THE SCI-FI COLLECTION OF EDGAR WALLACE. Edgar Wallace

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      Tim hesitated.

      “Yes, I think I have,” he said. “Mr. Colson was undoubtedly in communication with another planet!”

Chapter V

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      “Then it was Mars!” cried Chap triumphantly.

      “Of course it was not Mars,” interrupted his sister scornfully. “Mr. Colson told us distinctly that there was no life on Mars.”

      “Where is it, Tim?” he asked.

      “I don’t know.” Tim shook his head. “I have been questioning his assistants — there were two at the house — but he never took them into his confidence. The only hint they can give me is that when poor Mr. Colson was listening-in to these mysterious voices he invariably had the receiving gear directed towards the sun. You know, of course, that he did not use the ordinary aerial, but an apparatus shaped like a convex mirror.”

      “Towards the sun?” gasped Chap. “But there can’t be any life on the sun! Dash it all, I don’t profess to be a scientific Johnny but I know enough of physics to see that it’s as impossible for life to exist on the sun as it would be to exist in a coke oven! Why, the temperature of the sun is umpteen thousand degrees centigrade…and anyway, nobody has ever seen the sun: you only see the photoscope…”

      “All this I know,” said Tim, listening patiently, “but there is the fact: the receiving mirror was not only directed towards the sun, but it moved by clockwork so that it was directed to the sun at all hours of the day, even when the sky was overcast and the sun was invisible. I admit that the whole thing sounds incredible, but Colson was not mad. That voice we heard was very distinct.”

      “But from what planet could it be?” insisted Chap, pushing back his untidy hair and glaring at his friend. “Go over ’em all: eliminate Mars and the Sun, of course, and where is this world? Venus, Mercury, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune — phew! You’re not suggesting that it is one of the minor planets, are you? Ceres, Pallas, Juno, Vesta…?”

      Tim shook his head.

      “I am as much puzzled as you, but I am going to spend my life onwards looking for that world.”

      He went back to the house. The body of the old man had been moved to a near-by hospital, and the place was alive with detectives. Mr. Stamford was there when he returned, and placed him in possession of a number of names and addresses which he thought might be useful to the young man.

      “I don’t know that I want to know any stockbrokers,” said Tim, looking at the list with a wry face.

      “You never know,” said Mr. Stamford. “After all, Mr. Colson expected you to carry on his work, and probably it will be part of your duties to continue his operations. I happen to know that he paid minute attention to the markets.”

      He indicated a number of financial newspapers that lay unopened on the table, and Tim took up one, opened it and glanced down the columns. In the main the items of news were meaningless to him. All he saw were columns of intricate figures which were so much Greek; but presently his eye caught a headline:

      “BLACK SEA OIL SYNDICATE. CHARLES HILDRETH’S GLOOMY REPORT TO THE SHAREHOLDERS.

      “A meeting of the Black Sea Oil Syndicate was held at the Cannon Street Hotel yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Hildreth, Chairman of the Company, presiding, said that he had very little news for the shareholders that was pleasant. A number of the wells had run dry, but borings were being made on a new part of the concession, though there was scarcely any hope that they would be successful.”

      Tim frowned. Black Sea Oil Syndicate…? Hildreth? He put a question to the lawyer.

      “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Stanford. “Hildreth is deep in the oil market. There’s some talk of his rigging Black Seas.”

      “What do you mean by ‘rigging’?” asked Tim.

      “In this case the suggestion, which was made to me by a knowledgeable authority,” said Mr. Stamford, “is that Hildreth was depressing the shares issuing unpromising reports which would induce shareholders to put their shares on the market at a low figure. Of course, there may be nothing in it: Black Sea Oils are not a very prosperous concern. On the other hand, he may have secret information from his engineers.”

      “Such as — ?” suggested Tim.

      “They may have struck oil in large quantities on another part of the property and may be keeping this fact dark, in which case they could buy up shares cheaply, and when the news was made known the scrip would go sky-high and they would make a fortune.”

      Tim read the report again. “Do you think there is any chance of oil being found on this property?”

      Stamford smiled. “I am a lawyer, not a magician,” he said good-humouredly.

      After he had gone, Tim found himself reading the paper: the paragraph fascinated him. Black Sea Oil…

      Suddenly he leapt to his feet with a cry. That was the message which Mr. Colson had written on the paper — the Oilfields of the Inland Sea!

      He ran out of the room and went in search of Stamford.

      “I am going to buy Black Sea Oils,” he said breathlessly. “Will you tell me what I must do?”

      In a few moments the telephone wire was busy.

      Mr. Hildreth had not been to his office that day, and when he strolled in to dinner, and the footman handed him his paper, he opened the page mechanically at the Stock Exchange column and ran his eyes down the list of quotations. That morning Black Sea Oils had stood in the market at 3s. 3d., and almost the first note that reached his eye was in the stop-press column.

      “Boom in Black Sea Oils. There have been heavy buyings in Black Sea Oil shares, which stood this morning in the neighbourhood of 3s., but which closed firm at 42s. 6d.”

      Hildreth’s face went livid. His great coup had failed!

      In the weeks which followed the death and funeral of Professor Colson, Tim found every waking minute occupied. He had enlisted the services of the cleverest of scientists, and from the shattered apparatus one of the most brilliant of mechanical minds of the country was rebuilding the broken instruments. Sir Charles Layman, one of the foremost scientific minds in England, had been called into consultation by the lawyer, and to him Tim had related as much as he knew of Professor Colson’s secret.

      “I knew Colson,” said Sir Charles; “he was undoubtedly a genius. But this story you tell me takes us into the realm of fantasy. It isn’t possible that life can exist on the sun; and really, young gentleman, I can’t help feeling that you have been deceived over these mysterious voices.”

      “Then three people were deceived,” said Tim firmly. “My friend Chap West and his sister both heard the speaker. And Mr. Colson was not the kind of man who would descend to trickery.”

      Sir Charles pursed his lips and shook his head.

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