanced me the funds. He was willing to take a chance on me. But he turned out to be a deceitful, dishonorable villain.”
“Just how do you plan to disperse your cultures widely enough to infect large populations?” Slade said. “By riding around on a bicycle equipped with a bellows, like a circus clown? You would be stopped before you got very far.”
Kavanagh waved his hand, dismissing the contraption we’d seen at his laboratory. “That was an early concept. I’ve devised a much more effective system. I’ll show you.”
He crouched by his cart and placed a funnel inside a cylindrical metal canister that was perhaps ten inches tall and six in diameter, with a narrow opening. Then he pried up the lid of a small wooden cask. The odor that wafted from it was smoky, acrid, and sulfurous.
“That’s gunpowder,” Slade said in dismay as Kavanagh poured it into the funnel and black dust hazed the air. “For God’s sake, man, keep it away from the lamp!”
“Don’t worry,” Kavanagh said. “I know what I’m doing.”
Awful realization struck me. “He’s building a bomb!”
He pointed a blackened finger at me and grinned; his teeth were stained with wine and decay. “The lady is absolutely right.” He removed the funnel and wiped his hands on his trousers. “All it needs is an igniting device and a fuse.”
He took up a short copper tube, crimped one end shut with a pliers, then filled it with a substance that looked like salt, from a glass jar. Some spilled on the floor. Slade said, “Be careful. Those chemicals are dangerous.”
“They won’t explode until I’m ready.” Kavanagh threw a pinch of gunpowder into the tube, which he jammed inside the mouth of the canister. He mixed a paste of water and gunpowder and coated it onto a length of thick cotton twine. He stuck this fuse into the tube, then unpacked four jars of his culture, positioned them closely around the container, and secured them with a buckled leather strap. He proudly surveyed his handiwork. “There!”
Slade and I stared, aghast.
“When the bomb is detonated, the jars will shatter,” Kavanagh explained. “The blast will disperse the powdered culture. The wind will spread it far, far abroad.”
“It won’t work,” Slade said, but he looked as shaken as I was.
“It will,” Kavanagh said, all preening confidence. “The world will see.”
“What are you talking about?” Deepening horror pervaded Slade’s voice. “How will the world see?”
“At my demonstration,” Kavanagh said.
“You mean to set off the bomb?” I said, shocked beyond shock.
“Yes, in a public place where many people are gathered, where many can witness its effects firsthand.” Kavanagh rubbed his hands together and smiled with gleeful anticipation. “It will be the biggest experiment ever conducted in the history of science!”
“But the bomb will kill hundreds of innocent people,” I said, even though I knew Kavanagh wouldn’t care. “Hundreds more will become infected with the disease and die.”
“Thousands, most likely.” Kavanagh was nonchalant. “That’s an inevitable consequence of scientific research-experimental subjects must be sacrificed.”
There was that chilling word again, which had made me shiver when I’d read it in his journal. Slade said, “You’ll die, too. If the bomb doesn’t blow up in your face, the disease will kill you. You’re not immune to it, even though you think you’re a god.”
“That’s all right. I’m willing to be a martyr.” The hubris suddenly drained from Kavanagh; he turned sorrowful and resigned. “I haven’t long to live, anyway. This morning I woke up feeling more unwell than usual.” He drew a deep, wheezing breath, then coughed so hard that his face reddened and he held his ribs. “I must have inhaled some of the culture.” He shrugged. “I’m as good as dead right now.”
Slade and I looked at each other with fresh consternation. Kavanagh might have infected us!
“Don’t worry,” Kavanagh said. “You haven’t been exposed to the culture, and the disease doesn’t spread from person to person. You’ll live to tell the world everything I’ve told you, after I’m gone.”
This, then, was the role he intended Slade and me to filclass="underline" he needed his story publicized, his genius revealed, and we were to be his spokesmen.
Kavanagh tenderly placed the bomb on the cart. “I’ll say goodbye now.” His burning eyes had the farsighted look of a soldier going to the battlefield. He grasped the cart’s handles.
“Wait,” Slade protested. “You can’t leave us in this cage. How are we going to tell anyone anything while we’re locked up? You have to let us out!”
“Oh. I almost forgot. Here.” Kavanagh tossed a long, slender object into the cage, at our feet. It was a metal file. “Use that to saw through the bars. By the time you get out, my demonstration will have taken place already.”
“When?” Slade demanded. “Where?”
“Within two or three days,” Kavanagh said. “That’s how much time I have before I’m too ill to do it. As to where-” His parting glance at us was mischievous and chilling. “You’ll know soon enough.”
Then he shuffled away, pushing the cart laden with death.
37
“Dr. Kavanagh!” I called. “Please come back!”
“Come back, damn you!” Slade shouted, rattling the bars of the cage.
Kavanagh did not heed our pleas. After their echoes faded, all we heard was the draft sighing through the dungeon.
We looked at each other, and in spite of our dismay, my heart lifted. Even though Slade and I were trapped in this dire predicament, we were together. Our marriage had multiplied our individual powers. If anyone could escape this prison, Slade and I would.
Slade smiled; he’d read my thoughts. “It may be all over for Niall Kavanagh, but it isn’t for us.”
“Not yet, at any rate.” I gave Slade my hairpin.
He set to work on the lock, but the mechanism was stiff; the hairpin broke. So did the others I gave him. Slade took up the file that Kavanagh had left us. He sawed a few strokes on a bar of the cage, then on the shank of the lock. “The lock seems to be made of a softer alloy, and there’s only one piece we need to cut in order to get out.”
He filed two scratches on opposite sides of the shank, indicating where we should cut. We took turns filing. It was slow, tedious work. The file was dull, and soon became duller. After some three hours we’d barely managed to nick the lock. We developed sore, running blisters on our fingers. The oil in the lamp burned down; the flame went out. Slade and I continued working in pitch darkness. We blindly passed the file to each other. My ears rang with the rasp of metal against metal. The lock seemed to grow thicker as I labored. We must have continued all day, or night, or around the clock-I knew not which. We grew hungry, thirsty, and tired. After an eternity, we stopped to rest.