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Title: Waters of Wrath
Date of first publication: 1940
Author: Arthur K. Barnes (1909-1969)
Date first posted: Mar. 5, 2023
Date last updated: Mar. 5, 2023
Faded Page eBook #20230310

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines

This file was produced from images generously made available by The Unz Review.




[Source: Thrilling Wonder Stories, October 1940]




[Transcriber's note: a Contents has been added for reader convenience]




  A Startling Complete Novelet




  WATERS OF WRATH

  By ARTHUR K. BARNES

  _Author of "Day of the
  Titans," "The Dual World,"
  etc._



  When Future Greed Destroys the Rich Heritage of the Sea
  Science Gives Humanity an Infinitely Richer Legacy!




  Contents

  I. Sea Justice
  II. Judy Vance Enters
  III. End of a Dynasty
  IV. Hardesty's Plan
  V. Defeat Is Triumph




CHAPTER I

_Sea Justice_

The sleek anti-gravity rocket skimmed along at an even eight hundred
miles per hour.  It was painted with uneven blotches of blue and
gray.  This camouflage meant she was built for trouble.  Right now
the rocket ship was cruising northward, dangerously low over the
surface of the open sea.  This meant she was definitely looking for a
fight.

In the glassite bow were three men.  One was the chief pilot, Galen.
The second was Dr. Myles, noted oceanographer, now acting as
observer.  But the control room was dominated by the tremendous
presence of Jonathan Hardesty.

Like all Hardestys from time immemorial, the young man was well over
six feet tall, massive as Gibraltar, a man of iron.  Barely
twenty-four years old, young Hardesty was two-fisted and grim.  He
had to be, he was owner-manager of the mighty Hardesty sea ranch,
hundreds of thousands of acres of the richest portion of the sea.
Young Hardesty was the thirty-first century equivalent of a feudal
baron.  He was tough.  It was his only chance for survival.

A sharp exclamation from Dr. Myles brought Hardesty to the port
observation station.

"There they are, ahead about two points off the port bow!"

Visibility had been poor, but was rapidly clearing as the Sun
dispersed a late morning fog.  Directly below the speeding rocket
ship was the bright blue of the Gulf Stream, flowing across the
Atlantic toward Europe.  A hundred yards away was its edge, clearly
marked by the line of darker water.  Perhaps a half-mile farther,
well into the dark waters, was the line of buoys that marked the
extremity of the Hardesty sea ranch.

Hardesty moved with deliberation.  He took Dr. Myles' glasses, picked
up a faint cluster of activity on the sea's surface--a double burst
of smoke.

"Right.  This is the position that came in on Burton's SOS.  Galen,
rise and decelerate.  Hover over them."

Galen moved the lever marked anti-gravity.  The occupants of the ship
felt a curious sickish sensation as weight was sharply decreased.
The ship itself bobbled in the warm-air thermal rising from the
water.  Galen deftly moved levers and switches, skilfully jockeying
several hundred feet higher.  Flame spewed from the forward rockets.

Hardesty, clinging with one rock-like fist to a safety strap, peered
down at the scene beneath.

"Dirty, murdering poachers," he said calmly.



Below was an ugly bit of thirty-first century range war, bloody and
spiteful.  Drifting soggily near the line of buoy markers was a
speedy launch.  It was painted with the famous black-and-gold
Hardesty coat of arms, with the motto "_Per fortuem, per
intelligentiam_."  It contained equipment for cleaning buoys and
electrically testing the strength and condition of the retaining
anchor lines.  In the stern, holes had been smashed by explosive
bullets.  The launch was shipping water badly.

Inside Hardesty property, in the blue of the Gulf Stream itself, was
a strange contraption.  It was a sort of barge; squat, wide, and low
in the water.  On deck squatted two shacks.  Between the warped
boards of the largest, machinery could be glimpsed.  An oversized
flexible metal tube ran down into the water like the snout of some
weird monster.  A sizable pile of dully glistening powder spilled out
of the larger shelter onto the deck.

This ramshackle extraction outfit, encrusted with salt, its metal
parts corroded to the point of collapse, was a familiar sight along
continental shores.  They dotted coastal waters.  Rickety affairs,
often no more than a shack on a raft, they worked endlessly at their
sea claims within easy distance of shelter in case of rough weather.
This was the working capital of the men who tried, with insufficient
money and equipment, to scrape a living from the sea.

A dozen of them stood on deck, guns and heat rays in their hands.
Timing their shots with the rolling of the sea, they were blasting
explosive shells at the Hardesty launch, trying to make hits below
the water line.  The others were laying down a heat ray barrage to
keep Burton, the Hardesty line rider, in the shelter of the cockpit,
where he could do no bailing.

The strategy was proving successful when young Hardesty's rocket
drifted into position above the battle.  Someone spotted it, yelled
in sudden fright.  Instantly all faces stared up at it.

"Give it to 'em, Boss," the pilot urged.  Galen was a hard-bitten
veteran of two wars and several expeditions into space, a scrapper at
the drop of a helmet.

"Wait," said Hardesty, stepping to the loudspeaker mike.  Presently
his voice roared out metallically to those below.  "Attention, you
thieves down there!  Lay down your arms and surrender, and you will
receive fair trial.  Fight, and you'll get what all trespassers and
murderers deserve!"

For the space of a dozen heartbeats there was poised silence, while
the upward gaping gang of poachers gathered their wits.
Intermittently came the muted _pow_ of a rocket blast as the almost
weightless ship maintained its altitude.  Then the hull rang sharply
as a miniature HE shell exploded dangerously near the observation
bow.  Action burst out on the barge deck.  It was war, swift,
merciless, bitter.

Shells, and rays hammered at the Hardesty ship in a desperate attempt
to put it out of commission in one quick thrust.

The attempt failed.  Galen's fingers were, steady, darting with
amazing agility over the bank of controls.  The ship dodged aside,
swooped up, ducked into the high fog.  When it came down again,
Hardesty's proton cannon was blasting furiously.



Three men were caught flat-footed, trying to swing the muzzle of an
ancient anti-aircraft gun into action.  They wilted, slumped in
smoking heaps of tortured flesh.

Then, like a terrier routing out rats, the AG's proton stream prowled
over the sizzling deck while the frantic poachers scattered in panic.
Some of them darted for the companionway into the hold.  But Hardesty
anticipated that move.  He sprayed the opening with an unending
stream of sub-atomic bullets.  The companionway exploded, spattering
red-hot metal and free energy all over the boat.

From then on it was no contest.  The battle was soon over, with the
survivors waving a white flag.  Young Hardesty stepped away from the
gun and leaned against the wall.  He looked faintly sick.  Dr. Myles
spoke with sympathetic understanding.

"Nasty job, youngster, but it has to be done."

Galen, the old warrior, grunted in disappointment.

"They give up too easy.  They knowed what they was riskin' when they
snuck into our waters.  Shoulda been ready to fight it out.  The
breed's gettin' soft.  Now I mind, in your dad's time, when them
fellers'd make regular poachin' forays onto the Stream every month or
so.  Sometimes we'd spot 'em, sometimes not.  When we did, they allus
put up a good scrap while they was tryin' to get away.  Sometimes
they made it.  Sometimes they didn't.  But nowadays?  Faugh!  They're
just plain sneaks."  The ship gently descended to a precise landing
by the poachers' barge.  Hardesty and Dr. Myles stepped onto the deck
to examine the ragged crew.  Aside from the two leaders, they were
typical "bowlies," with the strange, bewildered look common to most
of them.  Deep in their eyes was the pain of having been uprooted,
and harried by circumstance into a strange occupation, on a strange
element.

They were not men of the sea.  Most of them had never turned a
furrow.  Many had to trace their ancestry back hundreds of years
before they could find the last farmer in their family.  Nevertheless
the soil was in their blood.  They were born to be dirt-farmers, not
homeless tramps on a treacherous and unfamiliar sea.

Even their nickname, "bowlies," indicated this truth.  It was a
corruption of an expression that had its origin hundreds of years
before.  The Dust Bowl, spreading like a cancerous blot over central
North America, had driven the farmers from their worthless land.

With only the coastal regions arable, most of them had been forced to
turn to the wealth of the sea for their livelihood.  But they could
not finance large-scale activity, and had no particular talent for
marine mining or cultivation.  Foredoomed to miserable failure, they
were a lost legion.

Hardesty sternly smothered the sympathy stirring in him.  The code of
the sea-holder was kill or be killed.  One sign of weakness and the
jackal pack would swiftly overthrow the system of mighty sea ranches.
Iron control, ruthless, summary justice meted out to all
invaders--those were the price of existence.



He turned to the two leaders and felt satisfaction.  This was the
type he didn't mind dealing with.  They were snarling, belligerent.

"Nasty customers, eh?  What's your name?"

"Sam White, tha's who I am," one of the bearded leaders snapped.
"An' you ain't got no right to treat us like this.  It's oppression,
that's what.  The sea belongs to the people.  Greatest good for the
greatest number.  It ain't right for guys like you to grab all the
best waters while guys like us have to starve--"

Hardesty ignored the poacher and went to the pile of powdery crystals
that had spilled from the extraction shed.

"What's the verdict here, Doctor?" he asked the oceanographer.

Dr. Myles scooped up a handful, sniffed and tasted the stuff.

"Mostly potassium and manganese, some iodine.  Their separator is in
disrepair, judging from the amount of salt still remaining....  I
would say your new acquaintances have been squatting here at least
three days.  It's a fairly profitable haul they have here."

Together the two men peered into the smaller shack.

"As I expected," murmured Myles.  "An Alvan Processor."  This was the
marvelous apparatus which increased manifold the surface tension and
density of the surrounding water.  The ship so equipped could ride
out the roughest storms in comparative safety.  Only two classes of
sea miners could afford this expensive machine--those with capital,
and thieves.

Just then the Hardesty launch scraped against the side of the barge.
Galen had brought in Burton, the line rider.  He was just a kid, pale
from excitement and loss of blood.  His left arm hung in bloody
tatters.

"They--they were operating in the fog, sir.  Musta heard me coming
before I heard them.  So they shut off their engines and ambushed me.
Sorry--I--"  He lurched, almost fell.

Hardesty caught him and carried him gently to the rocket ship.  When
he stepped back to the barge deck, his jaw was set hard.  His eyes
were grim as he sought out the two leaders of the poaching gang.

"That makes it just so much tougher for you birds.  Pile into the
ship, the whole mob of you.  You're going to get a taste of real sea
justice....  Galen, you can tame this valiant little army who tackled
young Burton in the face of such tremendous odds.  Give 'em a touch
of the paralysis ray, enough to keep 'em quiet till we get back
home....  Dr. Myles, I think we might confiscate this stuff and give
it to some charitable organization, before sinking the barge."

He turned back to the poachers, saw they still stood uncertainly.

"Well!" he roared at them.  "Get going!  You're not dead yet--not
quite yet."

They jumped, scuttling toward the rocket's open port.  The voluble
leader with social inequality ideas went pale at Hardesty's reminder.
The penalty for theft and assault on the high seas was the same that
had been meted to pirates since time immemorial,--death!

"We ain't worried," he retorted.  "Things are gonna be different
around here pretty soon.  You guys won't act so high-handed no more."




CHAPTER II

_Judy Vance Enters_

Young Hardesty sent the leader scurrying into the rocket ship.  Dr.
Myles transferred the stolen minerals to the hold of the AG.

Galen lifted the ship above the doomed vessel and hovered there while
Hardesty aimed the cannon.  A ravening stream of protons plowed down
through the heart of the barge.

Smoke-and flame quickly burst out.  Metal reddened and fell inward as
the ray bored deeper.  Internal explosions racked the squat hull.
The rising column of smoke turned to hissing steam when the sea
poured in through a gaping hole in her bottom.  The bow lurched high
in the air in a spasm of death agony.  Creamy bubbles marked her
grave, and these turned black when the inevitable oil slick rose to
the surface.

Before Hardesty could give the command to fly homeward, another
rocket ship came into view.  Rapidly it approached the site of the
recent battle, now marked only by the drifting launch.  It was an old
Flamingo amphibian, a cheap, mass production affair.  Its original
crimson paint job was almost obliterated.  Two of the after portholes
were covered over with rusty sheet metal instead of glassite.
Hardesty watched the new arrival with hard-faced wariness.

"On your toes, Galen.  If this punk is looking for trouble, we
wouldn't want to disappoint him."

Galen grinned.  The Flamingo circled widely about the area at low
altitude, came to rest on the sea near the launch.  The tele-screen
in the Hardesty ship buzzed and the warning light blinked
peremptorily.

"The punk wants words with us," Hardesty observed, snapping the
switch which opened communication between the two ships.

On the screen flashed the image of a girl.  She was tall, slender,
with flaming red hair.  Its soft and expert disarray gave a
wind-tousled effect.  For a moment the young giant said nothing, and
with reason.  The girl was enough to take any man's breath.  Her
angry eyes stared hotly.

"I suppose you're Hardesty."

Hardesty's slow, irritating smile spread across his face.

"I suppose I am.  And may I ask to whom I have the pleasure of
speaking?"

"I'm Judy Vance."  She had words to say and meant to dominate the
interview.

"Oh, yes.  I've heard of you.  Supposed to be the leader of the
bowlies, crusading for the bowlies, against the cruel and arrogant
'moneyed interests,' who take sadistic delight in grinding the poor."

Judy Vance made a visible effort to restrain her temper.  "I am the
bowlies' leader--"

"Then you're a rotten leader," interrupted Hardesty.  "You encourage
your followers to skulking thievery and cowardly assault.  You must
know what the penalty is."

The girl whitened in startling contrast to her hair.

"You mean you've already destroyed the entire crew of--"

"Not yet.  They're in my ship.  One of them's been entertaining us
with some of your second-hand, shop-worn social theories.  Don't
worry.  They'll get a fair trial."

"Fair trial!  With Hardesty the court, Hardesty laws, Hardesty the
prosecutor, and Hardesty the jury!  Is that your idea of a fair
trial?  It's nothing but a sop to your conscience, a wicked effort to
legalize murder.  Oh, I'm not arguing for Sam White or his ilk.  It's
the genuine bowlies that I'm fighting for.  They're not criminals.
They've been made so desperate by poverty that they'll listen to any
sort of proposition.  You can't condemn them!"



As Hardesty watched the girl, he felt a strange emotion surging
within him.  Ire, he decided.  In an annoyed tone, he replied,

"Lady, our laws around here are harsh, but they're just.  Everyone
knows it.  Your playmates knew what they risked when they started
plundering the Hardesty sea ranch....  I'm sorry, but we have a man
aboard in need of medical attention--"

He paused.  The girl was laughing.  It was without humor, a forced,
vengeful sort of laugh.

"You find this amusing?" Hardesty asked.

"I just remembered," Judy Vance said.  "You'll never have time to
render your warped ideas of justice on those men.  You don't know it
yet, Mister Hardesty, but you're through as a little tin god."

Hardesty's jaw jutted.  "There never was a Hardesty who shivered at a
threat!"  Savagely he slapped the switch that turned the screen dark.
Someone snickered; Hardesty whirled to see Dr. Myles hide a smile.

"So you find something funny, too?"

"Sort of.  Miss Vance got under your skin, didn't she?"

"Nothing of the kind.  She's just an impudent upstart who needs to be
put in her place."  He reddened as he remembered how they had shouted
at one another with embarrassing lack of dignity.  "But it's odd," he
puzzled while the AG sped homeward.  "That's the second hint we've
had of something about to happen.  Wonder what she meant...."

He soon found out.  The instant Hardesty City loomed over the
horizon--a mighty pontoon city like a copper jewel on the bright blue
ribbon of the Gulf Stream--young Hardesty knew there was trouble.

On the spreading tarmac by the ocean's edge were five palatial rocket
yachts.  The gigantic ships had every scientific device known to
mankind for safe and luxurious travel even through space.  Their
distinctive color designs told Hardesty whom they belonged to--the
world's five greatest sea-holders, other than Hardesty himself.  They
dominated the ocean's most desirable currents, the Gulf Stream and
the Japan Current.  Only a matter of gravest importance could have
brought them together.

Sensing a crisis, old Galen expertly piloted the AG into a landing.

"Myles an' me'll take care of Burton an' the prisoners," he offered.
"You scoot along an' find out what's up."

Hardesty nodded and jumped out.  His personal surface car was
waiting.  He piled in and tromped on the accelerator.  He shot off
like a lightning bolt toward the center of the City.

His course took him first through the orderly rows of his workers'
copper-coated cottages.  These gave way to the long, low buildings
housing the vast scientific enterprises that were Hardesty City's
reason for existence.

The Hardesty sea ranch was not a prospecting venture, nor a
fly-by-night outfit, trying to make a quick profit before moving on
to more fertile areas.  It was Big Business on a tremendous scale.
Huge extraction plants methodically removed and purified the valuable
minerals of the sea--potash, bromine, manganese, iodine, and many
others.

A large saltern, working only at rare intervals, turned enough salt
out to supply all Hardesty City's workers for weeks,  Another series
of buildings housed the unit that recovered valuable chemicals and
medicinal drugs.  There were few known chemicals which they could not
find in the water, the sediment, or the marine life of the sea.

Just beyond, jets of steam marked the ceaseless endeavor of the giant
plant which distilled pure water from the ocean brine.  There was
also the machinery which utilized the steady current to generate
practically cost-free electricity, cheaper by far than atomic power.



But these activities represented only a part of the entire
enterprise.  A sharp right turn brought Hardesty's speeding car in
sight of the other and equally important work.  The greatest wealth
of the sea, as the Hardestys and their kind early learned, was not to
be found in its mineral resources but in its natural productivity.
Countless species of animals and plants of commercial importance grew
there abundantly.

Much of Hardesty City's suburbs were devoted to the pursuit of
aquiculture.  Only the top few inches of soil are productive.  But
plants can be grown in sea water to a depth limited only by the
penetration of sunlight--two hundred to eight hundred feet.  No dry
spells, frost, insects, could ruin the crops.  Scientific progress
had made the sea more productive per unit than dry land.

Instead of being forced to eat spinach, the people in Hardesty City
got their vitamins and essential food elements from over a hundred
delectable marine plants.  They raised Irish moss, green laver,
dulse, seatron, kombu, anomori, kijiki, arame, and murlins.

Hardesty tooled his speedster into the heart of town, where the low
tower of Hardesty House loomed above the surrounding buildings.  He
whipped into the parking space, shut off the motor, and made swiftly
for the private elevator entrance which led to his penthouse.  The
Sun was setting, and lights were beginning to blossom in the Marine
Room.

Famous the world over as a rendezvous for tourists and sophisticates,
Hardesty House made additional profit for its shrewd management by
catering to the most exacting gourmets.  Its sea-food dinners,
featuring fish, marine plants and shellfish specially developed by
the Hardesty marine biologists, were unmatched anywhere on the globe.

Five men awaited his pleasure in that penthouse.  Though each was
older than he by far, they all turned as if to a recognized leader
when he entered the living room.

Sir Cecil Harwicke, patriarch of them all at the age of a hundred and
thirty-seven, James Jonson, Rousseau, the fiery Frenchman--these
three, with Hardesty, controlled the entire Gulf Stream from
Caribbean to Arctic Ocean.  Chiang Wu Sen and T. Yamada, leading
figures in the United Orient, dominated the Japan Current.  All five
were badly worried.

"Been waiting for you, Hardesty," was Jonson's brusk greeting.
"Heard the news?"

"No.  Been away a few days, checking the outlying districts of the
ranch.  What's up?"

Characteristically none of them wasted time in formalities.  They
were blunt, hard men who understood and respected one another.

"Just this.  An International Sea Claim Commission has been set up.
One member from each nation in the Northern Hemisphere whose
population is affected by sea mining and aquiculture.  Has the power
to pass on the validity of all sea claims.  Obviously the business is
just a stooge for the bowlies and similar groups from other
countries.  Under domination of crackpots like that Vance she-devil."

"It is a plot of the most abominable!" burst out Rousseau, unable to
contain himself.  "A scheme underhanded to smash us, break up our
ranches, to allow those hordes to sate themselves in one grand orgy
of mining on our richest-holdings!  It is--it is--"  He stopped,
spluttering indignantly.



Jonson pointed through the open doorway into Hardesty's private
office.  On the desk stood Hardesty's personal message receiver.  It
operated on an extension of the stock ticker principle, with its tiny
spool of film holding a message.  Above it a red light burned, till
the message was removed from the machine.

"That's a summons," Jonson said, "to a hearing by the new Commission.
To determine whether the continuation of our sea ranches is contrary
to public interest.  If so, they're to be broken up and opened to
mining claims by individuals.  Meantime, exercise of our local law on
trespassers and poachers is forbidden.  Hearing to be held in New
York next week.  Submit briefs and argument then."

Hardesty's eyes were granite.  "Just like that, eh?"

"Just like that ... Looks like those bowlies have someone smart
enough to whip up a lot of political pressure against us.  The
squeeze is directed against us on the Atlantic.  Chiang and Yamada
aren't in on this because there's no demand from Orientals to break
up their estates.  But--"

"But we fear the establishment of a dangerous precedent," interjected
Yamada sibilantly.

"Exactly.  Question is, what's our move?"

"Just sit tight," decided Hardesty.  "Attend the hearing, present our
side of the case.  If the Commission proves to be a bunch of crooks
paid to legislate against us, or if they're just plain dumb, then we
may have to go into action.  But till the decision is actually handed
down, our play is to do nothing."




CHAPTER III

_End of a Dynasty_

The I.S.C.C. hearing was held in a bare little room, in a high tower
overlooking the incredible engineering fairyland that was
thirty-first century Manhattan.  Just a handful of people were there,
less than a score of witnesses to the brief, shocking drama.

Only one newscaster was permitted, but his apparatus was tuned to a
world-wide hook-up.  Millions of watchers would be clustered around
public and private televisors, hanging on every word and gesture in
that courtroom.

The law was streamlined in that age.  There were no legal tangles, no
endless jousting of lawyers or confusion of issues.  It would be a
simple statement of the case by accredited spokesmen for the two
contending groups, bowlies _versus_ wealthy sea-holders.  There would
be no appeal.

Hardesty met Judy Vance in that room just before the hearing began.
She gazed at him with a maddeningly superior expression, already
savoring triumph.

"Remember what I told you a few days ago?"

Hardesty fought down a hot reply, angry with himself that this girl
could stir him so to fury.

"I remember," he said coldly.  "But the last card is not yet played
in this game."

A gavel rapped, and a clerk intoned the circumstances surrounding the
issue in question.  Judy Vance was called upon to state the bowlies'
arguments.

"This is not merely a class war," the girl stated after submitting
her written brief.  "It is a fight for the right to existence
itself--the right of every man to share in some measure the wealth of
the Earth."

Deftly, with the skill and passion of a natural orator, she turned
back history's pages six hundred years.  The gigantic American Dust
Bowl and its smaller counterpart in Europe had begun to spread from
its original boundaries like some malignant disease.  In a hundred
years' time it had spread from Rockies to Appalachians.  The land was
worthless, arid, unfertile.  Thousands of farmers were driven from
their homes.

Then came the fabulous "sea-rush" of 2507, brought about by the
simultaneous development of two inventions.  One was the Alvan
Process machine.  The other was the Dobbs Extractor, which enabled
men to remove the mineral wealth of the sea cheaply and profitably.
For a time the bowlies found livelihood as they turned to the sea,
staking claims all along the continental coasts and even out toward
mid-ocean.

The Golden Age of Industry followed in the twenty-sixth century,
brought on by the rapid development of space travel and consequent
demand for all minerals and chemicals that could be found in the
seas.  The lost legion of the bowlies found security for a time.

"But it did not last," continued the girl in her intense voice.
"Gradually the mineral wealth of the oceans became depleted during
five hundred years of steady extraction.  Prices dropped.  It has now
come to such a state that there are only meager profits to be scraped
out from sea mining.  The bowlies are once again the legion of the
poor.

"It's not a question of complete exhaustion of minerals.  That, of
course, is impossible.  But in the static portions of the sea, the
mineral content has been so reduced that there are no longer any sure
profits for small-scale operators.  The bowlies' sea-claims have been
worked out."



That brought Judy Vance to the main point of her argument.  During
the original rush, the Hardestys, Jonsons, and their kind, with great
wealth at their command, staked out tremendous sea ranches on the
Gulf Stream.  These remained intact over five hundred years, situated
on the richest part of the ocean.  This was true partly because the
steady current permitted generation of cost-free power.  The warmer
waters were also much more suited to aquiculture.  But the Gulf
Stream brought a constantly renewed stream of rich water from its
Caribbean source.

There was no extensive sea mining in the Caribbean.  To begin with,
the Stream there was also a Hardesty property and was kept reasonably
clear of any such activity.  But more important, it was in the
hurricane belt.  Meteorological changes in the last three centuries
had increased the frequency of violent hurricane.  Any large-scale
attempts at mining, therefore, would find their investment completely
wiped out every few weeks.  A thousand Alvan Processors could not
withstand the fury of the contemporary hurricane.

"So that's the situation today," cried Judy Vance indignantly.
"Thousands of us face starvation, while a handful of wealthy
individuals control vast stretches of the sea.  Those waters would
mean a decent living for all.  If these great ranches were being
utilized, I would be silent.  But it is a fact that less than five
per cent of the sea ranches are under actual use.  The rest is
untouched, going to waste, instead of giving some poor devils
presentable clothing and proper food.

"That, gentlemen, we contend is a social oppression.  No man has the
right to deny others the privilege of comfort and honest, lucrative
employment.  Whatever benefit the sea-holders may once have been in a
pioneering sense, they've now outlived their usefulness.  It's a
social crime to permit them to exist in the light of present-day
conditions.  The ranches should--be--dissolved--now!"

Judy Vance's vibrant tones filled the chamber long, after the
conclusion of her impassioned speech.  At last there was tense quiet
as the nine judges conferred briefly.  The Chief Commissioner, whose
calm face had expressed nothing during the entire hearing, presently
turned to Hardesty.

"You will present your case now, please."

Young Hardesty stepped up to tender his brief.  The burden of
preserving intact the labor of hundreds of years weighed heavily upon
him.  He was no public speaker.  His dry dispassionate tones were a
marked contrast to the girl's dramatic appeal.

"We, too, have our traditions," he began quietly.  "They are as old
as those of our opponents and, I think, just as noble.  But I will
not bore you with a recitation of them.  I feel the subject is not
pertinent.  I might also remind the Commission of our long and
honorable record of public service.  The sea-holders, in the days
before rocket clippers completely superseded ocean-going ships, kept
the shipping lanes open.

"They established free meteorological stations in mid-ocean to aid
Government weather forecasters.  They advanced oceanography and
related scientific research immeasurably.  In many ways they have
been of help to mankind.  But that, too, is not germane to the issue.
The single point in question is whether the existence of the big sea
ranches is to the public interest."



Young Hardesty paused, looked searchingly at the lovely girl.

"Miss Vance seems to think we are at opposite poles.  In reality, our
cause is one.  For the Hardestys, the Jonsons, the Harwickes, and the
others, have always been fully conscious of the obligation of
Wealth--to preserve, not to despoil.  Miss Vance points out that we
work only five per cent of our holdings, but that is not waste.  It
is intelligent, planned conservation.

"By her own tongue, Miss Vance convicts her kind of ruthless
exploitation.  Five hundred years ago there was plenty for all.  Now
there is little, except where it has been conserved.  The fate of the
whale and the sea otter, the forests, the oil deposits, and mines of
Earth, will be repeated if thousands of small operators are permitted
to run rampant over the last remaining areas that are still rich.

"Gentlemen."  Hardesty's grim voice took on swift urgence.  "Heedless
exploitation of the Gulf Stream will dump an oversupply of minerals
on the world market.  It will knock down prices to ruinous lows.  It
will smash the economic system that is based upon the mining of the
sea.  The consequent upheaval will have incalculable results.  And
Miss Vance, instead of benefiting her kind, will have completed their
own ruination."

That marked the end of the starkly simple trial.  Hardesty and his
colleagues returned to their hotel suites, to await the final
decision.  Three days they passed in torment, sleepless, their
tempers constantly ragged.

When the message finally came, Chiang and Rousseau were out to
dinner.  The others were in Hardesty's room.  Jonson burst in with
tragedy naked in his eyes.  Hardesty slowly stood up and the two men
stared at each other in silence.

"So we've lost," said Hardesty, before the other could blurt his news.

"The fools!" raged Jonson.  "The dumb, blind bureaucrats!  They've
legislated us out of existence and smashed a whole economic system!
Just like that--with not even so much as thinking of the results.
Well, it won't be without a fight, I can tell you that.  There'll be
a lot o' blood shed before any Jonson gets wiped out."

Hardesty felt a hard knot slowly forming in the pit of his stomach.
He had a sudden comprehensive vision of those thousands upon
thousands of Dobbs Extractors sucking relentlessly at the water.  Day
and night, for all the weeks and months and years that went to make
up five centuries, they drained even the limitless wealth of the sea.
Those heavily worked coastal areas had quickly been stripped to an
unprofitable level.  They would make short work of the Gulf Stream.

Although it had been a possibility, Hardesty had never really
believed that any group of commissioners could be so stupid as to
rule against the sea-holders.  But it had come, at last--the end of
an era, the fall of a dynasty....



Hardesty turned, aware that someone had spoken to him.  It was
Jonson, still raving in his fury.

"Fight?" asked Hardesty.  "Against the combined military forces of
nine nations?  It could end only in one way, with lives thrown--"

"Well, what're you going to do?" snarled Jonson.  "Quit?"  He pointed
to the tiny coat of arms embroidered on Hardesty's singlet.  "By
intelligence.  By courage.  Lot o' good that'll do you now!  I tell
you, the only thing is to go down fighting!  Maybe if we put up a
stiff front they'll change their tune a bit."

But Hardesty was not listening to the argument that now raged
bitterly.  He was staring abstractedly out the window, his brain
churning.  The uproar died down.  Sir Cecil, who rarely spoke,
cleared his throat.

"It seems that the Hardesty intelligence is still functioning, and is
giving birth to an idea.  Perhaps the lion is not yet pulled down by
jackals."

Hardesty whirled.  "Maybe.  Now look."  He turned to a Mercator's
Projection map on the wall.  His finger described the clockwise
circle of the Japan Current from Hawaii up the Oriental coast, east
under the Aleutian Islands, and down the American coast.  "From
Hawaii to the Aleutians, the ascending current is yours and Chiang's,
eh, Yamada?"

"That is so," hissed the Japanese in agreement.

"And you're not affected by the order as yet."

"True.  The western Americans have use of the Current, somewhat
depleted but nonetheless comparatively rich, as it descends the
Pacific Coast.  As for our side of the Pacific--"  Yamada shrugged.
"The Oriental races do not have the insolence to assault their
betters."

That was true.  There would be no demands from the United Orient to
divide the Chiang or Yamada sea-holdings.  Subservience was too long,
inbred.  Besides, small Oriental sea miners could still make what
they considered livelihoods because of their age-long low living
standards.

Hardesty smiled.  "You needn't worry about us asking you and Chiang
to divvy up with us.  That wouldn't be cricket.  Anyhow, my idea'll
make that unnecessary."

He strode to the private viso-phone, called Hardesty City on a tight
beam.  Within thirty seconds he was talking earnestly to Dr. Myles,
outlining his scheme, asking questions, checking possibilities and
difficulties with the oceanographer.

As the others listened, their eyes grew wider when they grasped the
tremendous scope of Hardesty's plan.  Then their eyes sparkled as
they contemplated its shrewdness.  Finally Hardesty broke the
connection and turned to his friends.

"Well, you heard Myles say it might be done.  What do you think?"

Rousseau had returned with Chiang during the conversation.

"It is a plan of the most astounding, my friend," he said reverently.
"Of an epic scope.  Truly worthy of a Hardesty.  I, Rousseau, say it."

Harwicke chuckled wickedly.  "Colossal, my boy.  I think we are all
agreed on that.  Only Jonson will feel some disappointment at missing
his beloved fight."

Hardesty grinned oddly at Jonson.

"Stick by me, fella.  You may get a scrap yet.  Only it'll be on our
terms and on our battlefield."




CHAPTER IV

_Hardesty's Plan_

Once more they met--the Commission, Judy Vance, Hardesty and his
colleagues.  Miss Vance was already in the hearing room when Hardesty
arrived.  When they came together, Hardesty felt, the familiar surge
of emotion.

"Good Lord," he thought.  "How I hate that girl!"

They said not a word to each other.  Surprisingly Judy Vance did not
gloat.  With victory hers, she seemed inclined to sympathy rather
than overbearing triumph.  But Hardesty gave her no chance to speak.
He addressed the Commission without preamble.

"You gentlemen have ruled against us.  We have two
choices--submission or bloody war.  If we submit tamely without the
loss of thousands of lives, the Commission must permit us to submit
on our own terms."

The Chief Commissioner nodded.  "We realize you have a billion-dollar
investment and that we cannot legally expropriate it without
compensation.  Nor do we wish a bloody and useless fight.  If you and
your friends can suggest a reasonable solution, the Commission will
gladly aid in its accomplishment."

"Very well.  In exchange for our Atlantic Gulf Stream holdings, give
us absolute title, with an irrevocable agreement, to worthless
holdings of the same extent.  We want the Arctic Ocean along the
coast of Alaska and around the north Canadian Coast to Hudson Bay.
Also the Bering Sea, of course."

The Chief Commissioner blinked.  It was a surprising offer.  Those
northern waters were frozen solid most of the year, totally unfit for
aquiculture, and expensive even for mineral extraction.  He turned to
Judy Vance.

"Surely your party would not object to this?"

No objection.  Judy Vance, as Hardesty had counted on, graciously
played the role of magnanimous victor.

"In order to transfer our establishments from one ocean to another,
it will be necessary to dig a canal," he said.  "The almost perpetual
storms around Cape Horn preclude using that route.  It would be
equally impossible to reach Alaska by pushing through the north
Atlantic and the frozen Arctic.  Therefore, a canal through Guatemala
will be required.  Will the Commission undertake to guarantee us
perpetual ownership of the proper amount of Guatemalan territory?"

The Commission conferred briefly.  Obviously they were elated at such
an easy solution of what might have been a nasty problem.

"Though no representative of the Republic of Guatemala is present, we
feel there will be no obstacles to such an arrangement."  The Chief
Commissioner struggled not to register doubtful curiosity.  "Do you
really think you can dig a satisfactory canal clear through
Guatemala?"

"Gentlemen, leave that to us.  One hundred and eighty-five miles
long, one mile wide, and one hundred and fifty feet deep.  It shall
be done."

The six billionaires wheeled like a military phalanx and marched to
the door.  As they passed Judy Vance, she caught Hardesty's glance.
His face might have been carved from stone.  But there was something
deep in his eyes.  It was the look of a man who has just drawn and
filled a royal flush.



Within six months of incredible scientific research and
construction--which strained even the resources of Hardesty, Jonson,
Rousseau, and Harwicke--they were ready.  A half-mile inland from
ancient Puerto Cortes, in Guatemala, were a row of enormous
mechanical moles, mounted on caterpillar treads.  There were twenty
of them, spaced so that from end to end the line stretched one mile.
They were aimed at the ground.  The tremendous project had been
organized with a minimum of publicity.  Still, people from all parts
of the world were gathered to see its initiation.  Hardesty's men,
reinforced by International Police, were keeping them back from range
of the excavators.  Only a few men were inside the restricted
space--the machine operators, a few officials, and Hardesty and his
friends.  Behind a protective shield, Hardesty was explaining to the
I.S.C.C. commissioners.

"It's the development of a small invention of Dr. Myles, my
oceanographer, and Dr. Conway, my head physicist.  They worked out a
borer that would rapidly probe the sea bottom to considerable depths.
It simply collapses the atoms of soil, rock, or metal.  What's left
is a hole, of course.  It has long been suspected that the character
of the omnipresent ether may be subject to change.  This theory is
the only one which accounts for several otherwise unexplainable
physical phenomena.

"Dr. Conway's digger proves this to be fact.  It emits a radiation
which materially increases the density of the ether.  This slows down
the speed of every electron within its field, resulting in their
taking up new and smaller orbits.  The end result is collapse."

He signaled.  The excavator men scattered to their respective
machines, clambered into lead-protected cockpits.  The whine of
atomic motors filled the air.  Another signal, and all twenty
batteries emitted waves of radiation.  A great cry arose from the
distant watchers on the hills and those hovering recklessly close in
helicopters and rocket cars.

The Earth itself seemed to be disintegrating before their very eyes.
Soil and rock collapsed wherever those rays struck, compressing
instantaneously to form an extremely firm flooring.  Over it the
advancing tractors moved easily.  A great blaze of heat and light
drove Hardesty and the officials behind the shield.

"Great release of energy," shouted Hardesty.  "Mostly in the form of
light, heat and X-rays.  This occurs because the electrons in each
atom are going from an outer to an inner energy level."

The mighty machines moved forward relentlessly, the muzzles of their
"guns" pointed downward to dig a slanting path.  When they reached a
point one hundred and fifty feet below sea level, their course
leveled off.  The Earth appeared to crumble, settle, and dissolve
before their blasts.

"So long as we don't have to annihilate any mountains," cried
Hardesty above the clamor, "we can dig about as fast as the tractors
can move.  By paralleling closely the southeastern Guatemalan border,
we meet only one narrow range, not too high.  Slow and ticklish work
there, but we'll make it.  We can regulate the effective distance of
the radiation up to an ultimate of four hundred yards.  When we
tackle the mountains, we can work from a safe distance."

The Commissioners shook their heads and muttered dazedly.  It was a
project calculated to stun any mind, yet this young man Hardesty was
apparently taking it in stride.



Back in the North Atlantic, another tremendous task was going forward
under the direction of Dr. Myles.  Hardesty City and the other three
similar developments were systematically being broken up into
maneuverable units.

Old Galen again had his favorite AG rocket moving with incredible
precision along predetermined geometrical patterns above the City.
His proton cannons were blasting.  Though he was blinded by tears, he
would entrust to no one else the duty of slashing apart the mighty
pontoon city which had been his home for many years.  That delicate
job was only for a master hand.

Below, the extraction plants, distilleries, and generators all were
silenced.  Equipment was being stowed away for the long journey.  All
production activities had ended.  Workmen busily installed atomic
motors and Alvan Processors to each unit of the broken city.

Finally after months of furious labor, all was ready for the Great
Pilgrimage.  From Guatemala came reports that the canal, at the cost
of two hundred lives, had been completed.  The seas were joined!

So Hardesty City began its fantastic hegira, piece by piece.  There
was an aura of weird unreality about it all, as if gigantic motion
picture sets were being moved into place.  Down the coast of eastern
America they moved with awkward majesty.  Then a quick dash across
the Caribbean was executed before any devastating hurricanes could
reach them in their defenseless condition.

Through the canal and up the endless Pacific Coast they sailed,
hugging the shore line.  Two violent storms attacked them, but each
time the Alvan Processors calmed the seas.  Nearby headlands
protected them somewhat from winds which might have capsized an
ungainly strip of buildings higher than it was wide.

Eventually the strange procession slipped safely through the Aleutian
Islands and into the Arctic.  One by one of the piecemeal cities took
their new positions.  First, Hardesty's was set up in the Bering Sea,
then Rousseau's, Jonson's, and finally Sir Cecil's.

Harwicke found himself far around toward Hudson Bay when he gave the
order to drop anchor and weld the city.  Only because it was late in
an unusually mild Arctic summer had the expedition been able to
penetrate those Arctic waters without mishap.

When the tremendous salt-water trek was finally accomplished, the
entire world applauded the brilliance of the achievement.  Hardesty
was regarded not only as benefactor to suffering humanity, but as a
genius and leader without peer.  This gave Hardesty some moments of
bitter amusement.

"I've done those poor bowlies a service, all right.  I've saved them
from themselves, only they don't realize it yet.  Wait and hear what
they call me next spring, When the new sea-rush begins.  Just wait!"



Spring, 3040, was at hand.  With it came the greatest peacetime event
of economic significance within the memory of living man.  The second
sea-rush was about to begin.  The Gulf Stream was open to public
claim.

Young Hardesty and Thomas Jonson, with Dr. Myles and Galen in the
main Hardesty rocket ship, were watching the tele-cast of this
epochal occurrence.  The scene was the northern shore of America.  It
was packed like sardines with sea-going craft of every conceivable
nature.

"Thousands of boats, rockets, sea-sleds, and even powered
metalorafts, folks," cried the announcer's excited voice.  "They're
all waiting for the signal that'll start them in the race for the
choicest positions of the fabulously rich Gulf Stream.  Months have
been devoted to the selection of those permitted to enter this race.
Only the genuinely poor bowlies can compete.  Rich operators trying
to enter dummy competitors have been carefully weeded out.  There'll
be no chiselers here today.

"Claims will be staked according to custom by a buoy, and will be
half a mile square.  Each buoy has a Government-sealed, untamperable
timepiece, which starts only when the buoy is anchored firmly on the
chosen spot.  Future arguments as to priority, then, will be quickly
settled.

"Ordinarily, of course, open-sea mining would be impossible for these
people.  It's been made feasible, however, by two things.  First, the
Stream will afford cost-free power to operate the necessary Alvan
Processors.  And secondly, the Government will provide Processors, on
long-term loans, to all successful claimants."

The speaker continued to describe the picture.  He blurted out the
local color, the background of centuries leading up to this moment.
He compared the present event with the Oklahoma Indian Territory land
rush.

"It's an unusual year in more ways than one, folks.  Europe is just
digging out from her severest winter in two decades.  So far there
have been no bird migrations to speak of.  And there've been rumors
about peculiar behavior of the Gulf Stream.  These are only rumors,
of course, since the Stream has been absolutely closed to any traffic
since departure of the sea-holders.  Still, it seems almost as if
nature herself was trying to record this great--"

There was a simultaneous roar of many cannons, from near and far.

"That's it!  The signal!  And there they go!"

The television screen showed a madhouse sight as thousands of eager
racers drove straight out to sea with a single-minded purpose.  Many
never surmounted the first line of breakers.  It was dog-eat-dog and
devil take the hindmost.  Bitter fights broke out every minute, when
racers collided in the jam.  If some unfortunate went under, few
would stop and help.

Coast Guard helicopters dipped and fluttered.  Rescues by the dozen
were made.

Just within range of the telecaster was a rickety amphibian rocket.
Someone had managed to rent the old ship on his prospects of locating
a rich claim.  Before it was a quarter of a mile off-shore, it blew
up.  Life and hope alike were swallowed by the sea.  Hardesty tuned
the scene out.

"Not pretty, is it?"

No one, spoke for awhile.  Then Jonson ventured a choked remark.

"It won't be long now."

"Yes," Hardesty agreed.  "We'll know one way or the other in a few
hours.  Hell is about to pop!"




CHAPTER V

_Defeat Is Triumph_

The hours ticked away.  Hardesty sat calmly reading.  But Jonson
paced nervously from port to port, staring out at the Guatemalan
jungle on one side, or watching the smooth flow of water in the huge
canal on the other.  Dr. Myles tried to play cards with Galen.

When the private viso-phone buzzed its sharp call signal, everyone
jumped.  Hardesty pushed the switch.  The face of Judy Vance sprang
to furious life.  Her eyes were blazing, with alarm as much as anger.
Without a moment's hesitation she and Hardesty were shouting again at
one another.

"You thieving, doublecrossing crook!" the girl cried.  "You--"

"You ignorant red-headed firebrand!" Hardesty yelled.  "I did it for
your own good, to keep you from ruining your own crowd.  If you only
had the sense of an eight-year-old, you'd appreciate--"

"Your cheating has driven them crazy!  I can't do a thing with them!"

For a moment both voices screamed together in angry epithets.  Then
Hardesty slammed the screen to darkness again.  He turned, apologetic.

"That girl makes me forget myself.  I never met anyone I so
thoroughly detest....  Well, what's so funny?"

Dr. Myles smothered a grin and discreetly said nothing.  The call
buzzer rattled again, several times.  This time it was the I.S.C.C.
chief.

"Ah," murmured Jonson.  "Here it comes at last.  The Great Stone Face
seems to be slightly upset."

Indeed, the usual calm demeanor of the Chief Commissioner was wiped
away in an expression of dazed, bewildered astonishment.

"Hardesty!" he bleated.  "What's happened out here?"

"Your blunderingly idiotic Commission ruled us out of the Atlantic
Gulf Stream.  At the same time they practically guaranteed economic
ruin for the people you wanted to help.  So we took it into our own
hands to save you from your folly.  Dr. Myles, here, will explain
what has been done."

Myles stepped before the screen.

"The Gulf Stream makes its clockwise circle of the Caribbean,
gathering its cargo of riches.  Protected from exploitation by
continual hurricanes, it caroms off the Guatemalan coast at the
precise point where the Hardesty Canal now begins.  Hence, the Stream
now divides.  Half of it, three million cubic feet per second, drives
straight through the peninsula to join the Japan Current.

"This augmented Japan Current is now so powerful that it no longer is
turned completely by the Aleutian Islands.  Instead, it also divides,
half of the warm stream shooting on up the Alaskan coast and around
toward Hudson Bay.  Those formerly frozen waters are now ice-free the
year around.  The temperature of the already warm water of the Gulf
Stream increases another five degrees in its day and a half trip
through the canal to meet the warm Japan Current.

"So Messrs. Hardesty, Jonson, Rousseau, and Harwicke are once again
situated on the warm ocean currents.  As the expression goes, they
are sitting pretty.  And they intend to keep sitting that way."

"But--but--" the Chief Commissioner spluttered indignantly.

Hardesty pointed out some cold facts.  Absolute and irrevocable title
had been given him and his colleagues to their northern holdings, and
to the canal right of way.  No objection had been made by anyone to
the proposal.  It was all strictly legal.

"A good portion of the Gulf Stream still follows its original path.
It should be sufficient for any but the most greedy.  No one can say
we haven't done our best to avert strife.  If it comes, we are on the
side of lawfulness."



Hardesty ended the interview by darkening the screen.  He looked
weary.

"God knows I don't want war.  The fact that the bowlies have some
justification on their side makes this a nasty dilemma.  I've tried
to solve it the only way I know, by sharing with them....  But if
we're forced into a fight, at least we have the advantage this time.
If we had fought before, it would have been hopeless.  Now, if anyone
intervenes, it must be in our behalf.  We have the law with us."

Jonson nodded.  "I see what you meant that last day in the Commission
hearing room.".

Within twelve hours they had the bowlies' answer.  It was a
hundred-pound hydroxyl bomb, aimed to destroy the mouth of the canal.

Ten minutes later the northern sky was black with ships.  Dozens of
the most fantastically ancient rocket cars, totally unarmored and
unfit for battle, were piloted by bowlies.  Without the faintest idea
of proper maneuver and tactics, they drove forward recklessly,
seeking to dump tons of HE to blast the hated canal out of existence.

Hardesty sighed, gave the signal to battle stations.  Scattered along
the length of the canal were his slim fighting forces.  Most of them
were concentrated at the Caribbean end.  Though they were small in
number, all were trained fighters, equipped with the latest in
interceptor-pursuit rocket ships.  Jonson scurried to his own ship,
eager for battle.

The tiny group of defenders blasted off to meet the enemy hosts.
Using their superior speed and agility, they easily avoided direct
hits by their opponents' crude weapons.  Spinning, diving, looping,
they weaved intricate patterns throughout the massed flight of
rattletrap bowlies' ships.  Proton streams stabbed viciously.

Strangely, though, the casualties were few.  Acting on Hardesty's
instructions, the defenders concentrated only on disabling the enemy
ships, forcing them down before they could come within bombing range
of the canal.  Their strategy was to slip behind an unsuspecting ship
and destroy the rocket tubes with a quick blast.  This left the
bowlie pilot no choice but to spiral down on his stubby wings and try
to find a soft landing spot.

From his observation point above the battle, Hardesty thought it
looked like a comic opera war, in which no one ever gets hurt.  But
mid-air collisions suddenly accounted for three of his men.  They
plunged Earthward in their flaming silver coffins.  Some of the
bowlies were also crashing to their deaths.  But they were victims of
poor piloting.  They often drove directly into the defenders' proton
blasts and had their ships wrecked, instead of just the tubes.

After a savage running battle, the invading fleet seemed to have been
reduced by half.  It was obvious that some of them were managing to
filter through by sheer weight of numbers.

Hardesty's attempt to fight mercifully was a terrific handicap.
Tremendous detonations began to jack the air as hydroxyl bombs struck
the canal.

Anti-aircraft fire stammered into action.  Then blood was shed in
earnest.  There was no time to do anything but fire hastily at the
diving ships and quickly duck.



Inside his own AG ship, Hardesty's face grew more tight and drawn as
every minute passed.

"This is bad," he muttered to Galen, who was obviously aching to get
into the scrap.  "I hoped to discourage those fools, whip 'em in this
first thrust so they'd fall back and think things over.  Once they do
that, they're sure to come to their senses.  They're in a fanatical
rage right now.  That will wear off, though.  But if we're forced to
shed much blood before they do snap out of it--"  He shook his head
worriedly.

In their own defense, Hardesty's men would soon be forced to fight
back in total war.  It would be kill or be killed.  A terrible and
bloody war would inevitably be started.

He signaled Galen down into the fight to aid his thinning ranks.
Like a hawk after a pigeon, the big AG plunged.  Quickly, they
spotted a lone bowlie scurrying low over the canal.  He was followed
by a leaping spray of exploding Earth as he stopped a string of bombs
along one bank.  Doom caught him unaware.

Galen slipped deftly up beneath the enemy's tail, in his blind spot.
Hardesty's marksmanship left the invader's rocket tubes a fused,
molten mass.

The pilot reached for the ignition switch, hoping to glide to safety
without power.  But he was too late.  The bowlie ship shuddered as
the rocket blasts went off inside the hull.  The rattletrap spun end
over end, streaming flame like a pinwheel, then vanished abruptly
into the canal.  Water boiled.  Steam arose in a swiftly dispersing
cloud.

Hardesty groaned aloud at this misfortune, then directed Galen back
along the canal.  It was showing wear and tear, especially at the
Caribbean end, where it had been half-filled in by repeated bombings.
It was nothing that the mechanical moles couldn't repair in time.
But it was beginning to look as if there would be no one to use the
moles for a long time to come.  If the battle got further out of
hand--

Young Hardesty was not a religious man.  Yet in a fumbling way he
offered up a brief but earnest prayer that the carnage might somehow
be stopped before it was too late.

And, as sometimes happens to the deserving, a miracle did occur.

It was heralded by the warning light and buzzer on the viso-phone,
both of which went into a frantic dance.  A fuse blew out.  It was
automatically replaced, before Hardesty managed to turn the switch.
The screen was a wild blur of distorted images and the loudspeaker
howled with static.  Someone was blanketing out all wave lengths,
intending to tune in with an all-frequency broadcast on every
receiver within hundreds of miles.

Hardesty glanced at the sky above.  As he suspected, a gigantic
spaceship hovered near the stratosphere.  It was so large that its
identifying color could be distinguished even at that distance.  It
was an official Government ship.

"I reckon Stony Face'll be wantin' a word with us," hazarded Galen.



The old pilot was right.  The screen quickly resolved into the
features of the Chief Commissioner of the I.S.C.C.  For the second
time to Hardesty's knowledge, the man was registering the extremes of
emotion.  This time it was wild with excitement.

"Hardesty!" he shouted.  "Bowlies!  All of you, down there.  Stop the
fighting.  There's no longer any cause for war!"

Battle sounds dribbled away to silence as everyone warily digested
this statement.  The muted stuttering of countless rockets was the
only noise.  The Commissioner took advantage of the temporary truce.

"Miss Judy Vance has been with me the last few hours, checking on an
incredible report.  Just so you won't think I'm trying to deceive
you, I shall have her tell it to you herself."

Judy Vance stepped into view on hundreds of the belligerents'
screens.  Her eyes were shining.  Words tumbled from her mouth.

"It's true!  Something wonderful has happened.  Reports have dribbled
in from the Arctic regions all winter.  At first no one paid any
attention.  Then it suddenly dawned on somebody that an amazing
transformation was taking place in the frozen north.  It was
confirmed just before the rush began.  The Commissioner and I have
just returned from checking it!"

She paused to catch her breath.

"There _is_ no more frozen north, men!  Snow fields have melted.
Glaciers have begun to dwindle.  There hasn't been a serious storm
all winter along the northern Alaskan and Canadian coasts.
Hardesty's canal, by turning the warm current up over the top of the
world, has changed the climate entirely.  Millions of acres of rich,
black land have been opened up for almost year-round farming.

"Quit this fight, men.  Hardesty has given us something much more
precious in exchange for his Gulf Stream.  Back to the soil, men, and
take up again our true heritage.  It's ours just for the asking!"

Judy Vance's voice was ringing with joy.  Its emotion captured her
listeners.  From all over the miles of aerial battlefield arose the
roar of joyful shouting.  Rockets blasted rhythmically in fiery
triumph.

"Hardesty," came the girl's voice once again.  "Oh, Hardesty!  If
you're listening, please come up to the Government ship.  I want you
to see for yourself the wonderful thing that's happened."



Young Hardesty and Judy Vance peered through the floor port of the
Government clipper.  Down they stared at the miraculously changed
face of the North.  Dr. Myles was with them, shaking his head in
astonishment.  He muttered dazedly about temperatures and
equalization of barometric pressure.

Hardesty watched tiny, distant figures of the bowlie vanguard
arriving in their battered ships.  Almost to a man, when they put
foot again on virgin soil, they knelt and scooped it up ecstatically
between their hands.  Joyously they reveled in its warm richness.

No longer were they a lost legion.  They had come into their own once
again!

"It's ironic that we should be the last to realize what's been going
on right under our noses," Myles said.  "Hardesty City isn't five
miles off the coast.  Yet we were all busy putting the City back
together again and preparing for a fight.  We never even spared the
time to--  Hey!  Isn't anybody listening?"

No one paid him the slightest heed.  Hardesty and Judy Vance were
looking into one another's eyes.

"I'm so glad it turned out this way," she breathed.  "I realized all
along that you were partly right--"

"And I knew you were only trying to help those unfortunates--"

They stopped, searching awkwardly for words.  Then Hardesty said a
few that could fit together.

"It's funny.  Right from our first meeting, every time I saw you I
got all mixed up inside.  I thought it was anger at a red-headed
upstart.  But I guess now maybe it was something else, huh?"

Judy Vance smiled in the immemorially cryptic way of a woman who has
found the one man she was seeking.


[The end of _Waters of Wrath_ by Arthur K. Barnes]