Gwent was silent. With methodical care he flicked off the burnt end of his cigar and watched it where it fell, as though it were something rare and curious. He wanted a few minutes to think. He gave a quick upward glance at the tall athletic figure above him, with its magnificent head and flashing eyes,--and the words "I'll be master of the world" gave him an unpleasant thrill. One man on the planet with power to destroy nations seemed quite a fantastic idea--yet science made it actually possible!
He bethought himself of a book he had lately read concerning radio-activity, in which he had been struck by the following passage--"Radio-activity is an explosion of great violence; the energy exerted is millions of times more powerful than the highest explosive substance yet made in our laboratories; one bomb loaded with such energy would be equal to millions of bombs of the same size and energy as used in the trenches. One's mind stands aghast at the thought of what could be possible if such power were used for destructive purposes; a single aeroplane could carry sufficient to annihilate a whole army, or lay the biggest city in ruins with the death of all its inhabitants."
The writer of the book in question had stated that, so far, no means had been found of conserving and concentrating this tremendous force for such uses,--but Gwent, looking at Roger Seaton, said within himself--"He's got it!" And this impression, urging itself strongly in on his brain, was sufficiently startling to give him a touch of what is called "nerves."
After a considerably long pause he said, slowly--"Well, 'master of the world' is a pretty tall order! Now, look here, Seaton--you're a plain, straight man, and so am I, as much as my business will let me. What are you after, anyway? What is your aim and end? You say you don't want money--yet money is the chief goal of all men's ambition. You don't care for fame, though you could have it for the lifting of a finger, and I suppose you don't want love--"
Seaton laughed heartily, pushing back with a ruffling hand the thick hair from his broad open brow.
"All three propositions are nil to me"--he said--"I suppose it is because I can have them for the asking! And what satisfaction is there in any one of them? A man only needs one dinner a day, a place to sleep in and ordinary clothes to wear--very little money is required for the actual necessaries of life--enough can be earned by any day-labourer. As for fame--whosoever reads the life of even one 'famous' man will never be such a fool as to wish for the capricious plaudits of a fool-public. And love!--love does not exist--not what I call love!"