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  STORIES

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  VOL. V. No. 2 CONTENTS FEBRUARY, 1931

  COVER DESIGN H. W. WESSO

  _Painted in Water-Colors from a Scene in "The Tentacles from Below."_

  WEREWOLVES OF WAR D. W. HALL 153

  _The Story of the "Torpedo Plan" and of Capt. Lance's Heroic Part in America's Last Mighty Battle with the United Slavs._

  THE TENTACLES FROM BELOW ANTHONY GILMORE 172

  _Down to Tremendous Ocean Depths Goes Commander Keith Wells in His Blind Duel with the Marauding "Machine-Fish."_ (A Complete Novelette.)

  THE BLACK LAMP CAPTAIN S. P. MEEK 212

  _Dr. Bird and His Friend Carnes Unravel Another Criminal Web of Scientific Mystery._

  PHALANXES OF ATLANS F. V. W. MASON 228

  _Only in Dim Legends Did Mankind Remember Atlantis and the Lost Tribes--Until Victor Nelson's Extraordinary Adventure in the Unknown Arctic._ (Beginning a Two-Part Novel.)

  THE PIRATE PLANET CHARLES W. DIFFIN 261

  _From Earth and Sub-Venus Converge a Titanic Offensive of Justice on the Unspeakable Man-Things of Torg._ (Conclusion.)

  THE READERS' CORNER ALL OF US 277

  _A Meeting Place for Readers of_ ASTOUNDING STORIES.

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  Issued monthly by Readers' Guild, Inc., 80 Lafayette Street, New York,N. Y. W. M. Clayton, President; Francis P. Pace, Secretary. Entered assecond-class matter December 7, 1929, at the Post Office at New York,N. Y., under Act of March 3, 1879. Title registered as a Trade Mark inthe U. S. Patent Office. Member Newsstand Group--Men's List. Foradvertising rates address E. R. Crowe & Co., Inc., 25 Vanderbilt Ave.,New York; or 225 North Michigan Ave., Chicago.

  * * * * *

  Werewolves of War

  _By D. W. Hall_

  _"Hay crosses the gulf, taking with him the cord whichcontrols the electro-magnet."_ ]

  PART I

  [Sidenote: The story of the "Torpedo Plan" and of Capt. Lance's heroicpart in America's last mighty battle with the United Slavs.]

  Trapped again!

  But this time, Lance swore, they'd not get away without paying dearlyfor it!

  Under the mesh of his gas-mask the lean lines of his jaw went taut.Tense, steely fingers flipped to the knobbed control instruments; thegleaming single-seater scout plane catapulted in a screamingsomersault. Lance's ever-wary sixth sense told him the tongues ofdisintegrating flame had licked the plane's protected belly, and forthe fact that it was protected he thanked again his stupendous luck.He pulled savagely at the squat control stick; the four Rahl-Dieselsunleashed a torrent of power; and the slim scout rose like a comet,and hurtled, the altitude dial's nervous finger proclaimed, to tenthousand feet. Lance eased off the power, relaxed slightly, andglanced below.

  They'd started off a squadron of fifteen planes. Thirteen had crumpledbeneath that treacherous, stabbing curtain of disintegrating flame.Only two of them were left--he and Praed.

  Praed, of course!

  The fellow's plane was pirouetting nearby. Lance was the squadronleader. He jammed his thin-lipped mouth close to the "mike" andrasped:

  "They trapped us again! There's some damn spy at our base. Stand by,Praed! They'll send up a few men to wipe us out, too ... and we'regoin' to square the account!"

  He listened for Praed's answer. Presently it came.

  "I can't! They got two of my motors. I'm limping badly. We'd betterbeat it while we can."

  Lance's mouth curled. He roared:

  "Go on, then, beat it! But I'm goin' to take a couple of 'em, anyway."Disgusted, filled with red anger, he flung the phones from his head,watched Praed's plane whirl its stubby nose for home, settled himselfalertly in the low, padded seat and concentrated his attention on theground below.

  He'd been right. Tiny, gray-clad figures were pouring from theirbarracks, rushing madly towards the dozen or so planes neatly drawn upon the field. Lance's mouth twitched. They probably wondered, downthere, why the devil he didn't beat it--like Praed! He stroked thelever which controlled his five gas bombs, centered his battery ofincendiary-bullet machine-guns and ruthlessly shoved the control stickfull over.

  * * * * *

  The Rahl-Diesels pumped at full power; his plane plummetted downwardswith the speed of light, a hurtling shell of steel. His unexpectedmove took the men below by surprise. Lance knew they needed at leastten minutes to prepare another salvo of disintegrating flame; he hadabout four minutes left.

  There was a restless, thudding chatter, and his bullets began to mowthem down.

  Lance could see the horrified expressions of the men beneath, andchuckled grimly as they sought to escape the wrath of his hot guns. Heflung bursts of spouting, acid-filled lead at the defenseless planes,and saw two of them collapse in shrouds of acrid white smoke. Andstill he dove.

  At a bare one hundred feet he tugged the control stick back, and thetiny scout groaned under the pull of her motors. Then her snout joltedupwards. Lance pounded the gas bomb lever, and smiled a tight smile ashe sensed the five pills sloping down from their compartment in thescout's belly.

  A second later came a rolling, ear-numbing crash. Lance, safe at aperch of a few thousand feet, grinned as his narrowed eyes beheld thesticky curtain of death-crammed gas hug over the enemy base.

  "That'll quiet 'em for a few minutes!" he muttered savagely.

  A few minutes--but not more. And he had no more bombs; his ammunitionbelts were nearly depleted. "I guess," he murmured, "I'd better followthat quitter, Praed. I've paid 'em for the boys they got, anyway!"

  He levelled the plane out, threw a last glance at the carpet of gas hehad laid, and spurred the purring Rahl-Diesels to their limit. Hisspeed dial flashed round to five hundred, five-fifty--seventy--andfinally rested, quivering, at the scout's full six hundred miles perhour.

  Under the streamlined plane's speeding body the gnarled, bomb-tornterrain of Nevada hurtled by. A rather sad frown creased Lance'sprematurely old brow as he glimpsed it. Thousands of lives had beenthrown into that ground; the hot, tumbled waste was doused withfreely-sacrificed blood, the blood
of whole regiments of America'sheroic First Home Army. Martyred men! Lance couldn't help swearing tohimself at the bitter thought of that terrible reckoning day. It wasthe price his country had paid for her continued ignoring of thefestering peril overseas. Slaughtered like sheep, those gloriousregiments had been! Helpless, almost, before the ultra-modern warweapons of the United Slav hordes, they'd stopped the numbingly quickadvance merely by the weight of their bodies. Like little Belgium, in1914. They'd held the Slavs to California, ravished, war-desolatedCalifornia.

  * * * * *

  The thin front-line trenches far behind, Lance began a slanting divethat raised his speed well over six hundred. Through the frontmagnifying mirror he spied the squat khaki buildings of his base.Werewolves of War, the batch of planes he belonged to had beenchristened, and it was a richly deserved title. In front of the frontthey fought, detailed to desperate, harrying missions, losing anaverage of ten men a day. The ordeal of gas and fire and acid bulletsadded five years to a man's brow overnight--if he served with theWerewolves of War.

  Lance was only twenty-four, but his hair was splotched with dead graystrands; his eyes were hard and weary; his face lined with newwrinkles. Ah, well, it was war--and a losing war, he had to admit,that they fought. If a miracle didn't come, America would crumble evenas old Europe had, before the overwhelming Slavish troops.

  Even now, as Lance knew through various rumors, the Slavs were massedfor a grand attack. And with what could America hold them back?

  His helicopter props spun, and the scout nestled down lightly on thetarmac. Lance switched off the faithful Rahl-Diesels, swung open thetiny door and leaped from the enclosed cockpit.

  "Sir," he rapped to thin, stern-browed Colonel Douglas, "there's nolonger any doubt in my mind. This is the fifth time we've beenanticipated--trapped! The enemy is informed directly of the attackingplans of our scout details. There's a spy at this base!" He loweredhis eyes for a second and said in a queer tone of voice: "Thirteen of'em went down to-day."

  Colonel Douglas' tired face showed the never-ceasing strain he wasunder. He clasped hands behind his back, took a few nervous turns upand down the small office and finally, with a somewhat hopeless sigh,muttered:

  "I know, Lance, I know. The devils! They seem to be aware ofeverything we plan. Yet what can we do? Look at the territory ourfront lines cover! More than two thousand miles of loosely heldground. And we're so damnably organized, man! Look here!"

  * * * * *

  He strode to the huge map which covered entirely one wall of thelittle room and ran his forefinger down the long red line, signifyingthe American front, which stretched crookedly from the Canadian borderto the Gulf of California. Parallel to it was another line, ofblack--the United Slavs.

  "It's so damned easy," Colonel Douglas said, "for a spy to slip over."He sighed again. "I fought in the scrap of 1917 as a kid of twenty; itwas different then. But this is 1938, and it's a scientific war we'retrying to fight." He sat down in his swivel chair. "How--how did theywipe you out to-day?"

  "That blasted disintegrating flame again," Lance told him swiftly."It's obvious, Colonel: how did the Slavs know we were going to raidthat comparatively unimportant base of theirs at such and such a time?They had the flame shooters all ready for us--and at a place wherethey've never had them before! We came up at twenty-five thousandfeet, dropped down in a full power dive, and"--he gesturedwidely--"biff! The flames caught us neatly at the regulation thousandfeet. They got thirteen men. Only two got away, Praed and myself."His keen eyes were inquiring, and the colonel interpreted their lookcorrectly.

  "Praed," he murmured. "Yes, I saw him come back, by himself. He saidyou were following. Two of his motors were shot. He seems to bear acharmed life, doesn't he?"

  Lance nodded. He didn't like to hint at the thought he had in mind. Itseemed a cowardly, stab-in-the-back thing to do. Yet it was duty, andthere was no questioning duty.

  "I've never seen Praed shoot down an enemy plane," he said slowly."This is the fifth time we've been ambushed--and Praed's never beencaught. Somehow, he's always seemed to be aware of what was coming."

  "You mean--?" the colonel questioned.

  Lance shook his head. "I don't want to commit myself, Colonel Douglas,but--I'm suggesting that we--well--keep our eyes peeled, and perhapswatch certain members of the outfit more closely."

  * * * * *

  Douglas rose as his orderly, Ranth, came into the room. "FindLieutenant Praed for me," the colonel ordered crisply. Then, turningto Lance, he said: "You'd better knock off a few hours' sleep. You areworn out."

  Lance watched the orderly, Ranth, salute and leave. Ranth was heavy,thick-built, with closely set eyes. The young squadron leader wassuddenly conscious that he was, as the colonel said, worn out; hislimbs seemed leaden, his eyelids heavy. "I think you're right, sir,"he murmured, and walked out onto the field.

  Seeing Praed's machine drawn up with the overall-clad figure of amechanic fussing at its motors, he wandered over to survey it. Thescout was an exact replica of his, a model of the famous Goshawk type.It was all motor--everything being sacrificed to speed. On either sideof the stubby brow of the fuselage, which held the death-dealingbattery of three machine-guns, were set the four Rahl-Diesel motors,back to back. The pilot's tiny enclosed cockpit was thus surrounded byengines. In the V-shaped, smooth-lined wings were the two helicopterprops; further back, inside the steel-sheathed, bullet-like fuselage,the radio outfit and fuel tanks. The craft's rounded belly covered thegas bomb compartment.

  The mechanic was a little cockney Englishman, a fugitive, like all hiscountrymen, from the horror which had stricken England suddenly andleft her wallowing in her life blood. He looked up at Lance, and asmile broke forth on his wizened, sharp little face.

  "It's got me beat, sir," he said in his curious, twanging voice."Lieutenant Praed, 'e sez to me, 'Somethin' wrong with two of memotors,' 'e sez. 'They quit on me quite sudden like. Look 'em over,will you?' 'e sez. So I been lookin' 'em over. But they ain't nothin'wrong with the bloody things, sir--nothin' at all!"

  "It does seem funny, doesn't it, Wells?" Lance said levelly. He'dknown it all along. Praed was a quitter--a yellow-belly--besidesbeing--But he stopped there. He had no definite proof. It was unjustto accuse a man of _that_ without definite, positive proof.

  The little mechanic muttered some mysterious cockney curse, and thensaid, in an admiring tone:

  "'Ow many of the swines' planes 'ave you shot down now, sir?"

  "About twenty, I think," Lance told him gruffly. The cockney shot hisbreath out with a whistle.

  "Cripes! You'll be up to that there Captain Hay soon if you keeps itup, sir!"

  Lance laughed. Hay, the almost legendary hero of the American AirForce--who had shot down, so latest rumors said, fifty Slavplanes--was far above him. "I'll never reach Hay's record, Wells. I'llbe doing pretty well if I bag half as many!" Then, seeing Ranth, theorderly, followed by Praed, he strode quickly away and came face toface with the latter.

  * * * * *

  For a moment the two men eyed each other, a taut silence between them.Praed's thin, sun-blackened countenance was immovable, masklike. Hisblue-green eyes met Lance's steadily. Finally Lance snorted and burstout:

  "Why the hell did you run away, Praed? Scared stiff?"

  Praed's low voice, devoid of all trace of emotion, asked: "What makesyou think I was scared, Lance?"

  "You know damn well what makes me think it! That lousy crack aboutyour motors being shot!"

  "Two of my motors were limping."

  Lance gave a sarcastic chuckle. "Ask Wells about that, why don't you?He's got a few ideas on the subject."

  Praed repeated: "Two of my motors were limping," and abruptly heturned away, leaving Lance fuming, and went into Colonel Douglas'office.

  What would Douglas say to him? Accuse him outright of his suspicions?Put him under arrest as a spy? But he
couldn't do that: there was,after all, no proof. Lance swore to himself; then, feeling a wave ofweariness surge over him, went to the shack he was quartered in,kicked off his battered boots, stripped away his Sam Browne, and flunghis lean body out on the hard, gray-sheeted cot. Seconds later he waslost in the sleep that comes to the physically exhausted. Thedesperate situation America was in, the whole savage war--everything,faded from his mind.

  But to right and left of that cot stretched others--empty. The bravesquadron Lance had led into the blue sky that morning now lay charredskeletons around the flame-throwers that had struck them down.

  And in a dozen other aircraft bases behind the hard pressed lines wereother empty cots. Time and time again the Slav planes shot down two tothe Americans' one; time and time again the treacherousdisintegrating flames--the weapon which baffled America'sscientists--had struck down whole squadrons that had been lured intotraps, even as Lance's had been lured.

  And even the Slav forces pushed forward....

  PART II

  "You're wanted by Colonel Douglas, sir."

  Lance felt a hand jarring his shoulder; he turned sleepily over,yawned, and stared up into the dark, full-cheeked face of Ranth, theorderly.

  "Huh?"

  "Colonel Douglas wants you," repeated Ranth. "It's five o'clock, sir."

  Wearily Lance pulled on his boots and adjusted the military belt. Thenight was hot and sticky; somewhere, miles to the rear of the base,the batteries of long-distance guns were beginning their nightlyserenade. Lance followed the orderly's broad, chunky back to thecolonel's office.

  The colonel gazed up with tired eyes from the welter of maps on hisdesk.

  "Lance," he said, "I'm changing the routine of the night patrol. Afresh batch of youngsters came in this afternoon to fill the emptyfiles; two dozen new planes arrived by transport, too. I'm sending tenof them over for the night patrol; Stephens will take your place. I'vegot another errand for you--and Praed."

  Lance was conscious that Ranth was standing quietly behind thecolonel's chair. Douglas ordered him to attend to some errand and theorderly left.

  "I had an interview with Praed," the colonel went on. "I didn'texactly accuse him of anything definite, but I think I threw a bit ofa scare into him. To-night we'll give him the acid test.

  "You and he will fly over to-night to investigate Hill 333. There havebeen rumors that the Slavs are massing there, and we want positiveinformation. There's sure to be a fight. Watch Praed carefully. If hesteers clear of any scrapping, well have enough to court-martial himon. Understand?"

  Lance nodded.

  "Right. It's a dangerous errand, Lance, but I'm confident you'll comethrough, as always. There's no one else who could handle the job. God,man, you're getting close to Hay's record! You'll be the top-notcherof the service soon!"

  The young man laughed briefly. "No danger of that. When do we takeoff, sir?"

  Douglas consulted his watch. "Seven-fifteen. Come and get the dopefrom these maps. Hill 333's rather difficult to find."

  "Anything been happening at the front, sir?"

  The colonel passed both fine-fingered hands over his lined face. Hesaid quietly: "Yes. The Slavs took twenty-five miles from us down inthe lower sector. Just wiped our boys out. Those damnableflame-throwers and bullet-proof tanks, supported by God knows how manyhundreds of planes. It's hell, Lance! Headquarters thinks they'regoing to unleash a general attack all along the line in the next fewdays. And our resources--well, our back's against the wall. We'recoming to death grips, man."

  * * * * *

  Seven-fifteen....

  Lance pressed the starting button. His four motors choked, sputtered,then burst into a sweet, full-throated roar. He glanced over atPraed's plane, spun the small helicopter props over and pushed downthe accelerator. The plane quivered, stuck its snout up and leapedlike an arrow into the clean, darkening air. Lance gunned it to tenthousand feet, Praed following him neatly. Praed was a good pilot, nodoubt about that. The two fighting machines hung for a second side byside; Lance eased off his helicopters and streaked away into the gloomat a breath-taking five hundred.

  "I hope," muttered Colonel Douglas as the two tiny scouts sped fromsight, "that everything goes smoothly. They're the men to do it,anyway. No better pilots in the whole service."

  "Wot abaht that there Captain Hay, sir?" put in Wells, the mechanic,standing nearby. Colonel Douglas smiled.

  "Oh, of course!" he amended. "I'd forgotten Hay!"

  Once more they were anticipated! Lance, at thirty thousand feet--theRahl-Diesels, with their perfected superchargers, were easily capableof a ceiling of sixty--had hovered above the position of Hill 333,pulled on his gas-mask and said through the microphone to Praed:

  "Power dive to three thousand feet. Release your flares and take inall you can before they send up planes. We'll take 'em by surprise,but there's bound to be a fight. Got it?"

  The steady reply came back: "Okay."

  Whereat Lance set his teeth in his customary fighting grin, jockied uphis ammunition belts, glanced at the flare-parachutes folded alongsidethe cabin and plunged the scout in a dive that tipped six hundred andfifty miles and threatened to crack the speed dial.

  * * * * *

  But surprise? Nothing doing! Like angry hornets five Slav planespounced on them at ten thousand feet. They'd been waiting there! Lancecursed savagely. He flung off his flares, Immelmanned up, and in lessthan two seconds had sent one Slav shrieking to the ground in flames.For the moment forgetting Praed, Lance followed after his flares,three Slavs attempting to sight their guns on the twisting, writhing,corkscrewing body of his Goshawk. He knew there were disintegratingflame-throwers below, but gambled on their not shooting because of theenemy scouts diving with him.

  Flattening out at perhaps a thousand feet, Lance threw a rapid stareat the bulk of Hill 333. He drew his breath in sharply.

  Lit dazzlingly by the bleaching white of the slow-floating flares,huge rows of the dreaded Slav tanks were clustered all around thehill!

  As he looked, ten more Slav planes came soaring up from the ground.This was too hot! The thought of Praed stabbed through Lance'swhirling brain; he pulled the scout around, doubled over the threeclosing in on his tail, and belched lead for an instant at one he'dcaught off guard. It collapsed like a punctured paper bag. Lancegrinned and bounded to the upper regions. The two other Slavs let thecrazy Yank go for the instant, joining forces with the ten brotherscoming to help them out.

  Lance, again at ten thousand, looked for Praed. Far above, he glimpsedtwo planes, circling and diving. Praed seemed to be fighting, at anyrate! As he watched, the two scouts catapulted still higher; becametiny, almost imperceptible dots, visible only in the reflected lightof the flares. Then Lance felt a shaft of ice along his spine.

  The two planes had practically hugged each other for a second. Thenone of them fell away, somersaulted, tumbled down wildly--out ofcontrol.

  It passed Lance like a falling rock.

  And it was Praed's scout!

  "My God!" muttered Lance. "He's been shot down!"

  * * * * *

  The next moment the twelve Slavs were on him like a hurricane. Motorsroaring, Lance stood them off--flinging a burst of lead here, droppingout of range here, looping, catapulting, zooming--fazing them withevery trick he knew. A dozen times he sensed the zinging wrath ofstorms of bullets, a dozen times he escaped death by the breadth of ahair. Not for nothing was he called one of the best pilots in theservice, second only to Hay.

  He bagged another of the Slavs, and began to think of getting away.Praed had proved himself, but had been killed in doing so. He's gotthe dope on Hill 333. Now for the getaway.

  As he whirled, another Slav plane--the one that had got Praed--dovedown from above. And, in the last second of the ghostly light of theflares, Lance's bewildered eyes saw the face of the man inside it.

  _That face was Praed's!_

 
Praed, inside an enemy scout! Praed firing at him! Praed, not dead!

  Lance was dumbfounded. He almost died, just then, for he felt hissenses stagger, and relaxed his maneuvering. Praed! What--how--Hecouldn't begin to reckon it out.

  If the flares hadn't died at that instant, Lance must have been shotdown. Luckily, they expired; pitch darkness washed over everything.The lights on the Slav planes switched on, their prying beamsfingering the sky for Lance's plane. But Lance was somewhat himselfagain. He jammed the accelerator down, dove headlong, flattened outand streaked for home. The speed of the Goshawk snatched himfaithfully from the jaws of the Slavs. He left then milling behind.Left Praed with them!

  * * * * *

  Colonel Douglas was waiting for him. Lance's face must have been astudy, for the elder man laughed shortly. "You need a drink!" hedecided, and poured out a stiff tot of rum. Lance downed it with anervous gulp and sprawled in a chair, the glass held weakly inquivering fingers.

  Dead silence brooded over the whole base. Even the muttering guns werestill. One green-shaded light threw the maps on Douglas' desk intoglaring prominence; besides that, there was no illumination anywherein the 'drome. Lance knew he had a thumping headache and that his eyeswere lumps of pain. The glass fell from his hand and crashed on thefloor. It seemed to stir the young captain, for at last he looked upand met the colonel's inquiring gaze.

  "Well?" The colonel was terse.

  "I saw Praed shot down," Lance mumbled, as if to himself, "and then Isaw him--"

  "Wait!" Douglas strode rapidly to the door which led to the otherrooms of the building. After glancing to right and left, with anexplanatory "Walls sometimes have ears, you know!" he locked the doorcarefully again, came back, and said:

  "Talk in a whisper! How about Hill 333?"

  "Tanks massed there," Lance said slowly. "Yeh, I saw that, all right.They must be intending an attack on that sector. But--but--Praed--"

  "What happened?"

  Lance told him of the scrap, how Praed's plane had apparently rubbedwings with a Slav and then tumbled down, out of control. He concluded:"I figured that Praed was all right, that he'd proved himself, that hewasn't a spy, as we'd thought. _But the next moment I saw him in theSlav plane that had bagged his!"_

  His wondering eyes sought the colonel's lean face. Lance expected tosee it express amazement, incredulity. It didn't, though. He laughed!

  * * * * *

  While Lance gaped, the older man went to the delicate machinery of theradiophone in one corner of the trim office. He clasped the earphonesover his head, and spoke into the mike: "Headquarters, Air Force,Washington, Douglas, Base 5, speaking."

  A tense moment passed while his radio call was put through. Presentlya green light flashed on the board. Douglas said swiftly:"Headquarters? Base 5, Colonel Douglas. Tanks massed around Hill 333;enemy evidently contemplates full attack on corresponding sector ofour line. They know a scout of ours observed it, however; perhaps thatwill induce them to change their plans. This next is extremelyimportant: _The first step of the Torpedo Plan has been successful!"_

  For awhile he listened intently, replying with short-clippedaffirmatives. Then he hung the headphones up and turned to thebewildered Lance. Colonel Douglas laughed again and rubbed his handsexultantly.

  "What the hell--" Lance began. The other pulled out a drawer of hisdesk and took from it a small placard.

  "Do you recognize the photo?" he asked smilingly.

  Lance looked at it. It was the picture of a man in the uniform of acaptain of the Air Force, a row of battle ribbons on his straight,khaki-clad chest. But it was the figure's face that Lance stared at.

  "Sure," he said finally. "It's a picture of Praed. But what--"

  "Not Praed," corrected the colonel. "Not Praed. Captain Basil Hay."

  PART III

  "Good Lord!" Lance exclaimed without knowing he did so. Praed--Hay!The same man! Then that was the secret; that explained things! Hay,the hero of the force!

  "You're entitled to a few explanations," Douglas said. "I'll give youthe core of the whole scheme. There's no need to tell you that it mustbe guarded with your life." He drew his chair closer to Lance's.

  "Yes, it's true. The man you knew as Praed in reality is Captain Hay.You see, Lance, headquarters was taking no chances with what I justcalled the Torpedo Plan. Every move had to be conducted with theutmost secrecy. Had to be! For the Torpedo Plan is, in some ways,America's last hope.

  "Our base, No. 5, was chosen as the center of activity, the base fromwhich the steps paving the way for the plan would be taken. The twobest pilots in the service were needed. You and Hay were chosen.

  "It was decided it would be best to mask Hay's real identity. So,officially, he was sent to the hospital; in reality he came here,under the name of Praed. Why? Because there's a spy somewhere--wedon't seem to be able to track him; he's infernally clever--and if thefamous Captain Hay was switched to Base 5, putting the two bestpilots in the service together, that spy'd know something was in theair. Understand?"

  Lance nodded dumbly. A great light was beginning to shower him.

  "To more completely mask our true purpose," the colonel continued,"Hay was instructed to make it appear as if he were a spy. And it wasa damned hard job! The real spy, whoever he is, and wherever he is,would thus be additionally fooled; for all he'd know, the Slavs mighthave sent another over to back him up. That's why Hay never shot downan enemy plane. Says something about his skill as a pilot, doesn't it?Never able to defend himself, save by maneuvering. He's a greatflyer!"

  Lance could only nod dumbly again.

  "After a couple of weeks at this base," Douglas went on, "Hay was tocross the lines one night with you accompanying him. You,unintentionally, would thus occupy the enemy planes while Hay attendedto the real business of the evening. And you did splendidly!"

  "The real business?" Lance questioned. "What the devil was that? Ithought the real business was to get the dope on Hill 333."

  "So it was--partially. But also to take the first step of the TorpedoPlan, which was for Hay to switch over to a Slav plane."

  _"What?"_

  * * * * *

  The colonel repeated his statement, somewhat dryly. Lance's square jawdropped abruptly. "But--but--" he exclaimed, "how the devil could hedo that?"

  Colonel Douglas grinned.

  "By a very neat contraption from the brain of one of our most valuablescientists," he explained. "Hay's scout was specially fitted up beforeyou left; while you were sleeping, in fact. Two experts fromWashington arrived with that batch of new recruits this afternoon. Atiny sliding door was cut in the fuselage of the scout and a sort offolding ladder put inside. It was motivated by some rather complexspring-work; but the really ingenious thing about it was the powerfulelectro-magnet at its base.

  "It's rather over my head," he smiled. "I'm a plain fighting man, andsometimes it seems that scientists and not fighting men are going towin this war.... But, at any rate, it worked like this:

  "Hay lures, or maneuvers, a Slav plane away from its fellows, andwhile you're down below entertaining the others, flies wing to wingwith it. He touches the spring of his ladder and it shoots out,powerfully magnetized, and clamps onto the steel fuselage of the Slav.The automatic control keeps Hay's scout steady, and the ladder is sohighly attractive that the Slav simply can't get away. Hay crosses thegulf, taking with him the cord which controls the electro-magnet. Heforces his way into the Slav, shoots down its pilot, releases the pullof the magnet, and--there you are! Our best pilot in possession of aSlav plane, and clad in a Slav officer's uniform! Do you get the ideanow?"

  Lance strove for appropriate words. "Gee!" he spluttered. "It's--it'swonderful! And to think I tried to start a fight with Hay! I wish I'dknown before. But I suppose," he added, "it was best to let not evenme in on it, to keep it absolutely secret."

  "Exactly!"

  "And now what's Hay's mission?" Lance
asked eagerly.

  * * * * *

  Colonel Douglas' face became sober. "A damnably dangerous one, and amighty desperate one. As I said, the Torpedo Plan, which Hay isstriving to carry out, seems to be America's last chance. We'reholding the United Slavs, but only just. We simply can't break theirline or make any headway against them; and when they do unleash theirbig push, there's nothing to stop them! So we're gambling everythingon this slim hope.

  "American science," he continued, "has perfected a weapon which iscalled the 'flying torpedo.' It's a ghastly thing, too. Damn it, Iactually feel sorry for the poor devils it bursts on! It's a sort ofriposte to their disintegrating flame.

  "Picture a huge tanklike affair of steel, one hundred feet long.Picture a few dozen of them! Picture them crammed to overflowing withtons of glyco-scarzite, the most destructive explosive the mind of manhas yet conceived. An explosive that can't be hurled in a shell andcan't be dropped in a bomb from a plane. A pound or so of it, man,lays waste a square mile of anything! Even our scientists are a bitafraid of it. They've been trying to think up a way of unleashing itat the Slavs. And these flying torpedoes seem to be the answer.

  "The torpedoes are purely mechanical. Therefore, they can soar to anyheight whatsoever. Twenty, thirty, even forty miles. All right. Now,picture a dozen or so of these torpedoes soaring over the mostimportant Slav bases and headquarters, thirty miles above the earth,at night, of course, and absolutely invisible to the most powerfulsearch-rays. They fly without the slightest sounds. Get that? Well,when this squadron of awful death arrives at the exact point over theplace to be demolished, the motive force switches off and down theycrash. Imagine what will happen when they collide with the ground!"Douglas, with Lance's tense eyes on him, struck a clenched fist intoan open palm.

  "Tons of glyco-scarzite, Lance! Unleashed, without warning, from milesabove! Thirty of these torpedoes, each a hundred feet long, droppingdown on the very heart of the Slav invasion! Killing, blowing to bits,rather, every living thing, every fortification, every tree, everytank, every gun, every flame thrower, every plane in a radius ofhundreds of miles!"

  "God!" came from Lance's numb lips. "God!"

  "_But_"--and the colonel held up a straight forefinger--"thesetorpedoes must be guided from the place they raid!"

  Into the silence Lance whispered: "And that--that is Hay's job?"

  "That," Douglas confirmed levelly, "is Hay's job--and yours."

  * * * * *

  Their eyes met; held. And then Lance's clean young face smiled.

  "Thank God, sir," he cried, "that I'm to help strike the blow that'llfree our country!"

  Colonel Douglas answered his smile with a smile. "Lance," he said,"it's because Washington has put this job into Hay's and your handsthat I know--_I know_--it will succeed."

  "It will!"

  Douglas lowered his voice again. "This is why those flying torpedoesmust be guided from the Slav's innermost base.

  "In the first place, they fly too high for an accompanying plane toguide them. In the second, the power that releases them to hurtledownwards must come from the enemy base itself, to permit of nopossible error. This must not fail!"

  "But," put in Lance, "how do the torpedoes fly? What motivates them?"

  "A closely guarded secret, of course," he was told. "I merely possessa slight comprehension of it. I know that it is an adaptation of thatdiscovery of Professor Singe, two years ago--cosmic attraction.Eventually, perhaps, it will permit interplanetary travel. This use ofit is simply the beginning. But it is to America's everlasting glorythat a scientist of hers developed it.

  "You know how a sliver of wood is propelled by the ripples of a pond?Vibrations of the water, really. Well, evidently there are somewhatsimilar vibrations in the ether, cosmic force. Each one of theseflying torpedoes contains a highly expensive, intricate mechanismwhich transforms this invisible vibration-power into materialpropulsion. The mechanism is adjusted to propel the torpedo at such analtitude in such a direction. We possess no means of setting themachines to _stop_ at a certain place and so tumble earthwards. That'swhere you and Hay come in.

  "Hay is now, with forged documents, passing himself off as a regularSlav pilot. He speaks the tongue. Two nights from now, you, Lance,keep a rendezvous with Hay at an isolated ranch in the Lake Tahoecountry--the Sola Ranch, where we staged that big fight a few monthsback."

  * * * * *

  Lance nodded.

  "In your plane is an instrument which is the kernel of the scheme. Itarrives here to-morrow. It's a device which shoots an invisible beamfifty miles into the air, a negative beam, in sympathy with themachinery on the torpedoes. Hay sets this device near the Slavheadquarters. The torpedo squadron takes off from a few hundred milesbehind here, flying in the direction of the heart of the Slav forces.When they run into the beam, their motive power is nullified, and downthey fall. Crash! The Slavs are wiped out. Our troops charge forwardin a grand attack; the Slavs, with no armament, no reinforcing troops,no supply of tanks and flame throwers, crumple. The invasion ofAmerica is put to an end!"

  Lance rose. His face was alight, his eyes burning with strong,unquenchable fire.

  "It's great, sir, great! It can't fail! By God, if it takes every lastdrop of my blood, I'll help Hay put this through!"

  Colonel Douglas extended his right hand and Lance's met it in a firmshake. In the thick silence they stood thus for some minutes. Then,without moving so much as a cheek muscle, the colonel whispered, hiseyes tense:

  "_The door! Fling it open! I think someone's been listening!_"

  Lance switched his alarmed gaze to it. His muscles went taut. The nextmoment he had leaped half across the room, jammed back the lock, andripped the door wide.

  At the other end of the dim passageway he glimpsed a scurrying figure!

  Lance sprang after it with a shout to Douglas. Tearing out hisautomatic, he flung a burst of lead at the figure, but that instant itwheeled and sped from sight down another passage. And when Lance gotthere, no one was in sight.

  * * * * *

  For awhile he probed around, desperately, but could find no sign ofanything. The base slept. Sorely troubled, he returned to find thecolonel just coming back from an equally barren search:

  "Don't think he heard much," said Douglas grimly. "It must have beenthat damned spy who's been getting information of our movements. I'llhave the guards redoubled to prevent him from getting anythingthrough." He smiled at sight of Lance's anxious face. "No need for toomuch worry, Lance! He couldn't have heard much--the walls aresound-proof and the door fairly tight. Now, you go and rip off somesleep! You need it! No more work for you till Wednesday night--you'retoo important!"

  Sleep! Lance only wished he could. But the thrill of what he'd justheard was too fresh, too new; the blood pumped surgingly through hisveins; his brain whirled with the thought of the glorious enterprisehe and Hay were aiding so vitally.

  Then, too, the night was humid and sweaty. For a while Lance lay onhis cot, other sleeping figures to left and right of him, but his owneyes simply would not stay closed. Finally, after perhaps an hour oftrying to doze off, he arose and, clad only in breeches andundershirt, wandered outside again with a cigarette glowing in hismouth.

  The war might not have been, the night was so silent. Lance strolledlazily around the plane hangars, revelling in what little breeze therewas. He seemed to be the only living thing abroad in the night.

  Then, suddenly, he flung down his cigarette and ground the butt outquickly. For he saw he was not the only living thing abroad in thenight. Sliding rapidly away from the end hangar was a dark form!

  Lance crouched instinctively and crept forward. Who was the otherwanderer? Not a sentry: they paced a regular beat closer to Douglas'office. Not another, who, like himself, could not sleep and had soughtthe open. This figure was going somewhere! It had a definite object inmind!

  Shel
tering himself behind the hangars' bulk, Lance advanced asstealthily as he could. Coming to the end one, he peered round itsblunt corner. Fifty yards ahead, crossing a stubbly stretch of openground, the mysterious prowler hurried onward.

  * * * * *

  The night was dark, the moon troubled by ragged bursts of listless,heavy clouds. Lance bent almost double and left the shelter of theblack hangar. Feeling his way carefully, he followed the other.

  Was this the unknown spy? The spy, going to transmit the news he hadoverheard?

  Lance muttered a curse. He had no weapon with him; the spy, if he werea spy, would certainly be armed. But that didn't matter; it was merelyunfortunate. He must track the other down, at all cost.

  For some minutes he crept on in this manner. The other kept hurryingforward. Lance noted a clump of brush far ahead; the figure wasevidently making for this. And sure enough, as if acting directly onLance's thought, the dark form entered the patch of growth--and didnot come out on the other side.

  Lance broke into a trot, eyes wary and alert for sign of his prey. Atany second he might be greeted by a salvo of bullets, and every fiberof his lean body was taut.

  As he approached the clump of brush he dropped to the ground, and camefinally to it on his belly. From a distance of about ten feet, he roseand charged.

  Expecting each moment to hear the spit of a revolver, he was morealarmed by what actually did greet him.

  Nothing. The patch of brush was empty!

  "Well I'll be damned!" Lance murmured. "Where did he get to?"

  He gazed around, bewildered. The growth of bush was about ten feetwide. On either side the flat Nevada plain stretched away--empty. Nofigure was visible.

  Lance was utterly baffled. The fellow had vanished as if by magic.Flown away into thin air!

  * * * * *

  The young captain stood quite still, listening, probing his puzzledbrain.

  Then, like a cat, he dropped to the ground again, and pressed an earto it. For his ears had caught a tiny betraying hum.

  A hum! There was a machine of some type near him. He listenedintently. The hum came from the ground on which he lay. There had tobe a trap-door.

  Lance's fingers scrabbled around, and presently found what they lookedfor.

  He seized the ring which enabled one to pull the trap-door back, andwas just about to pull when he heard, from below, a voice speaking inRussian. It was, then, the spy!

  Lance grasped the ring anew, and, exerting all his strength, hauledthe trap-door back.

  A narrow passageway was revealed, lit by a lamp. The hum burst withdoubled force on his ears. He plunged down, fists clenched, and halftumbled into a tiny room gouged from the soil.

  At one end was a mass of machinery, and a microphone hung suspendedbefore it. And speaking into the microphone was the heavy-set form ofa man in American uniform, his back to Lance. As the latter chargeddown, he rose with an alarmed shout, and wheeled around.

  "My God!" breathed Lance.

  It was Ranth, Colonel Douglas' orderly!

  * * * * *

  Ranth!

  His dark face flushed with fury, he came leaping from his seat. Thewicked little revolver hung at his belt sprang out, but Lance's rightfist shot forward, knocked Ranth's hand high and sent the gunclattering to the ground. Then, for a moment, they faced each other,the hum of the radiophone droning an ominous accompaniment.

  "You!" Lance muttered. "So you were the spy!"

  Ranth answered him with a choked oath and leaped forward again.

  There were no niceties to that combat. It was a matter of life anddeath, and each knew it. Ranth would kill him, Lance knew, if hepossibly could; and he, he had to kill or capture Ranth. Otherwise thenews of the Torpedo Plan would go through, Ranth would return to thebase, and the secret of the hidden radio never be known. Another wouldbe put in Lance's place; and when Hay kept his rendezvous at SolaRanch....

  He had to win.

  No effort was made at defense, for those first few furious minutes. Averitable fusillade of hurtling fists stormed through the air. Theyeach gave and took equally. Then Ranth's heavy shoulders bunched;cunningly he feinted, then, whirling, swung a vicious right hand smashto Lance's chin.

  Lance reeled, fell, seeing Ranth's hate-contorted visage dance queerlyin the close air before him. The orderly clutched for his revolver,and Lance bounded up as if spring-impelled, nailed the other with twolightninglike jabs and unleashed all his strength in an uppercutwhich sprawled Ranth in a limp, quivering heap.

  * * * * *

  Panting, Lance surveyed him, then turned to get the gun. He felt theshock of thudding flesh in his legs, and fell again with Ranthscrambling on top of him. Steel-ribbed hands pounced on his throat,gouged savagely, while the man above grunted thick curses from hisslavering mouth. Lance struggled fiercely; saw a curtain of black rushdown. Desperately he hooked a booted leg up, craned it over Ranth'sback, tugged. The terrible fingers loosened. Lance shook them off,rolled the other over and leaped once more to his feet, right handclenched and ready.

  Ranth staggered up. The young man measured him, pivoted, and smashedhis beefy jaw with a clean swing that had every ounce of Lance's hardyoung body behind it.

  The orderly shot back as if struck by a locomotive. He crashed intothe radiophone, splintered the delicate instruments and slumped, eyesglazed, to the ground.

  He was out. Dead out.

  But how much had he got through on the radiophone before beingstopped?

  Had he told where the rendezvous, was to be? Told the time and place,and warned the Slavs to look for Hay?

  Lance sighed, and was conscious that his left eye was rapidly closing,that a lip was split and his whole body sore. He slung Ranth over hisshoulders and trudged wearily back to the base.

  He told his story to Colonel Douglas' amazed ears. Ranth, come back tolife, was slapped in handcuffs, and for some time the colonel put himthrough a stern inquisition.

  But his lips were sealed. He would not divulge how much he hadsucceeded in passing on to the Slavs.

  "A brave man," Douglas observed grimly when Ranth was carried off tothe brig, "but it's death for him, the same as it would be death forHay were he caught."

  "I don't think he had a chance to get much across, sir," Lance said."I was right on him almost as soon as he got there. You won't let thiscancel our rendezvous?"

  Douglas' thin lips smiled narrowly. "No. You'll be taking a greaterchance, Lance, but we must gamble on how much the Slavs know. You'regame, aren't you?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  * * * * *

  Wednesday night came. Thunderstorms muttered to each other on thelowering horizons; gusts of fierce, wind-driven rain slanted down onthe dripping base; occasionally a crooked finger of lightning probedthe black sky and lit the whole sopping countryside with a searing,flashing glare.

  The night patrol had taken off. A single plane, wet and gleaming underthe sobbing heavens, stood on the tarmac, two heavily coated figuresbefore it. Presently three more figures, carrying some bulky blackobject carefully between them, emerged from one of the buildings.Tenderly they placed this object in the lone plane, which had beenstripped of radio outfit and gas bomb compartment to provide room.Then the two original figures were left alone once more before thefighting machine. Far to the rear, the heavy American guns barked intheir regular nightly bombardment.

  "A good night for it," Colonel Douglas, scanning the sky, said, "andalso a bad one. If only that damned lightning would stop!"

  Lance, pulling on thick gloves, did not reply. The colonel consultedhis watch.

  "What time do you make it?" he asked.

  "Exactly eight," the other answered.

  "Right. At eight-six, you leave. At nine, on the dot, you meet Hay atSola Ranch. At nine-ten, the torpedoes take off. At quarter to ten,they arrive over their destination--San Francisco and t
he surroundingterritory. And quarter to ten, if things go correctly--which theymust!--is the minute that ends the Slavish invasion of America. At tenminutes to ten, five minutes after the torpedoes strike, our troopscharge forward in general attack. God be with you, Lance! The fate ofAmerica is resting on your shoulders to-night, remember!"

  "I'm remembering."

  * * * * *

  Colonel Douglas looked at the young man's grim, set face, looked athis lithe, clean-limbed figure and his steady black eyes which burnedwith a purposeful fire. And the colonel smiled.

  "We'll win!" he said.

  An orderly sped from his office, saluted, and rapped crisply:

  "Order just received from Washington, sir, to proceed."

  Lance clasped Douglas' hand, and leaped into the snug, enclosedcockpit. The four motors bellowed as the thin-sprayed oil cascaded tothem. The helicopter props spun around.

  "Go to it, kid!" cried Douglas. "Spy or no spy, you're coming out ontop! And give Hay a last handshake for me!"

  And he swung to the salute.

  Lance extended his hand. Then he gave his ship the gun, and the tiny,streamlined scout teetered, roared, and rose with a scream into thedripping darkness high above.

  The Torpedo Plan had started.

  PART IV

  Lance hung for a moment at one thousand feet. A crack of lightning litthe base below for a second, and he perceived the colonel's straightfigure with hand outstretched. Lance grinned, and gunned to fortythousand--an easy flying height, with his superchargers pumping andair-rectifiers normalizing the enclosed pilot's seat.

  "But what," he wondered, as he stopped the helicopters, "did he meanby 'give a _last_ handshake'?"

  He was soon to find out.

  Behind him, in the fuselage, nestled the weird cluster of machinerywhich was the Singe beacon. It certainly did not look imposing--a massof spidery tubes mazing round a bulky black box, which was, Lanceguessed, some new type of generator. Out of the top of the devicesprouted a funnel-like horn, from which, on the adjustment of thebeacon's control studs, shot the nullifying ray. Lance could notsuppress a shiver as he thought of the earth-shaking cataclysm thatray would conjure from the infinitely high heavens.

  At forty thousand feet he was above the storm clouds, whose pitchy,vapor-drenched blackness effectively blanked out all sign of theearth. He might have been flying in outer space. Keeping a careful eyeon his instruments, he set a course for Sola Ranch. He kept his speedaround three hundred, wishing to meet Hay exactly at nine.

  But--would Hay be there?

  How much did the Slavs know? How much had Ranth got through before hestopped him?

  A frown creased his brow. It was best not to puzzle over thatquestion. Best just to go ahead, and keep going.

  * * * * *

  At about three minutes to nine he set the plane's nose down throughveils of clammy cloud. This was mountainous country, sparselypatrolled by Slav ships. Lance hovered cautiously over the firredmountain tops, getting his directions, shooting wary eyes through themagnifying mirrors in search of enemy scouts. He saw none. Satisfied,he cut the Rahl-Diesels, gunned the helicopter props and droppedlightly down on the stubbly field of Sola Ranch.

  To left and right loomed the dim outlines of the lonely mountains.Before the war, the owner of Sola Ranch had grown apples; this fieldhad housed a few horses. It made a perfect meeting place--secluded,misty with the clinging mountain vapors, far apart from the war.

  Lance felt like a prowling werewolf there, waiting for its ghostlymate.

  Rain was still splattering in desultory bursts, but distance muted therumbling salvos' of thunder. His watch told him it was one minute tonine.

  Now--what?

  Hay, or a swooping squadron of Slav planes?

  Lance stepped out of the cockpit into the rain, though holding himselftensely ready to leap back again and soar away. He stared around, andpeered above.

  Was that a shadow?--a nightmare flying bird?--or a plane?

  He grasped a hand-flash, and rapidly signalled his identity. The nextinstant, it seemed, the shadow wavered, then fell earthward with greatspeed.

  Out of the gloom and rain it came--an enemy plane.

  It dropped down beside his scout. From its cockpit came a few swiftflashes of light.

  Hay!

  * * * * *

  Lance ran eagerly over to the other plane, and out from its enclosedcabin stepped the man he had known as Praed.

  Wordlessly, they gripped hands. Hay's thin, straight face wore asmile, and he met Lance's eyes keenly. Lance stammered:

  "S-sorry, Captain Hay, about--about the way I treated you at the base.You see, I had no idea who you were."

  Hay cut short his apologies with a laugh. "Rot! I'd've been the sameway myself." He glanced rapidly at Lance's plane. "Got it?" hequestioned. "I'm a bit late; had a hell of a time getting here withoutarousing suspicion. We'd best hurry."

  Lance nodded. They hurried to the Goshawk. As they worked, carefullylifting out the Singe beacon, Lance, in crisp, short-clippedsentences, told his companion of Ranth, the spy.

  "You don't know how much he got through?"

  "No," said Lance. "No."

  "Hm-m. Well, we'll have to trust to luck."

  "You know the working of the beacon?" Lance asked. On the other's nodof affirmation he continued: "What's your plan?"

  "Light about five miles this side of Frisco itself, just near the mainSlav military base. Anywhere in that territory would do, though. Thebeacon doesn't go up in a narrow ray; it spreads, diffuses. Thesquadron of torpedoes will cover some fifty or sixty miles of ground,I believe. They'll utterly demolish the city, and every damned Slav init." His face, in the darkness, went grim and hard. "And it'll damnwell pay them back," he rasped, "for the horrible way they massacredSan Francisco's population...."

  * * * * *

  The Singe beacon was in his plane. Hay turned to Lance, stretching outhis hand for a farewell clasp. Then Lance asked the question that hadbeen worrying him.

  "Colonel Douglas told me to give you a last handshake for him. _Last._Why did he say that?"

  "Because," Hay said smilingly, "I'm staying by the beacon to make surethat nothing goes wrong. I guess that's why he said it, oldfellow...."

  Lance gasped: "You're sacrificing your life?"

  "Of course. To save seventy-five million others."

  Then suddenly they both stared above.

  A roar of sound--of purring motors, of props, mixed with the chatterof a dozen machine-guns--had belched with numbing suddenness from thelow-hanging clouds.

  Enemy planes! A patrol of them!

  "God!" jerked Lance. "Ranth's warning got through! Part of it,anyway!"

  He leaped for his plane, shouting: "I'll hold 'em off! You get away_quick_!" and, through a veritable hail of lead, sprang into thecockpit.

  Then, a cold pang at his heart, he sprang out again.

  A bullet had caught Hay!

  * * * * *

  For a moment, the Slav fire ceased, while their planes zoomed up tostart another death-dealing dive. And in that moment Lance was atHay's side, where he had fallen.

  "They--got me," whispered Hay, a stream of blood welling from hisgasping mouth. "I'm--I'm going. C-carry me to--to your plane. I'vestill a--a little strength left. You take the beacon. I--I'll holdthem--as--as long as--I can. Put through that beacon, boy! _Put itthough!_"

  His brain a maelstrom, Lance stared at the crumpled figure. It was theonly way! He heard the motors above come roaring down again;desperately he carried the blood-choking Hay to his own plane; proppedhim limply at the controls. Bullets spat through a frenzy of noise.Weakly Hay started the Goshawk's Diesels, and weakly, into Lance'sface, smiled, and beckoned him to leave.

  And, as Lance, a grim resolve at his heart, turned, Hay'sblood-frothed lips formed the words: "Carry on!"

&nbs
p; Through the raining lead, seeming to bear a charmed life, Lance leapedto Hay's plane, hearing as he did so his own, with a stricken pilot atits controls, hurtle upwards.

  Carry on! For the life of America!

  Carry on!

  * * * * *

  Ten minutes past the hour of nine. A full thousand miles behind thelines, on the wide black field of America's major war base, a smallgroup of men stood, surveying the awesome weapons assembled there.

  Row upon row of huge, dully-gleaming cigar-shaped things stretchedaway into the darkness before them. There were only one or two faintlights to give illumination, and the night choked in on them, makingthem terrifying.

  They resembled, more than anything else, half-sized dirigibles, beingroughly about one hundred feet long and perhaps as much as thirtyfeet high. At first sight, they seemed to be numberless; then, as thebewildered eye became more sane, one could count them and see thatthere were, in reality, about thirty. Their prows were stubby; in theport side of each a tiny trap-door yawned, and standing by everytrap-door was the overall-clad figure of a mechanic, waiting for thesignal.

  The Commander of the American Air Force looked up from hiswrist-watch. At his side was a peculiar gnomelike figure, a figurewith hunched, twisted back and huge, over-heavy head. This wasProfessor Singe, and from that ridiculous head had come the germ whichhad finally expanded into the torpedoes arrayed before him.

  His eyes were nervous; his crooked face twitched ceaselessly. "Time?"he kept asking. "Time? Is it yet time?" And finally the tall figure ofthe Commanding Officer turned and rapped: "Time!"

  * * * * *

  An aide-de-camp raised a hand. As if working by some mechanicaldevice, the figure which stood by each torpedo climbed through thetrap-doors, jumped out a second later, and came running to the head ofthe field.

  "About thirty seconds," muttered Singe nervously, eyes alight. "Thirtyseconds for their motors to catch the stream. Thirty--ah!"

  For the squadron of man-made horrors had stirred.

  "God pity San Francisco!" murmured the Commanding Officer, and steppedback involuntarily as the whole fleet lifted their glyco-scarzitecrammed bellies from the field and, as if moved by some magical,unseen, unheard force, shot up into the darkness with ever gatheringspeed.

  "God pity it, indeed!" chuckled Singe exultantly. "It'll need it!"

  The C. O. sighed and shook his head slowly. "War!" he mused. "And yet,it's our only chance." For a moment he paused, seemingly unconsciousof the macabre little form next to him, still gazing aloft at the nowinvisible torpedoes, and then muttered:

  "And God pity Basil Hay, who's giving his life to America--a glorious,unselfish hero. God pity Basil Hay!"

  * * * * *

  American flyers never knew of Basil Hay's last fight. Had they, itwould have become legendary.

  For Hay fought a grim battle against two foes. One, he could face andconquer, as he had conquered often before. But the other lurked nextto his dauntless heart, and it Hay could not subdue.

  It was death.

  Truly, Hay's fight there in the wet clouds above Sola Ranch was aninspired one. He fought almost by instinct alone, instinct twentyyears of piloting had planted deep in his veins. He fought forLance--for America. His eyes, glazing rapidly, could not distinguishthe roaring phantoms that laced around his lone plane, but uncannilyhis bursts of fire went home again and again, while theirs rippedaimlessly over the Goshawk's hell-driven snout.

  Of course it could not last. Gallant spirit alone kept Basil Hay tautat his controls. Spirit alone thrust back the ever-increasing surge ofblack oblivion that pounded at his heart and brain. Spirit alone sentthe pitifully outnumbered plane corkscrewing in peerless maneuveringsthat baffled the on-passing Slavs and thrust four of them to thesodden ground in flame. Spirit that would not surrender--but had to.

  They could never have conquered Basil Hay in a plane. An ambushingbullet that caught him off guard did that. And finally Hay fell.

  But he had kept them for ten full minutes. Ten minutes--each one alasting, mute testimony to his unquenchable, unyielding spirit.

  He flung a last salvo from his hot machine-guns, then, heart numbing,jerked back the control-stick and careened high. He slumped down. Theplane paused, wallowed crazily for a moment, and then roaredearthward, "Carry on!" formed faintly on its dead pilot's bloody lips.

  Basil Hay had fought his last fight.

  Ten minutes....

  Lance hadn't expected that long. He'd thought Hay would die in a fewseconds. The man was mortally wounded; could not last.

  Nevertheless, minutes or seconds, he was entrusted with the Singebeacon, and it was his job and his will to put it through.

  He'd climbed the Slav plane up to its ceiling, driven it till itsimply refused to go higher, and then roared on towards San Francisco.Each second he expected to see others come hurtling after him. Whenthey did not, he knew how really great Hay's will was. It was aninspiring example.

  But his brain was tortured by a multitude of conflicting doubts. Apatrol of Slav scouts had ambushed them. Just how much did the Slavsknow, then, about the torpedoes?

  He, Lance, had to guide the Singe beacon. Quickly he reviewed what Hayhad told him.

  "Light about five miles this side of Frisco. Anywhere in thatterritory would do, though. The beacon doesn't go up in a narrow ray;it spreads, diffuses."

  _Spreads, diffuses._

  Hay had been clad in Slav uniform, and thus could, with a certainmeasure of safety, put the beacon machinery on the ground itself. ButLance was in American uniform; if he landed, he ran great risk ofbeing noticed and attacked at once.

  Lance saw immediately that there was only one way out. It was suredeath, but Hay had expected death, and so must he.

  His lips set in stern resolve. It meant good-by--farewell to the girlhe'd left behind, farewell to life, farewell to everything--but notfor a second did he debate the course he would take.

  * * * * *

  Lance glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. The torpedoes were even nowon their way, hurtling along miles above the earth. In fifteen minutesthey would be over San Francisco. In fifteen minutes the Singe beaconhad to meet them.

  He was not familiar with the Slav plane's instruments, but he judgedhe'd traveled some hundred and twenty-five miles; was nearing theoutskirts of San Francisco. The air below would be thick, probably,with enemy scouts, but his appearance should pass unchallenged as longas they didn't glimpse his betraying uniform.

  He set the plane's nose down in a long slanting dive.

  Whipping through the clouds, the guarding search-rays of San Franciscowere soon visible. Lance saw a few patrols of enemy scouts; he clungto the clouds, decreased his speed, and began circling over the heartof the metropolis itself.

  Twenty to ten.

  Occasionally a Slav plane flashed by him. Thank God, they didn'tchallenge! Lance went still lower. Finally, at a thousand feet, he setthe helicopter props in motion and hung in mid-air--directly above thevery center of the city.

  Sixteen minutes to ten.

  Now!

  * * * * *

  In the American front-line trenches, massed troops crouchedexpectantly. Clustered on every air base were flights of planes, eachone crammed with bombs. Far behind, the Yank gun-crews edged nervouslyup to their mighty charges, and fingered anxiously the stubby gasshells which soon would be flung through the dripping night.

  And at Base No. 5 a very uneasy Colonel Douglas paced back and forthin his office, muttering: "No news from Lance! No news from Lance!God! He can't have failed! But why doesn't he show up?"

  He had not failed.

  Hovering in the plane over San Francisco Lance squirmed round in hisseat, reached back into the fuselage, and pressed rapidly the studs onthe Singe beacon. A high whining noise pierced instantly through theplane. And up stabbed the beacon, invisible, deadl
y--up, up, up to athin realm miles above, where it flashed into an awesome squadron ofterrible shells of steel!

  Shells that, a second later, wavered, staggered, and plungedearthward!

  And Lance tensed in his seat. From above, he caught a tiny whistlingnoise--a whistling that hurtled into a terrific shriek--that roaredever closer.

  "Carry on!" he muttered. "Carry on!"

  The words froze on his lips, for the world was suddenly consumed, itseemed, by flame and splitting, bellowing thunder.

  * * * * *

  The American guns spoke.

  From every aerodrome long flights of scouts and bombers and transportplanes roared upward.

  In the front trenches the troops, still somewhat dazed by theearth-shaking explosion that had just tumbled from the far horizon--ahorizon still lit by leaping tongues of awful flame--poured over thetop, gas-masks on, repeaters and portable machine-guns at the ready,with a fierce cry on their lips.

  Before that avenging attack the Slavs, their very spine broken,bewildered and confused, already turning in panic, could not stand.

  America swept to the Pacific, and left death in her wake. And when shecame to San Francisco, not even the sternest fighting men, still hotfrom battle, could repress a shudder, so awful was the devastation.

  The Slav invasion was over!

  * * * * *

  In the rebuilt city of San Francisco there is a statue that standsproudly before the magnificent, gleaming city hall.

  It represents two slim, straight-standing figures, clad in the uniformof the American Air Force. Their outstretched arms support a tinyone-seater Goshawk fighting plane.

  Below, as you know, there is a plaque. Men touch their hats as theywalk by it; flowers are always fresh at its base. On the plaque arethe words:

  To The Everlasting Memory Of

  Captain Basil Hay, A.A.F. Captain Derek Lance, A.A.F.

  Who, In The War Of 1938, Gave Their Lives In Destroying And Devastating San Francisco That San Francisco And America Might Live

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