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The basement of the Bentley was low-ceilinged and damp, with thick support pillars and beams of raw timber. Having once served as the building's store room, there were various items of stock and surplus strewn about; a moldy pile of grain bags, grape-stained and empty caskets of wine. An old wooden staircase climbed one of the walls. There were lanterns hung in various corners, and their sputterings and flickerings cast deep and weird shadows on the stern faces of the five men who sat around a rough-hewn table of wood in the middle of the room.
"And what guarantees do we have that you actually know where it is?" said one of the men.
"Of course," said the man who seemed to be answering the questions. "As I've explained to you, the technological
complexity of one of the guns, by itself, would have almost no chance of overcoming the strength of the flows there.
But, the combined weight of all the weapons, as well as the armor, should be more than enough to disturb the fields,
and return them to a state of normality. Which means that our weapons will function properly, and, most importantly,
fatally…"
"Whot the bloody 'ell is Angus doin' up there? Playin' practical jokes?" The man answering the questions looked hard at the object, his eyes widening. He was already moving. "Throw it away! Get rid of it, for the love of…!" The object exploded in his hand, a bright chemical flash, and the men in the circle cried out, blinded and screaming in the severe white light. The door at the top of the stairs flew open, a shadow following in its wake and diving down the stairs. Another metal sphere appeared, rolling across the top of the table and billowing thick, greenish smoke. The lanterns started popping like carnival balloons, the flashing reports of dual pistols casting sharp shadows on the cowering forms of men and on the face of Sebastian, who was having a brilliant time. And then he was thrown against the wall, the pistol in his left hand lost, his shoulder spun by a blunt force that cracked the wall behind him. He rolled forward, deeper into the smoke, emptying the chamber in the general direction of the attack. His left shoulder hung limply, out of socket and useless. Dropping the pistol, he dug deep within his jacket, pulling the coiled cylinder of the Tesla Rod from its confines. 
One of the men lunged out of the smoke, screaming obscenities and firing his revolver blindly. Sebastian steadied himself against the wall, depressing the switch on the end of the Tesla Rod as he brought it up level with the man's chest. A jagged bolt of electricity jumped from the copper coils to the man, passing through his body and to the floor. He fell heavily, the air thick with the smell of singed flesh. And Sebastian was moving again, his left arm pulsing in white hot pain as he brought up the Tesla Rod, but within its casing he heard the popping of tubes and pistons, and it started to shake uncontrollably in his hand. And then, as if in answer to his own attack, a yellowish, crackling whip of lightning flew from underneath the stairs, hitting him full in the chest. The Tesla Rod skittered across the floor, coming to rest under the table. Sebastian tried to rise, but his limbs were like stone, and he could do nothing. Moments later, three men were upon him.
* * * *
Continue the adventure . . . |
The man was cut off by a sound from the rear of the basement, the sliding of metal on metal, the creaking of rusty
wheels. All eyes turned to the source of the noise. A dark recess in the wall, a trembling length of rope. The
dumb-waiter.
One of the men walked slowly to the wall, bending to retrieve what he found in the rusted tin tray. Something small,
something round. He turned back to the group, holding the small object to the light.