Wilkie judged it to be about time to divert the Asiatic’s attention. He intoned, “Great is the Lord Mota!”
Ardmore continued, “Your hands are wet with the blood of innocence.
There must be an end to it!”
“Just is the Lord Mota!”
“You have oppressed his people. You have left the land of your fathers, bringing with you fire and sword. You must return!”
“Patient is the Lord Mota!”
“But you have tried his patience,” agreed Ardmore. “Now he is angry with you. I bring you warning; see that you heed it!”
“Merciful is the Lord Mota!”
“Go back to the place whence you came — go back at once, taking with you all your people — and return not again!” Ardmore thrust out a hand and closed it slowly. “Heed not this warning — the breath will be crushed from your body!” The pressure across the chest of the Oriental increased intolerably, his eyes bulged out, he gasped for air.
“Heed not this warning — you will be cast down from your high place!”
The Prince felt himself suddenly become light; he was cast into the air, pressed hard against the high ceiling. Just . as suddenly his support left him; he fell heavily back to the bed.
“So speaks my Lord Mota!”
“Wise is the man who heeds him!” Wilkie was running short of choruses.
Ardmore was ready to conclude. His eye swept around the room and noted something he had seen before — the Prince’s ubiquitous chess table. It was set up by the head of the bed, as if the Prince amused himself with it on sleepless nights. Apparently the man set much store by the game.
Ardmore added a postscript. “My Lord Mota is done — but heed the advice of an old man: men and women are not pieces in a game!” An invisible hand swept the costly, beautiful chessmen to the floor. In spite of his rough handling, the Prince had sufficient spirit left in him to glare.
“And now my Lord Shaam bids you sleep.” The green light flared up to greater brilliance; the Prince went limp.
“Whew!” sighed Ardmore. “I’m glad that’s over. Nice cooperation, Wilkie
— I was never cut out to be an actor.” He hoisted up one side of his robes and dug a package of cigarettes out of his pants-pocket. “Better have one,” he offered. “We’ve got a really dirty job ahead of us.”
“Thanks,” said Wilkie, accepting the offer. “Look, Chief — is it really necessary to kill everybody here? I don’t relish it.”
“Don’t get chicken, son,” admonished Ardmore with an edge in his voice.
“This is war — and war is no joke. There is no such thing as humane war. This is a military fortress we are in; it is necessary to our plans that it be reduced completely. We couldn’t do it from the air because the plan requires keeping the Prince alive.”
“Why wouldn’t it do just as well to leave them unconscious?”
“You argue too much. Part of the disorganization plan is to leave the Prince still alive and in command, but cut off from all his usual assistants. That will create a turmoil of inefficiency much greater than if we had simply killed him and let their command devolve to their number-two man. You know that. Get on with your job.”
With the lethal ray from their staffs turned to maximum power, they swept the walls and floor and ceiling, varying death to Asiatics for hundreds of feet — through rock and metal, plaster and wood. Wilkie did his job with white-lipped efficiency.
Five minutes later they were carving the stratosphere for home — the Citadel.
Eleven other scout cars were hurrying through the night. In Cincinnati, in Chicago, in Dallas, in major cities across the breadth of the continent they dove out of the darkness, silencing opposition where they found it, and landed little squads of intent and resolute men. In they went, past sleeping guards, and dragged out local senior officials of the PanAsians provincial governors, military commanders, the men on horseback. They dumped each unconscious kidnapped Oriental on the roof of the local temple of Mota, there to be received and dragged down below by the arms of a robed and bearded priest.