in the roadways, in the porches, in the shadow of the power-plant
where dynamos were still merrily singing. Few were armed. Most of them
here were workers, judging by their garb and by the tools still in
some hands.

The four pioneers gave them no heed, but pushed steadily on. In the
road lay a couple of pigeons, farther on a sparrow, and still farther
a sleeping dog, showed how complete had been the effect of the lethal
pellets.

The inner stockade was now close. It stood about twice as high as the
outer, was also topped with live wires and lights, and was loopholed
for defense. This formidable barrier was pierced by a small gate,
flanked by two machine-guns. On the gate-post was affixed an elaborate
set of rules regarding those who might and might not enter. The Master
smiled dryly, and opened the gate.

Even from without, the loom of the monstrous airship had been visible.
The eye could hardly at first glance take in the vastness of this
stupendous thing, that overshadowed all the central portion of the
huge enclosure. It gave a sense of power, of swift potentialities, of
speed unlimited. It stood there, tense, ready, waiting, with a hum
of engines audible in its vast heart, a thing almost of life, man's
creation but how illimitably greater than man!

For a moment, as this tremendous winged fabric came to the Master's
view, he halted, and a look of exultation, pride, and joy came over
his face. But only for a moment. Quite at once his dark eyes veiled
themselves with their habitual impassivity. Once more he strode
forward, the others following him.

Now that they were inside the second barrier--where sleeping men were
scattered more thickly than ever--they stood under the very wings of
the most stupendous hydroplane ever conceived by the brain of man or
executed by the cunning of his hand.

That this hydroplane had been almost on the moment of departure for
its trial trip, was proved by the sleepers. Two were on the gangplank
leading up to the entrance door in the fuselage. A number who had been
knocking out the last holding-pins of the last shackles that bound it
to its cradle, had fallen to earth, their sledge-hammers near at hand.

In the pilot-house, a figure had collapsed across the sill of an
observation window. And the engines, purring softly, told that all had
been in readiness for the throwing-in of the clutches that would have
set the vast propellers spinning with roaring speed.

"Yes, they were certainly just on the dot of getting away," said the
Master, nodding as he glanced at his watch. "This couldn't be better.
Gas, oil, stores, everything ready. What more proof do you require, my
dear Bohannan, of the value of exact coordination?"

The major could only answer: "Yes, yes--" He seemed quite amazed by
this extraordinary mechanism--gigantic, weird, unreal in the garish
electric lights. Rrisa was frankly staring, for once shaken out of his
fatalistic Mussulman tranquillity.

As for Captain Alden, he stood there a compact, small figure in his
long coat with the rucksack strapped to his shoulders, peering up with
the eye of the connoisseur. His smile was of contentment absolute.

"My beauty--ah, my beauty!" he was murmuring.

Then, in the presence of this mighty thing, silence fell on all. The
major set hands on hips, blinked, puckered his lips, and silently
whistled. His expression was half incredulous, half enthusiastic.

What Alden was thinking revealed itself by the sparkle of his eyes
through the holes of the mask behind the goggles. Expressionless
though that terribly mutilated face had to remain, you could sense in
the man's whole attitude the exultation of the expert ace as he beheld
the perfect machine.

The droning of the engines came distinctly to them all, a low, steady,
powerful note, beautiful in its steady undertones of strength. Behind
the little group, a few involuntary exclamations of astonishment and
joy became audible, as some of the Legionaries came into the second
enclosure.

Without, blows on metal sharply resounded. The Master smiled again, as
he realized his orders were going on with exact precision.

"That's the wireless they're putting out of commission," thought he,
glancing at his watch again. "No mere untuning of wave-lengths.
Good, old-fashioned hammer-blows! This station won't work again for a
while!"

Bohannan, meantime, was trying to get some general impression of the
giant plane. Not all the Master's descriptions of it, to him, had
quite prepared him for the reality. Though he well knew all the
largest, biggest machines in the world, this stupendous creation
staggered him. By comparison with the Handley-Page, the Caproni, the
D.H.-4, the Gotha 90-120, the Sikorsky, it spread itself as an eagle
spreads beside a pigeon.

It lay in a kind of metallic cradle, almost like a ship ready for
launching on its ways. Ahead of it, metal plates stretched away like
rails, running toward the lip of the Palisades. Its quadruple floats,
each the size of a tugboat and each capable of being exhausted of air,
constituted a potential lifting-force of enclosed vacuums that
very largely offset the weight of the mechanism. It was still a
heavier-than-air machine, but the balance could be made nearly
perfect. And the six helicopters, whose cylindrical, turbine-like
drums gleamed with metallic glitters--three on each side along the
fuselage--could at will produce an absolutely static condition of lift
or even make the plane hover and soar quite vertically.

There the monster lay, outstretching its enormous sextuple wings, each
wing with an area of 376 by 82.5 feet. The non-inflammable celluloid
surfaces shone white as fresh-cut ivory, clean, smooth, unbreakable.
The plane reminded one of some Brobdingnagian dragon-fly, resting for
flight, shimmering with power as it poised for one swift leap aloft
into the night.

Bohannan, still a bit confused, noted the absence of any exhaust from
the speeding engines. This, too, gave a sense of vast, self-contained
power. He saw stupendous propeller-blades, their varnished surfaces
flicking out high-lights as the incandescents struck them. Motionless
these propellers were; but something in their tense, clean sweep
told of the raging cyclone to which they could whip the air, once the
spinning engines should be clutched in on their shafts.

The captain's eyes wandered over the whole enormous construction,
towering there above him. He saw rows of lighted windows, each cased
in shining metal; a V-pointed pilot-house--the same where the still
figure had dropped over the sill of the open window--a high-raised
rudder of artful curve, vast as the broadside of a barn; railed
galleries running along the underbody of the fuselage, between the
floats and far aft of them.

Everything gleamed and flickered with bright metal, varnish, snowy
celluloid. The body of the machine looked capable of housing twice as
many men as the Legion numbered. But everything, after all, was quite
shrunk by the overpowering sweep of the wings. These dwarfed the
fast-gathering group that stood peering up at them, like pygmies under
the pinions of the fabled roc in Sinbad the Sailor's story.

These stupendous wings, the captain now saw, were not braced together
by hampering struts and wires, but seemed cantilevered into position,
giving a clean run to the structure, great simplicity, and the acme of
mechanical beauty. This giant bird of heaven lay in its nest, free of
pattern, powerful beyond any air-mechanism ever built by man, almost
a living thing, on whose back its captors might ride aloft defying man
and nature, to whatsoever goal they chose.

"Everything is ready," said the Master. "That is quite obvious. Let us
get aboard now, with no further delay, and be off!"

He drew a little notebook from his pocket, took a pencil, and faced
the gathering group inside the second stockade.

"Stow your equipment," he directed "according to your orders. Ten
minutes will be enough for you to unload your machine-guns and all
gear, each in the assigned space. Bring out all the sleeping men and
lay them down along the stockade, here. Injure no man. Valdez, are the
take-off gates, over the Palisade, correctly opened?"

A dark, thin man saluted, as he answered with a Spanish accent:

"Yes, sir. Everything is ready, sir."

"Very well. Now, all to work! And then, each to his place, in
engine-room, cabins, or however and where assigned. Come, come!"

As the men trailed up the gangplank, that steeply rose to the sliding
door in the fuselage, the Master checked them on his list. Not one was
absent. He shut the notebook with a snap, and slid it back into his
pocket.

"This goes on well," he commented to the major. "So far, we are within
three minutes, eighteen seconds, of schedule."

The little group of four stood waiting, watching, while the others
carried out all orders, aboard. There was no hesitation, no confusion.
Each had already learned the exact plan of the airship. Each knew
precisely where every door led, what each passageway meant; each
understood perfectly his own post and what to do there.

Two by two, Legionaries came down the gangplank, bearing limp bodies.
These they laid in a row along the stockade, till seventeen had
accumulated. No more came.

A figure appeared in the sliding doorway, and saluted.

"The last sleeper is out, sir," he reported.

The Master nodded, and gestured to his three companions. The group of
four ascended the sharp tilt of the plank and entered the airship. As
they did so, Legionaries hoisted the plank aboard, with its tackle,
and lashed it to the waiting chocks. Others could be heard, in the
penetralia of the vast structure, coming, going, busily at work.

The entrance door slid shut. A bolt shot home. All the Legion was now
aboard, and communication with the ground had been broken.

The four men found themselves in a brightly lighted corridor that led
directly across the fuselage to a similar door on the other side. This
corridor was of some metal, painted a glossy white. Doors opened out
of it, on either hand. Its length was just a few inches over
forty-two feet. Half-way along it, a wider corridor crossed it at right
angles--the main passage of the ship.

The Master led the way toward this median corridor. His tall,
big-shouldered figure swung along, triumphant, impressive in the long
coat, dominant and free. Followed by the other three, he turned to the
left, forward of the ship.

The main corridor, like the other, was flanked by doors. Two or three
stood open, giving glimpses of comfortable staterooms. The men's
footfalls sounded with softened tread on a strip of thick, brown
carpet that made pleasant contrast with the gleaming white walls.
Light from frosted glass circles, flush with walls and ceiling, made
the corridor bright as day.

The Master walked with the confident precision of one who already
had passed that way a score of times. He opened the third door on the
left--it slid into the wall, instead of swinging, thus economizing
space--and all entered what was obviously the main saloon of the giant
plane.

This saloon measured seventeen feet six inches, from corridor to
windows, and twenty-nine fore-and-aft. It was furnished with a
center-table, book-cases, easy-chairs, two commodious sofa-lockers,
and had an excellent carpet. Bohannan noted a Victrola, with many
records.

Like all parts of the ship, its lighting was splendid. Well-curtained
windows gave it a homelike air. At first glance, one would have
thought oneself in a rather luxurious private house; but second
inspection showed all possible construction and furnishings were
of aluminum alloy, of patterns designed to cut weight to the lowest
minimum.

The walls bore lightly framed photographs of men famous in the
annals of flying, from Santos-Dumont and the Wrights to Gruynemer
and Nosworthy; also pictures of famous machines--the Spad, Bristol
Fighter, Sopwith Pup, 120-135, and others. More conspicuous than
any of these was a framed copy of the International Air Commission's
latest condensed rules.

Signs of recent occupancy were not wanting. An extinct cigar lay on
the carpet, where it had fallen from the mouth of some airman swiftly
overtaken by sleep. The table bore an open cigar-box, several packs
of cigarettes with loose "fags" scattered round, and a number of
champagne bottles.

Two of these were opened; one had been emptied. The other had lost
part of its contents. Several champagne glasses stood on the table,
and one lay on its side, where perhaps a falling hand had overset it.
In one of the glasses, a few last, vagrant little bubbles were still
rising from the tall, hollow stem.

"Hm!" grunted the Master contemptuously. "Fools! Well--there'll be no
alcohol aboard this craft!" He loosened the buckles of his rucksack,
and cast the burden on one of the sofa-lockers. The others did as
much.

"Shall we stow the gear in our cabins?" asked Bohannan, gesturing at
the doors that led off the saloon.

"Not yet," answered the Master, glancing at the chronometer that hung
beside the air-rules. "Time enough to get settled, later. Every second
counts, now. We're due to start in seven minutes, you know. Rrisa will
attend to all this. We three have got to be getting forward to the
pilot-house."

Bohannan nodded.

"Let's have some air in here, anyhow," said he, turning toward one of
the windows. "This place is damned hot!"

"We'll need all the heat, soon," the Master commented. "At a few
thousand feet, the engine-exhaust through those radiators won't be any
too much. Forward!"




CHAPTER VIII


THE EAGLE OF THE SKY

He slid open another door. The three men passed through the captain's
cabin and pilot-house. This place measured twelve feet on its longer
axis and nine on its shorter, being of approximately diamond shape
with one point forward in the very nose of the machine, one ending in
a door that gave access to the main, longitudinal corridor, and the
right and left points joining the walls of the backward-sloping prow.
It contained two sofa-lockers with gas-inflated, leather cushions, a
chart-rack, pilot's seat, controls, and instrument-board.

The whole front was a magnificent stretch of double plate-glass, with
warm air between the sheets to keep snow, frost, or dew from obscuring
the vision. Bright light flooded it.

Though one window had been slid partly open--the window on the sill of
which the sleeping aviator had lain--a scent of cigarette-smoke still
permeated the place. The Master sniffed with disgust. Then suddenly,
to the great astonishment of Bohannan, he commanded:

"Bring me that champagne, in the saloon. All of it!"

The major opened wide eyes, but unquestioningly obeyed. Could it be
possible the Master, in this moment of exultation, was about to break
his lifelong rule and drink a toast, in sparkling bubbles, to success
thus far achieved, to the stupendous voyage now about to begin?

Wondering, Bohannan departed. The Master gestured for Captain Alden to
seat himself on one of the lockers. Alden kept complete silence as
he sat down, crossed one leg over the other and began to study the
complex apparatus before him. Most of it was familiar; but some new
factors needed inspection.

The Master peered curiously at him. Surely, this man was odd, unusual.
Most aviators, thus confronted by strange problems, would have grown
loquacious, tried to exhibit their knowledge, asked questions, made
much talk. But Alden held his tongue.

A look of appreciation, of liking, came upon the Master's face. It was
just the suspicion of a look, for in all this strange man's life no
great show of emotion ever had been permitted to mirror itself upon
his countenance. But still, the look was there. He half opened his
lips, as if to speak, then closed them again, and--like Alden--fell to
studying the control apparatus.

All was beautifully arranged, all nicely calculated for instant
use. Not here, as in small machines, could the pilot handle his own
engines, tilt his planes, or manipulate his rudders by hand. That
would have been as absurd to think of, as for the steersman of an
ocean liner to work without the intervention of steam steering-gear.

No, these controls actuated various motors that, using current from
the dynamos, produced the desired action with smooth and certain
promptness. A turn of the wrist, perhaps no more than the touch of
a finger, and the whole vast creation would respond as easily as a
child's toy can be manipulated by a strong man's hand.

Hooded dials, brightly lighted push-buttons, a telephone headpiece and
receiver combined, and switches all lay in easy reach. Here was the
tachometer, that would give to a fraction the revolutions of each
screw per minute; here the altimeter, to indicate height; here the
air-speed indicator, the compass with reflector, the inclinometer, the
motometers--to show the heat in each engine--and there, the switch to
throw on the gigantic searchlight, with the little electric wheel to
control its direction, as accurately as you would point a wand.

Throttle and spark, of course, there were none. All engine control was
by telephone, with the engine-room which lay a little aft of midships.
But the controls of the vacuum apparatus were within easy reach, so
that at will the pilot could exhaust the floats, or fill them.

Here were the starting, stopping, and speed controls of the
helicopters, which were under direct electrical motivation by the
pilot. Here also were the magnetic-anchor release and the air-skid
pump control; here were telephonic connections with the wireless-room
and with the fore-and-aft observation pits, where observers were
already lying on their cushions upon the heavy, metal-reinforced glass
floor-plates.

"This is really very complete," approved the Master. Not Alden, but
he, had been first to speak. The Master spoke half against his own
wish, but a resistless impulse to make some comment, in this moment of
triumph, possessed him.

"Only as expected, sir," replied Alden. The Master bit his lip a
second, and said no more.

Bohannan's return with several champagne bottles in his arms, put an
end to any possible developments the terse conversation might have
had.

"Well, sir," said the major, "here it all is. And I've got glasses
in my pocket--and a corkscrew, sir. It never does to forget the
corkscrew! We'll drink to happy days, eh, sir?"

Already the Celt's mouth was watering for draughts of the precious
liquid. Joy pervaded him that, for once at least, the iron rule of the
Master was to be broken, and that the journey was to begin with proper
libations. The Master's curt syllables, however, instantly dispelled
any illusions he might have entertained on that score.

"Drop them all out that open window, there," commanded the Master.

"What, sir? Good Pommery? Veuve?"

"No argument, Bohannan! Out they go!"

Dismayed, the Celt did the other's bidding, while Alden smiled grimly.
Far below, glass crashed and jangled.

"What's the idea?" demanded the major ruefully.

"You know very well, Major, my ruling on alcohol. It doesn't mix with
any motive power on this trip. Moreover, it's customary to christen
every launching with champagne. We've done it!"

"Well, that's not so bad an idea, at that," Bohannan admitted,
scratching his fiery head. "What name have you given this bus?"

"_Nissr Arrib ela Sema._"

"Come again, sir?"

"Eagle of the Sky, in Arabic. I suppose we'll have to cut that down to
_Nissr_, for everyday use. But at any rate, our craft is christened.
Well, now--"

He settled himself in the pilot's seat, reached forward and drew
toward him a shining metal shaft. Four stout spokes unfolded; and from
these, quadrants of a rim that easily snapped together. The Master
laid one hand easily on the rim of the big steering-wheel, flung his
cap upon a locker, pulled down the telephone headpiece and snapped it
on.

He touched a button. The light died in the pilot-house, leaving only
the hooded glows of the dials, switches, and small levers. Night
seemed suddenly to close in about the vast machine. Till now it
had been forgotten, ignored. But as darkness fingered at the panes,
something of the vastness of sky and air made itself realized;
something of the illimitable scope of this adventuring.

Bohannan slid the window shut and settled himself beside Captain
Alden. He glanced at his wrist-watch, and a thrill of nervous
exultation stabbed him.

"Only two minutes and six seconds more!" he murmured, gnawing at his
mustache and blinking with excitement. Alden remained calm, impassive
as the Master himself, who now, pressing another button, sent a beam
of wonderful, white light lancing through the darkness.

Track, buildings, trees all leaped into vivid relief as he tested the
searchlight control. He shot the beam up, up, till it lost itself,
vaguely, in mist and cloud; then flung it even across the river, where
it picked out buildings with startling detail.

He turned it, finally, square down the launching-way, through the
yawning gates where the track abruptly ended at the brow of the
Palisades--the empty chasm where, if all went right and no mistake
had been made in build, engine-power, or control, the initial leap of
_Nissr Arrib ela Sema_ was to be made.

Came a moment's wait. Faintly the pulsing of the engines trembled
the fabric of _Nissr_. Finely balanced as they were, they still
communicated some slight vibration to the ship. The Master snicked the
switch of the magnetic-anchor release; and now the last bond that held
_Nissr_ to her cradle was broken. As soon as the air-skid currents
should be set going, she would be ready for her flight.

This moment was not long in coming. Another turn of a switch, and all
at once, far below, a faint, continuous hissing made itself audible.
Compressed air, forced through thousands of holes at the bottom of the
floats, was interposing a gaseous cushion between those floats and the
track, just as it could do between them and the earth wherever _Nissr_
should alight.

Suspended thus on a thin layer of air, perhaps no more than a
sixteenth of an inch thick but infinitely less friction-producing than
the finest ball-bearing wheels and quite incapable of being broken,
the ship now waited only the application of the power in her vast
propellers.

"Let in numbers two and four," commanded the Master, suddenly, into
the engine-room telephone. "In five seconds after we start, hook up
one and three; and five later, the other two."

"Aye, aye, sir," came back the voice of Auchincloss, chief engineer.
"Ready, sir!"

Almost at once, the vibration of the engines altered, grew more
marked, seemed to be taking hold of something with strong but easy
effort. Another trembling made itself felt, as two of the giant
screws, connected by reducing-gears with the engine-shafting--all
three engines being geared to one shaft, but any one being capable of
separate running--began to revolve.

From astern, a dull, droning hum mounted, rose, grew rapidly in volume
and power. And, as two more screws began to whirl, the Eagle of the
Sky shook herself slightly. She awoke from slumber. Steadily, smoothly
on her air-cushions she began to move forward down the long, sloping
trackway to the brink of the cliff.

"Lord above!" breathed Bohannan, chewing at his nails. "We're off!"

Neither the Master nor Captain Alden moved, spoke, manifested any
excitement whatever. Both might have been graven images of coolness.
The Celt, however, got up and leaned at the window-jamb, unable to
keep still. He turned suddenly to Alden.

"Come, man!" he exclaimed, half angrily. "Got no heart in you, eh? No
interest? Come along out of that, now, and see what's what!"

He laid hold on the captain, and drew him to the window as the airship
accelerated her plunge along the rails. The hum of the propellers
had now risen to a kind of throaty roar; the craft was shaking with
strange quivers that no doubt would cease if she but once could launch
herself into the air. Under her, in and in, the shining metal rails
came running swiftly and more swiftly still, gleaming silver-like
under the vivid beam of the searchlight.

Wind began to rise up against the glass of the pilot-house; the wind
of _Nissr's_ own making.

Cool as if in his own easy-chair in the observatory, the Master sat
there, hand on wheel. Then all at once he reached for the rising-plane
control, drew it over, and into the telephone spoke sharply:

"Full speed ahead, now! Give her all she's got!"

A shout, was it? Many shouts, cries, execrations! But where? Over
the roar of the propellers, confused sounds won to the men in the
pilot-house. And all at once, by the dim aura of diffused light
reflected from the huge beam, the major saw dim figures running, off
there to the left, among the buildings of the stockade.

"For the Lord's sake!" he cried, amazed, with drooping jaw.
"Men--after us! Look there--_look_!"

The Master remained utterly impassive, eyes keen on the in-rushing
track, now close to its abrupt ending over the vacancy of space.
Captain Alden's pupils narrowed, through the mask-holes, but he said
nothing. Bohannan gripped the captain's shoulder painfully, then
reached for the pistol in his own holster.

"They're on to us!" he vociferated. "Somebody's got wise--they're--"

Little red spurts of fire began to jet, among the buildings; the
crackling of shots started popping, like corn-kernels exploding. Dark
figures were racing for the Palisade gate--the gate where, if any
slightest thing went wrong with track or giant plane, the whole vast
fabric might crash down, a tangled mass of wreckage.

Then it was, that for the first time in all his knowledge of the
Master, Bohannan heard the strange man laugh.

Joyously he laughed, and with keen pleasure. His eyes were blazing, as
he thrust the rising-plane lever sharply up.

More shouts volleyed. From somewhere back there in the body of the
ship, a cry of pain resounded.

Bohannan flung the window-pane to one side, and blazed away like mad
at the attackers.

A shatter of broken glass burst into the pilot-house. Alden, catching
his breath, quivered. He uttered no outcry, but his right hand went
across and clutched his wounded left arm.

"Got you?" cried the major, still pumping lead. He paused, jerked
Alden's automatic from its holster and thrust it into the captain's
hand, now red.

Alden, a bit pale but quite impassive, opened fire through the jagged
hole in the double pane. Accurately the captain fired at dark figures.
One fell. Another staggered; but as the machine swept on, they lost
sight of it.

Men rose up before the rushing airship. One of the great gates began
to swing shut, far at the end of the track. The Master laughed again,
with the wind whipping at his hair. "Full speed ahead!" he shouted
into the telephone.

The _Nissr_ leaped into a swifter course. Then all at once she skidded
clear of the track, slanted upward, breasted the air. Her searchlight
blazed. All along her flanks, fire-jets spangled the night. Cries
echoed from her, from the great stockade.

The Master gave her all the lift the farthest wrench of the levers
would thrust on her. The gate was almost shut now--would she clear it?

Below, track, earth, everything was spinning in and in. Ahead, above,
yawned vastnesses. The Master could no longer see the gate. A second
of taut thrill--

_Crash_!

The _Nissr_ quivered, staggered, yawed away. The forward starboard
float had struck. A faint yell rose as someone, hurled backward by the
shattered _débris_ of the gate, plunged down the cliff.

For half a second, the giant plane reeled over the abyss. Her rush and
fury for that half-second threatened to plunge her, a mangled, flaming
wreck, hundreds of feet down on the black, waiting rocks below the
Palisades.

But engine-power and broad wings, skill of the hand at the levers, and
the good fortune that watches over bold men, buoyed her again.

Suddenly she lifted. Up at a dizzy angle she sped.

A thing of life, quivering, sentient, unleashed, the gigantic Eagle
of the Sky--now in heroic flight toward the greatest venturing ever
conceived by the brain of man--steadied herself, lifted on the wings
of darkness, and, freed from her last bonds, leaped quivering and
triumphant into the night.




CHAPTER IX


EASTWARD HO!

Not all the stern discipline that had been enforced by the
Master--discipline already like a second nature to this band of
adventurous men--could quite prevent a little confusion on board the
Eagle of the Sky.

As the huge machine crashed, plunged, staggered, then righted herself
and soared aloft, shouts echoed down the corridors, shots crackled
from the lower gallery and from a few open ports.

At sound of them, and of faint, far cries from the Palisades, with
a futile spatter of pistol-and rifle-fire, the Master frowned. This
intrusion of disorder lay quite outside his plans. He had hoped for a
swift and quiet getaway. Complications had been introduced. Under his
breath he muttered something as he manipulated the controls.

The major, laughing a bit wildly, leaned from the shattered window and
let drive a few last pot-shots into the dark, at the faint flicker
of lights along the crest of the black cliff. In the gloom of the
pilot-house, his shoulders bulked huge as he fired. Captain Alden,
staggering back, sat down heavily on one of the sofa-lockers.

One or two faint shots still popped, along the cliff, with little
pin-pricks of fire in the dark. Then all sounds of opposition
vanished. The _Nissr_, upborne at her wonderful climbing-angle toward
the clouds painted by her searchlight--clouds like a rippled, moonlit
veil through which peeped faint stars--spiraled above the Hudson and
in a vast arc turned her beak into the south.

Disorder died. Silence fell, save for the whistling of the sudden wind
of the airship's own motion, and for the steadily mounting drone of
the huge propellers.

"Made it all right, by God!" exclaimed Bohannan, excitedly. "No
damage, either. If the floats had smashed when they hit the gate,
there'd have been a devil of an explosion--vacuum collapsing, you
know. Close call, but we made it! Now, if--"

"That will do!" the Master curtly interrupted, with steadfast eyes
peering out through the conning windows. Now that the first _élan_ of
excitement had spent itself, this strange man had once more resumed
his mantle of calm. Upborne on the wings of wondrous power, wings
all aquiver with their first stupendous leap into the night-sky,
the Master--impassive, watchful, cool--seemed as if seated in his
easy-chair at _Niss'rosh_.

"That will do, Major!" he repeated. "None of your extravagance, sir!
No time now for rodomontade!" He glanced swiftly round, saw Captain
Alden by the dim aura of light reflected from the instrument-board.
Blood reddened the captain's left sleeve.

"Wounded, Captain?"