I went out and descended the building by the external elevator. A minute later I was upon the traveling street, feeling like a runaway schoolboy, and animated by an intense desire to solve the secret that lay before me. Presently, remembering that I was to proceed slowly, I had the curiosity to step off the traveling platform into a large, open space on which a crowd was seated. I took my post beside one of the funnels that surrounded it, and saw that I was at one of the moving picture performances. Spelling out the title upon the curtain, I understood that news from Russia was to be given. There was none of that blur of vision which was a common defect of the old-fashioned pictures, and the words spoken from the funnels synchronized so perfectly with the actions on the screen that the illusion was complete. Upon the parapet of the fortress reared by our besieging troops I saw machines with conical tops, faced with large, glow-painted shields. As I watched, there rushed across the field of vision a number of men of the most degraded, savage aspect, armed with long swords, which they brandished furiously, while the funnels yelled like demons. “These are the Russian savages, filthy defectives who are attacking the army of the Federation,” announced the funnel at my side, in such a personal way that I started, imagining for a moment that someone had spoken to me. As the horde neared the fortress a short command was uttered, and from each of the conical machines a glare of light shot forth. The Russians wilted and crumpled up. They did not fall; they were rather consumed like lead dropped into fire, and the next line wilted too as the Ray caught them, tumbling in charred masses upon the bodies of their companions. Higher and higher rose the dreadful pyramid of mortality, until the field was empty. “The victory of Science over Superstition,” announced each funnel simultaneously. “The Russians do not possess the Ray. They are degraded outcasts, refuse from the pre-civilization period, starving in Tula, and will all die unless they surrender soon. What a pity to have to destroy so much potential productivity! It is the Tsar’s fault. He is a dirty moron, full of germ life, and has never produced a hektone in his life. We shall next see him before the Council. Boss Lembken is on the job. Praise him!” “Hurrah” yelled the spectators, rising in their seats to cheer.