"Only a scratch!"

"Report to Dr. Lombardo. And have Simonds, in charge of the stores,
replace this broken pane."

"Yes, sir!"

Alden saluted with a blood-stained hand, slipped his gun back into its
holster and got up. He swayed a little, with the swinging slide of the
air-liner and with the weakness that nerve-shock of a wound brings.
But coolly enough he slid open the door leading into the main
corridor, and passed through, closing the door after him. Where his
hand touched the metal, red stains showed. Neither man of the pair now
left in the pilot-house made any comments. This was all in the day's
work--this and whatever else might befall.

Spiraling vastly, up, up climbed the giant plane. A colder air nipped
through the broken window. Cloud-wisps began to blur the glass; the
stars began to burn more whitely in a blacker sky.

The Master touched a button at the left side of the steering-post.
Below his feet, as they rested in their metal stirrups, an aluminum
plate silently slid back. An oblong of dim light blurred up through
the heavy plate-glass sheet it had masked.

Glancing down, the Master saw far, far below him a slowly rotating
vagueness of waters black and burnished, of faintly twinkling lights.
Lights and water drew backward, as the rotary motion gave way to a
southern course. The Master slowed the helicopters. A glance at the
altimeter showed him 1,965 feet. The compass in its binnacle gave him
direction.

"Pit number one!" he sharply exclaimed into the phone connecting
therewith.

"Yes, sir!" came back the observer's voice.

"Keep a sharp eye out for _Niss'rosh_! Remember, two red lights
showing there!"

"Yes, sir. I'll report as soon as I pick them up."

The Master, knowing his course thither should be S.E. by S., drew the
liner to that exact angle. Under his skilled touch at the wheel, the
compass needle steadied to the dot. The searchlight lanced its way
ahead, into the vague drift of the smoke arising from New York.

"Sight it, yet?" demanded the Master, presently.

"Yes, sir. Just picked it up. Hold hard, sir!"

Almost at once, the Master also got a glimpse of two tiny pin-pricks
of crimson, high in air above the city-mass. Swiftly _Nissr_ drew
over the building. Far, very far down in the chasm of emptiness,
tiny strings of light--infinitesimal luminous beads on invisible
threads--marked Broadway, Fifth Avenue, countless other streets. The
two red winks drew almost underneath.

Down plunged the searchlight, picking _Niss'rosh_ out of the gloom.
Through the floor-glass, the Master could descry it clearly. He
slowed, circled, playing with vacuum-lift, helicopters, engines, as
if they had been keys of a familiar instrument. Presently the liner
hovered, poised, sank, remained a little over 750 feet above the
observatory on the roof-top.

"Cracowicz!" ejaculated the Master, into the phone again, as his deft
fingers made another connection. A foreign voice answered: "Yes, sir!"
alertly.

"Ready in the lower gallery now, with the winch and tackles!" bade the
Master.

Again came: "Yes, sir!" from the man in charge of the three who
already knew perfectly well what was expected of them. As _Nissr_
slowly turned, a trap opened in the bottom of her lower gallery,
almost directly between the two forward vacuum-floats, and down sped a
little landing nacelle or basket at the end of a fine steel cable.

Swiftly the electric winch dropped the nacelle, containing three men.
It slowed, at their command, through the phone that led up the wire.
With hardly a jar, the basket landed on the roof.

The men jumped out, made fast their tackles to Captain Alden's plane
there, leaped in again and signaled: "Hoist away!"

With noiseless speed the winch gathered in the cable. Up swooped the
nacelle. As it cleared the roof, _Nissr_ purred forward, slid away,
gathered speed over the city where already the alarm had been given.

In four minutes the men had safely landed in the lower gallery once
more, and the plane was being hoisted by davits and made fast on the
upper platform, known as the take-off, which served as a runway for
planes leaving the ship or alighting thereon.

Over the light-spangled city the giant air-liner gathered way.
Three or four searchlights had already begun trying to pick her
up. Quiverings of radiance reached out for her, felt into the void,
whirled like cosmic spokes. The Brooklyn Navy Yard whipped the
upper air for her. Down on Sandy Hook, a slim spear of light stabbed
questingly through the night. Then all at once the monster light on
Governor's Island caught her, dazzling into the Master's eyes.

He only smiled, as he sheered eastward, dropped East River behind and
unloosed the Sky-eagle's course above Brooklyn.

"Just a little fireworks, as a send-off, Major," said he, notching the
speed ahead, ever ahead, till a whipping gale began to beat in at the
broken pane. "They got word of it pretty quick, eh? I suppose they'll
send up a few planes after us."

"_After_ us, yes!" exulted the major. "Faith, they'll be after us, all
right--a devil of a long way after!"

To this the Master gave no answer, but signaled Auchincloss in the
engine-room for full speed. Now a subtle tremor possessed the
vast fabric, mistress of the upper spaces and the night. The
close-compacted lights beneath commenced to sprinkle out into tenuous
dots. The tiny blazing fringe of Coney burned a moment very far
below, then slid away, under the glass flooring. Still heading
sharply upward, with altimeter needle steadily mounting, with the cold
becoming ever greater, the liner flung herself out boldly over the jet
plain of ocean.

Right into the eye of heaven she seemed to point, into a vast and
profound blackness, that, as the Master snicked off the no-longer
needed searchlight, unleashed myriad stars--stars which leaped out of
the velvet night. Already man and the works of man lay far behind. If
there had been any tentative pursuit, the Legionaries knew nothing of
it. Outdistancing pursuit as an eagle distances sparrows, the liner
gloried in her swift trajectory.

The Master nodded, well pleased. Bohannan laughed like a boy, and
holstered his gun. He moved over to the starboard window, out of the
gale. With mocking eyes he watched the futile searchlight at the Hook.

"They've got as much chance of overhauling us as the proverbial
celluloid cat has of catching the asbestos rat," said he. "A clean
getaway, barring the little damage we've taken--this window, and
Alden, and--"

"Better unpack your kit, and settle down," the Master dryly
interrupted him. "Take a look around and see that everything's
shipshape. Be sure the port and starboard watches are chosen.
Everything's been arranged, already, but in dealing with human
beings there's bound to be a little confusion. They aren't
automata--unfortunately. And, Major!"

"Yes, sir?" answered Bohannan, who despite his familiarity with the
Master was now constrained to formality. Resentment sounded in his
voice.

"Send Brodeur to relieve me, in about ten minutes."

"Yes, sir," repeated the Celt. For a moment, standing there in the
gloom of the pilot-house, he eyed the dim, watchful figure at the
wheel. Then he turned, slid the door, and disappeared.

As he walked aft, past the aluminum ladder that led to the upper
galleries, he muttered with dudgeon:

"He rates us two for a nickel, that's plain enough--plain as paint!
Well, all right. I'll stand for it; but there may be others that--"

He left the words unfinished, and went to do the Master's bidding.

Alone, the Master smiled. Wine of victory pulsed in his blood and
brain. Power lay under his hand, that closed with joy upon it. Power
not only over this hardy Legion, but power in perspective over--

"God, if I can do it!" he whispered, and fell silent. His eyes rested
on the instruments before him, their white dials glowing under the
little penthouses of their metal shields. Altitude now showed 2,437
feet, and still rising. Tachometers gave from 2,750 to 2,875 r.p.m.
for the various propellers. Speed had gone above 190 miles per hour.
No sign of man remained, save, very far below through a rift in the
pale, moonlit waft of cloud, a tiny light against a coal-black plain
of sea--the light of a slow, crawling steamer--a light which almost at
once dropped far behind.

Vast empty spaces on all hands, above, below, engulfed _Nissr_. The
Master felt himself alone with air and sky, with power, with throbbing
dreams and visions.

"If it can be done!" he repeated. "But--there's no 'if' to it, at
all. It _can_ be! It _shall_! The biggest thing ever attempted in this
world! A dream that's never been dreamed, before! And if it can't,
well, a dream like that is far more than worth dying for. A dream that
can come true--by God, that shall come true!"

His hands tightened on the wheel. You would have said he was trying to
infuse some of his own overflowing strength into the mechanism that,
whirling, zooning with power, needed no more. The gleam in his eyes,
there in the dark pilot-house, seemed almost that of a fanatic. His
jaw hardened, his nostrils expanded.

This strange man's face was now wholly other than it had been only a
week before, drawn and lined by ennui. Now vast ambitions dominated
and infused it with virile force.

As he held the speeding air-liner to her predetermined course through
voids of night and mystery, he peered with burning eagerness at the
beckoning stars along the world's far, eastern rim.

"Behold now, Allah!" he cried suddenly. "_Labbayk_![1] I come!"

[Footnote 1: _Labbayk_ (I am here) is the cry of all Mohammedan
pilgrims as they approach the holy city of Mecca.]




CHAPTER X


"I AM THE MASTER'S!"

The arrival of Simonds, with the spare window-pane, and of
Brodeur--one of the boldest flyers out of Saloniki in the last months
of the war--broke in upon the Master's reveries. Only a few minutes
were required to mend the window. During this time, the Master
explained some unusual features of control to the Frenchman, then let
him take charge of _Nissr_.

"She's wonderful," said he, as Brodeur settled himself at the wheel.
"With her almost unlimited power, her impeccable controls and her
automatic stabilizers, I hardly see what could happen to her."

"Fire, of course, _m'sieur_," the ace replied, "always has to be
guarded against."

"Hardly on an all-metal liner. Now, here you see--and here--"

He finished his explanations, and, satisfied that all was safe, passed
into his own cabin. Rrisa, he found, had already unpacked his kit, and
had arranged it to perfection. Even a copper bowl of khat, the "flower
of paradise," was awaiting him.

The Master sat down, chewed a few leaves and indulged in a little
time of what the Arabs call _kayf_, or complete relaxation and inner
contemplation--a restful trick he had learned many years ago on the
coast of Yemen. The ticking of the aluminum-cased chronometer, now
marking a little past 2 a.m., soothed him, as did the droning hum of
the propellers, the piping whistle of the ship-made hurricane round
the fuselage, the cradling swing and rock of the air-liner hurling
herself almost due east.

After some quarter-hour of absolute rest, he rang for his Arab
orderly. Rrisa appeared at once. Already he had got himself into his
military uniform, the one he had worn at Gallipoli when the Master had
saved his life. As he stood there in the doorway, he swung his left
foot out and back, with clicking heels, and made a smart salute.

"What does _M'alme_ desire?" asked he, in Arabic.

"I desire to know thy opinion of all this, Rrisa. Tell me, did thy
great prophet, M'hamed, ever ride in such state through the air? Was
Al Burak, his magic horse, on which he traveled to the paradise of the
houris, more swift or mighty than this steed of mine?"

The Master speaking Arabic, weighted every word with its full meaning.

"Tell me, Rrisa, what of all this?"

"Your steed is very swift and very mighty. Your flying ship is very
great," the Arab admitted. "But Allah and his Prophet are greater!
_Allahu akbar!_" (Allah is greatest!)

"Of course. But tell thou me, Rrisa, if I were to appear at Mecca in
my _Nissr Arrib ela Sema_--my Eagle of the Sky--would not thy people
give me great honors?"

"My head is at your feet, _M'alme_, and I am yours to do with as
you will, even to the death, but I implore you, by the beard of the
Prophet, do not do this thing!"

"And why not, Rrisa?"

"You and I, Master, are _akhawat_.[1] Therefore I can speak true
words. You must not go to Mecca. No man of the _Nasara_ may go
there--and live."

[Footnote 1: _Akhawat_ signifies in Arabic the tie of sworn
brotherhood between an Arab and one of different blood.]

"Thou meanest that if we go to Mecca and they capture us, they will
kill us all?"

"Yea, Master. And I too shall die, for being with you, though I count
that as less than nothing."

The Master kept a moment's silence, pondering; while, without, the
voices of empty heaven whistled by, from strut and wire, brace
and stay. The wild mystery of that outer night, excluded by the
close-drawn curtains, contrasted strongly with the light and the warm
comfort of the cabin with its snug berth, its aluminum furniture, its
shining walls where were affixed charts and maps, rules, photographs.

Under the clear, white light, Rrisa anxiously studied his master's
face. Great anxiety had begun to make itself manifest in the Arab's
voice and in his eyes. Another troubled look came, too, as he glanced
at the chronometer.

It struck, sharply. The Arab, contrary to all his habits and training,
spoke first, without being spoken to.

"Master," said he, timorously, "excuse the speech I offer without
waiting. But I must ask. This is my hour of night prayer, and I must
bow to Mecca. Whither, from here, lieth The City?"

The Master raised a hand, glanced at a compass set like a wrist-watch,
peered a moment at one of the charts, and then nodded toward the door
that led into the pilot-house.

Without delay, Rrisa faced that door and prostrated himself. The
ancient cry: "_La Illaha illa Allah! M'hamed rasul Allah!_" was
raised there in the cabin of the rushing Eagle of the Sky--surely the
strangest place where Moslem prayer was ever offered since first the
Prophet's green banner unfurled itself upon the desert air of Araby.

Devoutly Rrisa prayed, then with a "_Bismillah_!" (In the name of
Allah!) arose and faced his master. The latter, wise in Eastern ways,
remained gravely unsmiling. Never in all his dealings with the son
of the East had he by word or look offended against Islam. There was,
however, iron determination in his eyes as he demanded:

"Is it indeed true that in Mecca stands a building called the Ka'aba,
also called _Bayt Ullah_, or Allah's House?"

"Yea, Master, that is true," answered the Arab, with strange eyes.

"And is it indeed covered with a wondrous silken and gold cloth, every
year renewed, known as the _kiswah_?"

"Those words are true."

"All Moslems greatly revere the Ka'aba?"

"It is the center of our mighty faith, Master."

"And thou hast seen it with thine own eyes?"

"With my own eyes, Master, for I am a _Hadji_.[1]" Attentively the
Arab was now watching the Master. Slowly he continued: "Prayer, with
face to Mecca, alms-giving, the keeping of the fast of Ramadan, and
the pilgrimage to the Ka'aba, these are our law. Yea, Master, I have
myself seen the Ka'aba, and more than once!"

[Footnote 1: Title among the Arabs and Moslems in general for one
who has performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, a journey which every good
Moslem considers necessary for salvation.]

A certain trouble had now grown manifest in Rrisa's eyes. His lips
moved silently, as if still praying; but no words were audible. The
Master pondered a moment more, then demanded:

"Is it true there is a sacred Black Stone in the walls of the Ka'aba,
precious to all followers of the Prophet, from Africa to China and to
the farthest isles? Revered by all the two hundred and thirty million
of your faith?"

"That is true, _M'alme_. I myself have touched and kissed the Black
Stone."

"Mecca, the Ka'aba, and the Black Stone are forbidden to all
heretics?" relentlessly pursued the Master.

"_Wallah_! Yea, so they are to--all who are not of Islam," Rrisa tried
to soften the answer.

"They tell me," persisted the Master, "the Black Stone is in the
western wall of the Ka'aba, about seven feet from the pavement."

"That is a lie!" flared Rrisa, with indignation. "It is in the
northeast corner, at the very corner, Master. It is between four
feet and five from the ground. That, and no other, is the true place,
Master, the place of _Hajar el Aswad!_" (Black Stone.)

"Ah, yes, yes, the books lie," agreed the Master. "And they say, too,
that certain of the Feringi have indeed touched and even kissed the
Black Stone, and still lived."

Rrisa's face clouded. It burned coppery, with a flush of hot blood
under that dark skin. By the clear white light in the cabin, the
Master closely observed him. Idly he broke off a leaf of the khat, and
nibbled at it.

"Is that the truth?" he inquired, pitilessly.

"I must speak truth to you, Master," confessed the Arab, with bitter
shame. "Two of the Feringi--_Nasara_ men like yourself--have indeed
touched and kissed it. Two that we know of. _Shaytan el Kabir_ (the
Great Satan) may have permitted others to do that, but we know of only
two who have done it--and lived."

"Thou meanest one named Burckhardt, and Sir Richard Burton?"

The Arab shuddered at sound of those names, and silently nodded. Then
he burst out:

"Those were their names, _M'alme!_ Those two, disguised as _Hujjaj_,
defiled the Black Stone, which was given by Allah to the first Arabs;
and they both escaped. But many others who have tried--"

"Have died at the hands of thy people?"

"_Bismillah_! Yea!" A flash of pride irradiated the dark face
of Rrisa. His figure drew itself erect. Beneath the veneer of
civilization with which life among the Feringi had overlaid him, the
Master sensed the wild, fierce, free soul of the desert man, to whom
the death of the unbelieving dog is sweet.

"It is well," nodded the Master. Then, suddenly he stood up, faced the
Arab, and bent on him a sternly penetrant look.

"Rrisa," said he, impressively, his voice slow, grave, sonorous, "only
for me thy bones would today be moldering in the trenches at Gallipoli
or maybe rotting in a Turkish grave. The life that is in thee belongs
to me! That is thy ancient law. Is it not true?"

"It is true, Master. _Nahnu malihin._" (We have eaten salt together.)

"And the salt is still in thy stomach?[1]"

[Footnote 1: Some Arab tribes hold that the salt binds protection for
only twenty-four hours and at the end of that time must be renewed,
otherwise it is "not in their stomachs."]

"Aye, Master. You are still _dakhil_ (protected) to me."

"Thou art mine to do with as I will?"

"I am the Master's!"

"Treason to me, Rrisa, is treason to thy holy laws. Surely, such
treason would plunge thy soul far into the depths of Eblis. When thy
time cometh to walk across the burning pit, on the bridge as fine and
sharp as the edge of a simitar, if it be laden with treachery to one
who hath saved thy life and whose salt thou hast eaten, surely it
shall not pass over, but shall fall. Far into the deeps of Jehannum it
shall fall, where the Prophet says: 'Stones and men shall be the fuel
of the everlasting flame!'"

"I am the Master's," repeated Rrisa, with trembling mouth. He raised
his hand to forehead, lips, and heart. "My head is at the Master's
feet!"

"Forget that not, thou!" cried the Master, dominantly. "_Ru'c'h
halla!_" (Go!)




CHAPTER XI


CAPTAIN ALDEN STANDS REVEALED

Hardly had the trembling Arab salaamed and departed in terror of soul,
knowing not what fearful events might be impending, when Bohannan
appeared. The smile on the Master's lips, the sternly calculating
expression in his eyes, faded into something as near astonishment as
this strange man ever felt, when the major exclaimed:

"Well, faith now, what d'you think? The most improbable thing you can
imagine!"

"What may that be, Major?"

"It's not what it may be, it's what it _is_ that's astonishing me.
We've got a stowaway aboard us!"

"Stowaway? Impossible!"

"True, nevertheless. Manderson has just now routed him out of the
starboard storage-room, near the reserve petrol-tank."

"Hm! Who is he?"

Bohannan shrugged stout shoulders.

"Don't know yet. He's still dopy. Just coming out of the effects of
the lethalizing gas."

"Ah, yes, yes, I see. One of the former crew, I suppose. This is
quite inexcusable. That a man should have been overlooked and left
aboard--it won't do, Major. Kloof was responsible for that room. Kloof
will have to suffer. Any other news?"

"Travers, the New Zealander, is wounded."

"Badly?"

"I'm afraid he's hard hit, sir."

"Well, I'll have a look at him and at this stowaway. Where are they,
now?"

"In the lazaret, I suppose you call it. Though what a hospital is,
aboard an air-liner, blest if I know!"

"Sick-bay, we'll call it. Problems rising already. A stowaway--rather
odd, I must say. Still, as a problem, it's not hard to solve. Nothing
simpler than dropping a man overboard."

"You--surely, you wouldn't do that!" ejaculated the major, startled.
His rubicund face grew round with amazement.

"That remains to be seen. Come, let's have a look at him!"

Together they went out into the brightly lighted main corridor, near
the ladder to the upper gallery, turned to the right and walked aft.
A door, just a little abaft the chartroom and, opposite the Master's
cabin, gave a glimpse of the as yet unoccupied smoke-room. Astern
of this, they passed the dining-saloon with its long table and
its swivel-chairs. Beyond several stateroom doors they came to the
transverse corridor at the other side of which, directly facing the
main corridor, the engine-room door opened.

Entering the engine-room, they found themselves in a brightly lighted
compartment fifteen feet wide by twenty-six feet, seven inches long.
This compartment contained six Norcross-Brail engines, each capable
of developing 1,150 H.P. The engines were in charge of Auchincloss and
two assistant engineers, who had all six engines filling the room with
a drowsy drone, like ten billion bees humming themselves to sleep in
some mysterious hive.

So nicely adjusted was every part, so accurately true was every shaft,
bearing, gear, that practically no vibration could be noted. The
voice, in ordinary tones, carried perfectly; and yet in that small
space nearly 7,000 H.P. were being produced and transmitted to the
propellers and to the storage batteries that operated helicopters and
compressed-air system, as well as the lighting-plant of the air-liner.

As the two men entered the engine-room, the Master nodded to
Auchincloss. He stood a moment gazing at the brightly flecked metal of
the engines, the gleaming walls--hollow and filled with noninflammable
helium gas of great lifting power--the men on watch over all this
splendid mechanism. Then he passed between engines No. 4 and No. 5,
toward the aft wall of the compartment.

Four doors opened in the bulkhead, there. Two communicated with
storerooms, one opened into the passage that led to the aft
observation pit, the fourth gave access to the sick-bay. This door the
Master slid back. Followed by the major he passed through.

A small but fully equipped hospital met their eyes. Cots,
operating-table, instrument-cases, sterilizers, everything was
complete. Immaculate cleanliness reigned. On two of the cots, men were
lying.

Beyond, Captain Alden--still fully dressed--was sitting on a white
metal chair. The captain's face was still concealed by the celluloid
mask, but a profound pallor was visible on the lower portion of his
right cheek and along his left jaw. The set of that jaw showed an
invincible obstinacy that bespoke rebellion.

Dr. Lombardo, a dark-skinned Florentine, who had been talking with
Captain Alden, turned at the Master's entrance into the sick-bay.
Already Lombardo had put on a white linen jacket. Though he had not
yet had time to change his trousers, he nevertheless presented a
semi-professional air as he advanced to meet the newcomers.

"I'm glad you're here, sir," said he to the Master. "There's trouble
enough, already."

"Stowaway?" The Master advanced to the nearer cot.

"Yes, sir. Perhaps not voluntarily so. You know how he was found."

"Such oversight is inexcusable!" The Master leaned down and shook the
man by the shoulder. "Come, now!" he demanded. "What's your name?"
Curiously he looked at the stranger, a man of great strength, with
long arms and powerful, prehensile hands that reminded one of an
ape's.

"It's no use questioning him, sir," put in Lombardo, while the major
peered curiously at Alden and at the other cot where a man was lying
with a froth of bright, arterial blood on his lips. Though this man
was suffering torment, no groan escaped him. A kind of gray shadow had
settled about eyes and mouth--the shadow of the death angel's wings.

"It's no use, sir," repeated the doctor. "He hasn't recovered
consciousness enough, yet, to be questioned. When he does, I'll
report."

"Do so!" returned the Master, curtly. "I hardly think we need use much
ceremony in disposing of him." He turned to the other cot. "Well, sir,
how about this man?"

"I'm--all right, sir," weakly coughed the wounded New Zealander. He
tried to bring a hand to his forehead, but could hardly lift it
from the sheet. The doctor, with compressed lips, slightly shook a
negativing head, as the Master raised interrogative brows.

"Serious," Lombardo whispered. "Shot through the right lung. Bullet
still there. Severe internal hemorrhage. I may be able to operate,
with Daimamoto assisting, but only in case the patient rallies. We
really need a nurse, on this expedition. Medically speaking, we're
short-handed. However, I'll do my best, sir."

"I know you will," answered the Master. He stood a moment gazing down
at the New Zealander, with stern face and tight mouth. This man on the
cot had already given much for the expedition, and might give all. Not
without blood and suffering--death, perhaps--was the Master's dream to
come to its fruition. After a moment, the Master turned away. He faced
Captain Alden.

"Your wound not yet dressed?" demanded he.

"No, sir, not yet."

"And why not, pray?"

"He's simply refused all attention, whatever!" put in the doctor.

"I have a reason, sir," Alden proffered.

"No reason can overrule my orders!" the Master exclaimed. "I commanded
you to report to Dr. Lombardo for treatment."

"Nevertheless, sir, I refuse--"

"Insubordination will not be condoned, sir!"

"My reason is valid. When you have heard it, you will understand."

"State your reason, sir!"

"I decline--here."

For a long moment the eyes of the Master met those of Captain Alden,
that strangely peered out at him through the eyeholes of the pink,
celluloid mask. Bohannan and the doctor stood by, curiously observing