reported that Antofagasta had fallen, they began using methods which were frankly obstructionary. The South American representatives, many of them no longer having either homes or constituents, writhed under the knowledge that tanks were already approaching Sucre from the south, that Iquique was threatened. The President, worn by the strain of war and political obstruction, appeared before the Congress two days later, April 10, to make a last plea for action before it was too late. There was talk of revolution in the south. The Central Americas were flaming in revolt. The defense armies were scattered and in full retreat on all fronts. The whole machinery of war had broken down, and there was no power, no single dominant head, to halt the disorder and set the defense on a going basis again.
“I must have the power; I must have the money and the backing; I must have the advice I need, the information, the organization,” declared the President. “It is no longer a question of democracy and individual right here; it is a question of life or death. In a few more weeks your deliberations will be cut short by an Asian tank; your Magna Carta torn to shreds by a slave driver!”
The filibuster continued for another week. It came to an end when word reached the north that Santos, threatened for days by the invaders, had fallen and been burned. Overnight, fearing the movement of the hostile tanks upon Rio de Janeiro, the capital of South America had been hastily moved to Caracas, and thousands of refugees were pouring out of Rio in boats, afoot, and by every possible means of travel, abandoning the city to its fate.
The shock of this blow was decisive. For once numbed by the news, the obstructionists were silent, and the South American members took matters into their own hands. The following day, April 16, the President was notified that his request had been granted by an unanimous vote and that the country was officially in the hands of the five members of the War Council, who were endowed with unlimited power for the prosecution of the war.
II
The President lost no time in calling together his War Council. They met for the first time in the inner office of his suite in Washington: Dr. Scott, King, the Secretary of War, and Senor Garcia, small and quiet. a man of few words, but one who knew every phase of the South American temperament; a man upon whom the Council depended to quell the threatened revolts in the South and restore faith in the Federal Government.
“Dr. Angell,” the President asked, “have you succeeded in obtaining a sample of this Asian metal?”
“No,” admitted the Secretary. “A party equipped with chisels and hammers and electric drills landed close to the causeway mouth and tried to knock off a chip, but though they were not interfered with in any way, they could not break a portion loose. They reported that the stuff appeared to have been flowed together, or fused, like glass. There was neither joint nor crack; nothing to get a chisel or a drill into.”
“Then, after all these weeks, we are as helpless in defending ourselves from the invaders as we were at the beginning?”
“Well. yes,” reluctantly admitted the Secretary, “with the exception that we have devised an armor to-protect our troops from the Asian vapor, and we h^e recently perfected a shield which tends to counteract the effect of the Asian ray.”
“Your soldiers can thus save themselves from danger?”
“Yes.”
“But at the same time they cannot act in any way to defend the civilians or protect the cities from attack?”
“Well. no.”
The telephone at the President’s elbow rang suddenly, viciously. The room grew quiet as the Chief Executive lifted the receiver. Orders had been given that the council room was not to be disturbed except for the most urgent reasons. The ringing of the bell was therefore like a signal of disaster.
“Hello,” the President said. Immediately his face grew serious. He listened to
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