The World Set Free, H. G. Wells [ereader for textbooks .txt] 📗

and tried to open the window. For a few moments there was a grim struggle in the automobile; a gripping of wrists and a blow. “I can’t go through with it,” repeated the king, “I can’t go through with it.”

“But they’ll hang us,” said Pestovitch.

“Not if we were to give up now. Not if we were to surrender the bombs. It is you who brought me into this.⁠ ⁠…”

At last Pestovitch compromised. There was an inn perhaps half a mile from the farm. They could alight there and the king could get brandy, and rest his nerves for a time. And if he still thought fit to go back he could go back. “See,” said Pestovitch, “the light has gone again.”

The king peered up. “I believe he’s following us without a light,” said the king.

In the little old dirty inn the king hung doubtful for a time, and was for going back and throwing himself on the mercy of the council. “If there is a council,” said Pestovitch. “By this time your bombs may have settled it.

“But if so, these infernal aeroplanes would go.”

“They may not know yet.”

“But, Pestovitch, why couldn’t you do all this without me?”

Pestovitch made no answer for a moment. “I was for leaving the bombs in their place,” he said at last and went to the window. About their conveyance shone a circle of bright light. Pestovitch had a brilliant idea. “I will send my secretary out to make a kind of dispute with the driver. Something that will make them watch up above there. Meanwhile you and I and Peter will go out by the back way and up by the hedges to the farm.⁠ ⁠…”

It was worthy of his subtle reputation, and it answered passing well.

In ten minutes they were tumbling over the wall of the farmyard, wet, muddy, and breathless, but unobserved. But as they ran towards the barns the king gave vent to something between a groan and a curse, and all about them shone the light⁠—and passed.

But had it passed at once or lingered for just a second?

“They didn’t see us,” said Peter.

“I don’t think they saw us,” said the king, and stared as the light went swooping up the mountain side, hung for a second about a hayrick, and then came pouring back.

“In the barn!” cried the king.

He bruised his shin against something, and then all three men were inside the huge steel-girdered barn in which stood the two motor hay lorries that were to take the bombs away. Kurt and Abel, the two brothers of Peter, had brought the lorries thither in daylight. They had the upper half of the loads of hay thrown off, ready to cover the bombs, so soon as the king should show the hiding place. “There’s a sort of pit here,” said the king. “Don’t light another lantern. This key of mine releases a ring.⁠ ⁠…”

For a time scarcely a word was spoken in the darkness of the barn. There was the sound of a slab being lifted and then of feet descending a ladder into a pit. Then whispering and then heavy breathing as Kurt came struggling up with the first of the hidden bombs.

“We shall do it yet,” said the king. And then he gasped. “Curse that light. Why in the name of heaven didn’t we shut the barn door?” For the great door stood wide open and all the empty, lifeless yard outside and the door and six feet of the floor of the barn were in the blue glare of an inquiring searchlight.

“Shut the door, Peter,” said Pestovitch.

“No!” cried the king too late, as Peter went forward into the light. “Don’t show yourself!” cried the king. Kurt made a step forward and plucked his brother back. For a time all five men stood still. It seemed that light would never go and then abruptly it was turned off, leaving them blinded. “Now,” said the king uneasily, “now shut the door.”

“Not completely,” cried Pestovitch. “Leave a chink for us to go out by.⁠ ⁠…”

It was hot work shifting those bombs, and the king worked for a time like a common man. Kurt and Abel carried the great things up and Peter brought them to the carts, and the king and Pestovitch helped him to place them among the hay. They made as little noise as they could.⁠ ⁠…

“Ssh!” cried the king. “What’s that?”

But Kurt and Abel did not hear, and came blundering up the ladder with the last of the load.

“Ssh!” Peter ran forward to them with a whispered remonstrance. Now they were still.

The barn door opened a little wider, and against the dim blue light outside they saw the black shape of a man.

“Anyone here?” he asked, speaking with an Italian accent.

The king broke into a cold perspiration. Then Pestovitch answered: “Only a poor farmer loading hay,” he said, and picked up a huge hay fork and went forward softly.

“You load your hay at a very bad time and in a very bad light,” said the man at the door, peering in. “Have you no electric light here?”

Then suddenly he turned on an electric torch, and as he did so Pestovitch sprang forward. “Get out of my barn!” he cried, and drove the fork full at the intruder’s chest. He had a vague idea that so he might stab the man to silence. But the man shouted loudly as the prongs pierced him and drove him backward, and instantly there was a sound of feet running across the yard.

“Bombs!” cried the man upon the ground, struggling with the prongs in his hand, and as Pestovitch staggered forward into view with the force of his own thrust, he was shot through the body by one of the two newcomers.

The man on the ground was badly hurt but plucky. “Bombs!” he repeated, and struggled up into a kneeling position and held his electric torch full upon the face of the king. “Shoot them!” he cried, coughing and spitting blood, so that the halo of light round the