“Hear that, Waldron?” demanded the Billionaire.  “It’s already beginning even here!  But not one of these plants is working for what I see as the prime possibility.  No imagination, no grasp on the subject!  No wonder most inventors and scientists die poor!  They incubate ideas and then lack the warmth to hatch them into general application.  It takes men like us, Wally—­practical men—­to turn the trick!” He spoke a bit rapidly, almost feverishly, under the influence of the subtle drug.  “Now if we take hold of this game, why, we can shake the world as it has never yet been shaken!  Eh, Waldron?  What do you think now?”

Waldron only grunted, non-committally.  Flint with a hard glance at his unresponsive partner, once more turned to Herzog.

“See here, now,” directed he.  “What’s the best process now in use?”

“For what, sir?” ventured the timid chemist.

“For the simultaneous production of nitrogen and oxygen, from the atmosphere!”

“Well, sir,” he answered, deprecatingly, as though taking a great liberty even in informing his master on a point the master had expressly asked about, “there are three processes.  But all operate only on a small scale.”

“Who ever told you I wanted to work on a large scale?” demanded Flint, savagely.

“I—­er—­inferred—­beg pardon, sir—­I—­” And Herzog quite lost himself and floundered hopelessly, while his mismated eyes wandered about the room as though seeking the assurance he so sadly lacked.

“Confine yourself to answering what I ask you,” directed Flint, crisply.  “You’re not paid to infer.  You’re paid to answer questions on chemistry, and to get results.  Remember that!”

“Yes, sir,” meekly answered the chemist, while Waldron smiled with cynical amusement.  He enjoyed nothing so delightedly as any grilling of an employee, whether miner, railroad man, clerk, ship’s captain or what-not.  This baiting, by Flint, was a rare treat to him.

“Go on,” commanded the Billionaire, in a badgering tone.  “What are the processes?” He eyed Herzog as though the man had been an ox, a dog or even some inanimate object, coldly and with narrow-lidded condescension.  To him, in truth, men were no more than Shelley’s “plow or sword or spade” for his own purpose—­things to serve him and to be ruled—­or broken—­as best served his ends.  “Go on!  Tell me what you know; and no more!”

“Yes, sir,” ventured Herzog.  “There are three processes to extract nitrogen and oxygen from air.  One is by means of what the German scientists call Kalkstickstoff, between calcium carbide and nitrogen, and the reaction-symbols are—­”

“No matter,” Flint waived him, promptly.  “I don’t care for formulas or details.  What I want is results and general principles.  Any other way to extract these substances, in commercial quantities, from the air we breathe?”

“Two others.  But one of these operates at a prohibitive cost.  The other—­”