“That’s the Martian city of Paldar, as seen from the air.”
“Your own idea?”
“Certainly,” Hans replied, now too indignant to be cautious.
“And this?”
“Oh, the proton gun. I was quite proud of that.”
“Tell me, Mr Muller—are these all your own ideas?”
“Yes, I don’t steal from other people.”
His questioner turned to his companion and spoke for a few minutes in a voice too low for Hans to hear. They seemed to reach agreement on some point, and the conference was over before Hans could make his intended grab at the telephone.
“I’m sorry,” continued the intruder. “But there has been a serious leak. It may be—uh—accidental, even unconscious, but that does not affect the issue. We will have to investigate you. Please come with us.”
There was such power and authority in the stranger’s voice that Hans began to climb into his overcoat without a murmur. Somehow, he no longer doubted his visitors’ credentials and never thought of asking for any proof. He was worried, but not yet seriously alarmed. Of course, it was obvious what had happened. He remembered hearing about a science-fiction writer during the war who had described the atom bomb with disconcerting accuracy. When so much secret research was going on, such accidents were bound to occur. He wondered just what it was he had given away.
At the doorway, he looked back into his workshop and at the men who were following him.
“It’s all a ridiculous mistake,” he said. “If I did show anything secret in the programme, it was just a coincidence. I’ve never done anything to annoy the F.B.I.”
It was then that the second man spoke at last, in very bad English and with a most peculiar accent.
“What is the F.B.I.?” he asked.
But Hans didn’t hear him. He had just seen the spaceship.