All eyes were upon Dr. Futura. With his rugged good looks and athletic build, he more resembled a movie star rather than one of the world's greatest scientists. No ninety-eight pound weakling he. Yet for all his Hollywood appeal, he was always nervous on stage. He tried to ignore the sea of faces and popping flash bulbs.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in recent decades, modern American science has revolutionized communication and transportation. Our express railroads criss-cross the continent. Great steamships ply the oceans and protect our shores. Our aeroplanes and dirigibles soar through the clouds. And now we've recently begun to explore the depths of outer space.” At the mention of space, several members of the audience turned to look at the girl near the back of the crowd—blond, bronzed, and built like a pinup. The Dinosaur Girl of Venus, the papers had called her. Dr. Futura hadn't realized she'd be here; he'd let Mike and Tracy handle in invitations. Valerie began to blush at the unexpected attention. Dr. Futura adjusted the microphone stand with a squawk of electronic feedback, drawing everyone's attention back to the stage.
“There remains only one method of travel left to pioneer. I speak, of course, of teleportation!” A confused murmur fluttered through the crowd, like a wave of skepticism. Dr. Futura patted his forehead with a handkerchief. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tracy in the wings, encouraging him on. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Yes, teleportation! The instantaneous transmission of matter from one place to another.” He grabbed the edge of the tarp behind him. “Behold! My Radio-Matter Transmission Engine!” With a quick pull, the canvas flew from the device.
The Engine resembled the inner workings of a radio expanded to enormous size. A bizarre collection of wires, vacuum arrays, radio crystals, and Crookes tubes covered the sides of a ten-foot tall nickel-copper pylon. Two articulated struts extended from the pylon, and each terminated in what looked like a complex radio antenna. A control panel full of toggles, dials, and switches sat between the two antenna struts, and a massive generator sat behind the pylon, ready to supply power to the massive contraption.
Mike and Tracy came onto stage, each rolling a dinner cart in front of them. Tracy's cart was empty, and she placed it in front of the left antenna. Mike's cart held a bronze bust of Charles Babbage, and he placed it in front of the right antenna. “Allow me to demonstrate this marvel of radio science,” Dr. Futura proclaimed to the audience, spreading his arms wide. His previous anxiety began to evaporate as he spoke of his craft. His love of science—mad or otherwise—filled him with confidence.
Dr. Futura strode to the control panel and threw a complex series of switches as Mike and Tracy backed away from their respective carts. The generator sparked to life with an electric hum. Electricity arced and rippled up the pylon, and the crystals and tubes glowed with an unusual light. The air smelled of ozone, and the lights in the chandeliers above dimmed for a few seconds. Outside, thunder rumbled as the storm that had threatened the city all night finally let lose. Rain splattered across the glass skylights high above the ballroom. “Observe now,” the scientist said as he pointed to the cart on the right with the bust of Babbage. “The Engine will transform the good Mr. Babbage here into radio waves, then retransmit and reassemble him on that empty cart over there.”
Dr. Futura threw a large red switch on the control panel. The roar of rain against the skylight mingled with the machine's electric buzz, filling the ballroom with white noise. An invisible wave of energy rippled from the right antenna, and the bronze sculpture wavered, then disappeared in a gray blizzard of visual static. Almost instantly, the the bust reappeared on the previously empty cart on the left in a similar shower of static. Success!
The crowd gasped, then exploded into applause, while mere seconds later, the skylight above exploded into shower of glass.
A dozen figures dropped in through the shattered skylight. They were tall and broad things, squarely built in a mockery of the human form. Their “eyes” glowed an evil red, and their “skin” had the dull gray luster of gunmetal. Weird bundles on their backs emitted jets of flame that slowed their decent to the floor. Each carried a Thompson submachine gun in metal claws.
“My god!” shouted Dr. Futura. “It's a robot attack!”
