He played it over the imprisoned congregation. Down they went, as if the ray were a strong gale striking a stand of wheat. In seconds’ time, every man, woman and child lay limp on the ground, to all appearance dead. Ardmore turned back to the PanAsian officer and bowed low. “The servant asks this penance be accepted.”
To say that the Oriental was disconcerted is to expose the inadequacy of language. He knew how to deal with opposition, but this whole-hearted cooperation left him without a plan; it was not in the rules.
Ardmore left him no time to think of a plan. “The Lord Mota is not content,” he informed him, “and directs that I give you and your men presents, presents of gold!”
With that he switched on a dazzling white light and played it over the stacked arms of the soldiers to his right. Ward followed his motions, giving his attention to the left flank. The stacked small arms glowed and scintillated under the ray. Wherever it touched, the metal shone with a new luster, rich and ruddy. Gold! Raw gold!
The PanAsian common soldier was paid no better than common soldiers usually are. Their lines shifted uneasily, like race horses at the barrier. A sergeant stepped up to the weapons, examined one and held it up. He called out something in his own tongue, his voice showing high excitement.
The soldiers broke ranks.
They shouted and swarmed and danced. They fought each other for possession of the useless, precious weapons. They paid no attention to their officers; nor were their officers free of the gold fever.
Ardmore looked at Ward and nodded. “Let ’em have it!” he commanded, and turned his knockout ray on the PanAsian commander.
The Asiatic toppled over without learning what had hit him, for his agonized attention was on his demoralized command. Ward had gone to work on the staff officers.
Ardmore gave the American prisoners the counteracting effect while Ward disintegrated a large gate in the bull pen. There developed the most unexpected difficult part of the task — to persuade three hundred-odd, dazed and disorganized people to listen and to move all in one direction. But two loud voices and a fixed determination accomplished it. It was necessary to clear a path through the struggling, wealth-mad Orientals with the aid of the tractor and pressor beams. This gave Ardmore an idea; he used the beams an his own followers much as a goose girl touches up a flock of geese with her switch.
They made the nine blocks to the temple in ten minutes, moving at a dogtrot that left many gasping and protesting. But they made it, made it without interruption by major force, although both Ward and Ardmore found it necessary to knock out an occasional PanAsian en route.
Ardmore wiped sweat from his face when he finally stumbled in the temple door, sweat that was not due entirely to precipitate progress. “Ward,” he asked with a sigh, “have you got a drink in the place?”
Thomas was calling him again before he had had time to finish a cigarette. “Chief,” he said, “we are beginning to get some reports in. I thought you would like to know.”
“Go ahead.”
“It looks successful — so far. Maybe twenty percent of the priests have reported so far through their bishops that they are back with their congregations.”
“Any casualties?”
“Yes. We lost the entire congregation in Charleston, South Carolina.
They were dead before the priest got there. He tore into the PanAsians with his staff at full power and killed maybe two or three times as many of the apes as they had killed of us before he beat his way to his temple and reported.”
Ardmore shook his head at this. “Too bad. I’m sorry about his congregation, but I’m sorrier that he cut loose and killed a bunch of PanAsians. It tips my hand before I’m ready.”
“But, Chief, you can’t blame him — his wife was in that crowd!”
“I’m not blaming him. Anyhow, it’s done — the gloves had to come off sooner or later; this just means that we will have to work a little faster. Any other trouble?”