There was a roar behind him. The water hitting the acid in the copper kettle ignited it. Water acts that way on sulphuric acid. You can mix sulphuric acid with water by pouring the acid into the water slowly, and stirring constantly. But you can’t dash a quantity of water into the acid — not without a terrific conflagration.
Flames leaped from the kettle, scorched Quade’s legs. Grimly he held his bound wrists into the flame. Fire seared his hands; perspiration came out on his forehead, but Quade stood, with his teeth gritted together.
The chances were even that he would burn to death, be mutilated so badly he would be physically incapacitated. But he had to take the gamble.
And he won. A strand of rope gave; another. Then Quade jerked his wrists apart. He cried out from the pain as the burning rope bit into the already seared flesh — but the rope gave.
He fell to the floor, away from the fire. His clothing was burning but he smothered it quickly. He burned the rope from around his ankles. Then he leaped to his feet. The clock said three minutes to four!
Running out of the foundry Quade pounded through the machine shops. He burst into the recreation room, noted with apprehension that it was entirely empty, then started for the door which led to the stairs and the office. That was as far as he got.
A terrific explosion rocked the building. Quade wheeled sharply to the door leading out to the side of the building. He burst out into a milling, wild-eyed hysterical crowd of men.
The stampede of them almost knocked Quade off his feet. He smashed a man furiously in the face, bowled another off his feet, then seeing a vantage spot, leaped through and made the front of the crowd.
The sight that met his eyes made him sick. Just inside the fence, almost directly under the office windows, was a deep hole in the ground. All around it milled men in uniforms. Officers were shouting commands, the men were forming ranks.
But on the ground lay two huddled bodies. And Quade saw blood on the face of another uniformed man being led away by two of his comrades.
He saw all that. And then a solid rank of Guardsmen formed. Quade heard the sharp commands of an officer.
“Fix bayonets!”
Quade pivoted frantically. The sit-down strikers were no longer milling. They saw the threat of the khaki formation but they were not retreating!
“Clear the grounds and the plant!” came the National Guard officer’s terse command. “Squads, wedge!”
With smooth precision, the men formed a wedge of each squad, one man in the front, three flanking him diagonally on each side and an eighth closing up the rear. Bayonets glistened.
Then the three hundred disorganized, massed sit-down strikers began rumbling; shouts of defiance went up.
Quade knew that there would be slaughter here. He was between the strikers and the Guardsmen. He would be swept out of the way, probably bayoneted. But he held his ground. He threw up his hands, cried out to the National Guard officer.
“Wait a minute! The man responsible for that bomb — he’s up there in the window. He’s not one of these men!”
In the second floor office windows were several white faces, that of Bob Olinger — Peter Walsh, Murphy, Ford Smith — and Henry Jackson. Olinger and Jackson were crowded into one window, the others into another. Quade pointed at the window containing Olinger and Jackson.
“Olinger!” he cried at the top of his voice. “Grab Jackson! Bring him down here!”
“Get out of the way, you!” roared the National Guard officer at Quade.
Quade took a step forward, half turned. Jackson’s head disappeared from the window. Olinger lunged backwards, disappeared, and then Jackson appeared again. In his hands was the thirty-thirty repeating rifle.
“Here it is, Quade!” Jackson yelled. The rifle snapped to his shoulder — crashed! But no bullet struck Quade; none even kicked up dirt around him.
Jackson was still framed in the window, but the rifle was dropping from his numbed hands… and Jackson’s face was a horror of blood.
He fell forward, hung half in the window and half out.
“The gun back-fired!” someone said hoarsely, in the sudden stillness.
Quade took the opportunity to spring up to the National Guard officer. “Hold your men. There won’t be any fight now. That was the man responsible for all the trouble! He shot Sheriff Spiess this morning, killed two people in the plant, and buried that time bomb here in the yard!”
The officer looked at Quade in astonishment. Then his eyes snapped. “Lieutenant, take over. Keep the men as they are!” He caught hold of Quade’s arm. “Lead me inside!”
The sit-down strikers were still massed to the side of the building. They were silent now, though. Quade and the Guard officer rushed to the door and began pounding up the stairs to the office.
When they reached the second-floor office Jackson lay in the room. Around him were Olinger and the surviving strike captains. Jackson wasn’t dead — yet. His eyes were staring glassily up at the circle of faces. His jaws were working horribly.
“Quade!” he choked. “Oliver Quade, where is he?”
“Here I am,” said Quade, pushing into the circle.
For a second Jackson’s eyes lost their glassiness. “Quade — wish — you were going with me!” And then a bubble of blood formed on his lips, burst, and Jackson was dead.
Quade looked around the circle of faces. “I fixed that gun this morning. Figuring the killer might have other cartridges around. I was afraid he might try shooting at the troops like he did at the sheriff this morning. I fixed the breech so that when the cartridge exploded, it burst in his face. Messy job…”
“Not as messy as that bomb,” said Bob Olinger. “It was Jackson all along then!”
Quade nodded. “Jackson — or Samuel Sharp. Yes, the inactive member of the Bartlett Corporation. He wasn’t known around here, I guess. He had a deal with another cash register company to bankrupt this firm so they could buy it for almost nothing. He lost!”
“And so have we!” said Bob Olinger wearily. “The sit-down strike is broken.”
“I don’t know about that,” said the National Guard officer. “I heard only fifteen minutes ago that Bartlett’s ready to arbitrate. I guess when he learns about this man’s scheme, he’ll be willing to meet you folks half-way…”
Oliver Quade smiled, walked away. He went to the recreation room for his valise full of books — the books he had started out to sell. It was empty. His sales talk had been so convincing the strikers had helped themselves.
On the way downstairs he bumped into Ruth Bartlett and Bob Olinger, folded in each other’s arms.
“If you need help,” Quade quipped, “remember, I’m the Human Encyclopedia.”
“I think he knows all the answers,” Ruth Bartlett said.
Forced Landing
One moment the twin motors of the cabin plane were droning smoothly; the next there was a jerk and the motors were going, brr-bak, brr-bak!
“Gawd!” said the pilot.
The co-pilot’s face was taut and white. “What’s it sound like, Gene?” he asked.
The pilot’s eyes were agony-stricken. “Bad!” he replied. “I guess — I guess you better tell them. There’s a clearing. It’s covered with snow and looks awfully small, but I’ve got to try it.”
Swiftly the co-pilot rose. He opened the door and went back into the passenger compartment. He spoke, his voice smooth and almost matter-of-fact. “We’re going to make a forced landing. Please fasten your safety belts. There’s really no danger…”
But all of them could hear the motors. All could see the tree-studded whiteness hundreds of feet below. A woman shrieked.
Instantly the hostess’s voice spoke: “Everything’s all right, really! Just keep your seats.” Swiftly she went among the passengers, helped them adjust their safety belts, spoke cheeringly.