“What weapons did the Chinese carry in the counterattack?” George wanted to know.
But the General could not tell him that. Those who had been close enough to see had not been those who returned.
Another disaster, the General went on, had been the fate of the cruiser Wakamatsu. The Wakamatsu had been on patrol in the Hsing-hwa Sound in the province of Fu-Kien. She was cruising at about ten knots some three miles off shore but in sheltered waters on a perfectly calm day when she suddenly began to make great leeway on the shore side.
Course was altered at once and speed increased, but the drift shoreward continued. More speed made little difference. The magnetic compass was jammed, the entire electrical system of the ship including the wireless was out of order. Before long she was pointed out to sea with her engines going full ahead, but even her whole power was not enough to break the hold of whatever was pulling, she was still going astern at a rate of something between a quarter and a half knot.
Once the hold seemed to be broken. The Wakamatsu shuddered all through and leaped forward, but the force gripped again almost immediately and continued to hold. The commander ordered a bombardment of the shore astern. This was accomplished with difficulty, for the pull on the shells was immense, making them extremely difficult to handle; but without result, The pull on the cruiser continued. As she neared the shore her propellers were smashed on submerged rocks, and immediately orders were given to scuttle her rather than surrender.
There were, the General implied, more instances that he could give, but he did not proceed with them. Instead, he looked up at the young man sharply.
“Well, what do you make of it?” he said, watching him closely.
“Sounds to me like some directional magnetic force,” George told him. “But what I should like to know is what happened to the shells the Wakamatsu fired. If it is magnetic, each of them should have made a direct hit.”
The General approved. “That's observant of you,” he said. “We also think it is magnetic, but we fancy it is capable of being reduced to a narrow field. If that is so, the trajectory of the shells would carry them out of the field a moment after they left the muzzles — it would, in fact, have practically no effect at all on them at muzzle velocity. In any case, the observers on the ship did not notice a deflection of aim.”
“I see,” said George thoughtfully. “Yes, a narrow beam would explain that. It sounds,” he added, “as though you are up against something pretty difficult to tackle.”
The General did not seem unduly depressed. He replied with a touch of fatalism:
“All new weapons are difficult to tackle — at first. But there's always a way. Moreover, this thing is clearly of limited and primarily defensive use. However, we must learn its power and its limitations before we can consider methods of defence.”
“And it is my job to find out for you, I suppose?”
General Kashaihoto nodded and fixed George with his bright eyes again.
“That is so, Mr. Saltry. We want to know as much as you can find out, and as soon as possible.”
“All right. You shall,” said George.
THE BEAM PROJECTOR
George Saltry, agent for Top-Notch Tinned Foods, disappeared from Shanghai on one of his periodic trips. He was generally understood to be negotiating new agencies in the Philippines or Celebes. He had been seen off on the Shanghai-Hong-Kong boat and his name was on the passenger list of another from Hong-Kong to Manila. In fact, there was actually a passenger who responded to that name and looked passably like the George Saltry who had left Shanghai.
Meanwhile a spectacled and earnest young medical missionary was travelling north by train through Kwang-Tung province. His name was George White, and he was conducting a tour of personal inspection on behalf of the Charleston and Savannah Oriental Endeavour League. He was untidy, a little bewildered, a little short-sighted and he talked with the soft, pleasant speech of South Carolina. In his pocket was an American passport and he carried nothing which would connect him with Mr. Saltry of London.
George rather enjoyed the personality of Mr. White save when it led him into technical discussions of social welfare with other philanthropic exiles.
After a five-hundred-mile journey, he left the train at Chang-sha. A few hours later he sat in a plane headed north-west, looking over the waters of the Tung-ting-hu which appeared more like an inland sea than a lake. A few hours more, and he was able to see the rushing yellow waters of the great Yangtze. Shortly before night fell, they landed at the great flying-field of Kwei-chow in Hu-Peh.
The next morning Mr. George White made application in proper form to the military governor for permission to travel in Hu-Peh. The Governor considered a personal interview desirable and Mr. White presented himself. The former waited until the door had closed behind his secretary before he remarked:
“How do you do, George?”
He rose, came round the desk and extended his hand. George took it. He replied in English and his voice had lost its southern accent.
“How are you, Li? You're looking well.”
Pang Li was a few years older than he, but they had been contemporary at Oxford. Facing him now, George thought, not for the first time, how much better the Chinese was suited by his long silk coat than by a military uniform, or by the suits he had worn in England.
Pang Li waved his visitor to a chair with a decanter and cigarettes on a small table beside it. He himself returned to his seat behind the desk.
“We have been expecting you before this,” he said. The tone was one of inquiry. George answered as to a question.
“And I expected to be here sooner, Li. To tell you the truth, I was beginning to be a bit worried at their not sending me.”
The Chinese looked across the desk seriously.
“They are losing faith in you?”
“I don't know. I don't think they have a great deal to lose. But I am still very useful to them. However, I suppose it is natural for them to put it to their most reliable men first.”
Pang Li nodded. “I expect you are right. You are not the first to come after it, George. There have been several in the last week or two.”
“After what?” George inquired, innocently.
“My dear George” — Li smiled — “there is only one thing to bring you all this way at this time.”
“They didn't get it?”
“No. They got bullets.”
There was a pause. George broke it by asking:
“What is this thing Li? A magnetic force?”
The Chinese nodded again.
“That is so. It is a controlled magnetic beam. An amazing discovery. Wu-Chin-tan, who used to be Professor of Physics at Chang-Chow, worked it out, and Ho Tang-hsi applied it.”
“Entirely a Chinese discovery?” said George.
A faint shadow of impatience showed for a moment on Pang Li's face and then vanished.
“Unlikely as it may seem — a Chinese discovery,” he said.
George flushed at the tone.
“I didn't mean that, Li.”
Li looked at him.
“You implied it, my friend. Confess that to yourself. You Europeans and Americans are always surprised when a discovery of practical use is made in the East. You feel that mechanical invention is the monopoly of the West — and yet we have made many discoveries in the past, gunpowder and the compass among them. This magnetic beam is our discovery, and, at present our exclusive knowledge.”