Originally published in the May, 1934 issue of Operator 5TM
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Copyright ã1934 by Popular Publications Inc. Copyright renewed (c) 1962 and assigned to Agrosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media. Operator 5 is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
By CURTIS STEELE
Unseen, impregnable, the strange war engine of a foreign power hovered
over America, waiting the fatal moment to hurl death upon a thousand
cities and towns. Foredoomed to destruction and desolation before the
ravaging hordes of the Yellow Empire, bleak despair gripped the nation's
millions. And then men held their breath in agonizing hope-as Operator
5, single-handed, seized the last grim chance to save the United States!
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CHAPTER ONE
WARNING FROM THE SKY
At high noon on that steaming midsummer
day a strange cloud darkened the sky above the
spires of New York City. It came from nowhere
out of the clear heavens, a floating fog which
thickened rapidly beneath the sun, casting deep
shadow over the entire city, bringing sudden and
bewildering gloom. Thousands of eyes turned
upward from the chasms of Manhattan to watch
it-a stormy blackness slowly lowering.
As it settled it became a mass that fluttered
and sparkled and surged.
Snow! Snow-falling from a cloudless sky
on the hottest day of a sizzling summer? The
wonder of it brought millions to a standstill in the
streets. They watched it blanket down until the
peaks of the skyscrapers became misted and
disappeared, until the fluttering stuff began to
sprinkle into open windows and drift over the
pavements.
It was not snow, but countless leaflets of
papers blackened by heavy printing!
While the air cleared and the hot sunlight
beat again into the metropolis, millions of eyes
read the startling message which the leaflets
bore:
WAR!
War-or Peace?
Which do you choose? A futile fight
against a foe which will inevitably crush
defeat upon you? War which will kill all
your loved ones and bring you nothing but
indescribable suffering? Utter disaster to
all you hold dear? Or-peaceful
submission to your fate?
War or Peace?
Life or Death?
CHOOSE!
Over all of Manhattan, the flurry of warnings
settled. A few moments later another cloud of
leaflets drifted down upon Long Island. Then a
third fluttering mass spread in the sky above the
millions crowding toward the great Naval air field
at Lakehurst, New Jersey, bringing with it sudden
gloom and the chill of terror.
Every road leading to the famous airport was
choked with thousands of cars. Automobiles were
sardined into every available space along the
highways. For hours no wheel had turned. A
swarm of people had abandoned their immovable
vehicles and were herding on foot toward the
Naval air base.
Around the field the crush was indescribable
and unprecedented. An army of uniformed men-
police, infantry, marines-were keeping the
multitude behind the straining ropes framing the
tarmac. The doors of the giant hangar yawned
open and black. Another small army of men was
clustered on the field, clinging to ropes which
were binding to the earth the tremendous,
glistening, silver bag of the Navy's most recently
constructed dirigible.
The air was fogged with falling leaflets. They
dotted the shoulders of the packed multitude;
they whitened the field; they clung to the skin of
the dirigible.
For minutes the bits of paper continued to
snow down while the crowd stood hushed, while
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men peered at one another with fear and
consternation in their puzzled eyes.
Near the doors of the tremendous hangar a
radio announcer was speaking rapidly into a
microphone:
"And still the strange warnings flutter in the
air, ladies and gentlemen. Millions of them have
fallen. The police and infantrymen are trying to
calm the excited crowd. Overhead, Army and
Navy planes are circling, trying to discover the
source of the leaflets. We expect to have a report
from them shortly. We take you now-"
A flight of steps led up to the door of the
gondola of the dirigible, and around it a crowd
was waiting, newspaper men, photographers, a
few of the elect privileged to fly with the greatest
dirigible in the world on its first official flight.
In the control cabin high-ranking officers of
the Navy and Army stood also waiting, shoulder to
shoulder with members of the President's cabinet.
Behind them another radio announcer was
speaking into a hand microphone, from which a
wire trailed outside to a technician carrying a
portable short-wave transmitter on his back.
Flashing from the short aerial supported on poles
carried by two other technicians, his voice rang
from coast to coast.
"Speaking to you now from the control cabin
of the Valley Forge, the great new dirigible of the
United States Navy. The prominent men here are
visibly disturbed by the strange rain of warnings
from the sky. So far we have-one moment,
ladies and gentlemen! A radio report has just
come from the Army and Navy planes circling
overhead. One moment-Here is the report,
ladies and gentlemen:
"The Army and Navy aviators have been
unable to locate any aircraft which might have
dropped the leaflets on the field. I have been
unable to get any official statement concerning
the strange occurrence.
"Within a few minutes this tremendous ship
will begin its first official trip up and down the
Atlantic seaboard. So far the Valley Forge has
made only one short flight, from the construction
hangars in Akron to this field at Lakehurst.
Millions are awaiting its majestic rise, waiting to
witness the thrilling take-off of the most
magnificent craft ever to patrol the skies."
The officers of the Valley Forge were
glancing uneasily at their watches.
"Something is delaying the take-off, ladies
and gentlemen. A passenger who is to
accompany the ship on its maiden flight has not
yet appeared. I have been unable to learn the
identity of the missing passenger, but I assure
you he-or she-must be a person of rare
importance. The Commander has sent his aides
to hunt for the tardy guest.
"While we wait, ladies and gentlemen, I want
you to visualize the unparalleled magnificence of
the Valley Forge. It surpasses every other
aircraft ever constructed. It dwarfs the Macon,
the Akron and the Graf Zeppelin. It is 815 feet
long and 140 feet thick. It is equipped with ten
engines, which exert their five thousand
horsepower through ten propellers. Within this
tremendous envelope there are four million cubic
feet of helium. The Valley Forge has a maximum
speed of ninety-five miles an hour and a cruising
range of twelve thousand miles. Millions will soon
see the inspiring sight of this beautiful ship
cruising the skies along the Atlantic coast."
Commander Duncan was still frowning and
peering at his watch. "Must we wait longer?" he
asked of the quiet man standing beside him.
He was answered by the Secretary of the
Navy. "We are to wait until he appears,
Commander."
The Commander was annoyed. "Who is this
man, Anthony Andrews-I never heard of him
before. Why are we obliged to delay the flight for
someone whom-"
"It is by special wish of the President that he
accompanies the Valley Forge on its maiden
flight, Commander," the Secretary of the Navy
reminded the officer.
"But-who is he?"
A murmur rose from the multitude
surrounding the field. Eyes raised. The impatient
officers made out a monoplane swinging from the
direction of New York. As it began to settle into a
smooth spiral, the formation of Navy planes drew
toward it, as though to guard the great ship on
the field below from its approach; but a signal was
seen to flash across the air, and the formation
banked away.
"The missing guest is arriving, ladies and
gentlemen! He is flying down to the field now!"
The single plane swooped while thousands
watched; its trucks touched in a perfect threepoint
landing. It seemed a fragile toy compared
with the tremendous bag of the Valley Forge as it
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taxied to a stop near the dirigible. Officers of the
crew hurried toward it as the door of its cabin
opened.
"Mr. Anthony Andrews?"
"Yes," came the answer from inside the
plane.
The officer hurried to the gondola with the
news. Commander Duncan peered at the little
plane and blurted:
"What! That young chap?"
A young man was stepping from the cabin of
the monoplane. His face was clean-cut, his eyes
a flashing blue, alert and youthful. He was
certainly in his early twenties, though his
confident manner and his poise made him
impressive beyond his years. His movements
were brisk, business-like; he was plainly
American to the core. He moved quickly, as
though to escape the thousands of eyes turned
upon him.
Photographers raised cameras, but a sternfaced
officer snapped a command that stopped
them.
"No photographs of this gentleman! If a
single shutter clicks, all your cameras will be
confiscated. The order comes direct from the
President!"
Puzzled reporters were motioned back. Still
peering rough the cabin windows, Commander
Duncan scowled. "So he's the man whom the
President of the United States invited as
passenger? Who the devil is he?"
The Secretary of the Navy glanced about
warily. He took the Commander's arm and they
drew aside, out of hearing of the others. He
spoke softly: "I tell you this in the strictest
confidence, Commander, that the young man is
known as Operator 5-of the United States
Intelligence Service."
"Operator 5-that young chap?"
"Exactly. The most valuable operator in the
Intelligence Service, Commander. He has
rendered his country unparalleled service. It was
he, almost single-handed, who saved the country
from the disastrous Darkness of Doom."
"Good God-I didn't realize-"
"That is easy to understand, Commander.
But I think you should be very proud to have this
young man along."
"Proud? I assure you I am proud!"
Commander Duncan declared explosively. "By
God, sir, he could delay this flight a week if he
wished!"
And the Commander of the Valley Forge
turned quickly toward the door of the gondola as
the young man reached the bottom of the steps.
His hand reached out.
Operator 5, privately known as James
Christopher, smiled broadly as he returned the
grip. On the back of his hand a peculiar black and
gray scar shone, shaped like a spread-winged
eagle.
"My compliments, Commander," Jimmy
Christopher said softly, "and my regrets for being
late."
"Don't mention that! I'm proud to know you,
Mr. Andrews."
"If you will step into the cabin, sir?"
Commander Duncan suggested respectfully, "we
will take off at once."
"Thank you, Commander. I'm honored-"
A dull crash reverberated through the hot air.
Instantly an electrical tension tightened about the
Valley Forge. A hush of uncertainty fell over the
field as the officers of the dirigible glanced about
warily. The crash echoed as from far away. Then
a swelling roar rose from thousands of throats,
and all eyes turned upward.
"Plane falling!"
The shout was a dismayed chorus. Jimmy
Christopher stepped back alertly, peering into the
white sky. Circling above, the formation of Navy
planes was flying intact. Higher, mere spots
against the zenith, the Army V was breaking.
The ships swerved as if caught in a terrific blast of
wind sweeping out of empty space-and one of
them was spilling downward with broken wings!
The lone ship was whipping tail over boss.
The whine of its motor penetrated the air like a
scream of terror. Its forceful gyrations were
tearing it asunder in midair. One wing buckled
back as it tumbled; the next moment the wing
tore off and shot away. The descent of the plane
swiftened; its nose dropped and it began a
gyrating spin.
The plane was whirling now beyond the edge
of the crowd, down toward open territory.
Widened eyes watched it plunge. And then
another shout:
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"Look! Another!"
Jimmy Christopher had been watching the
formation of Army planes in the zenith. The
scattering planes had been attempting to draw
back into formation. The V was straightening
when the ship's flying point was violently struck by
an invisible force. The reverberations of the crash
reached the ground as it slammed into an unseen
obstacle that stopped it short in midair.
One second-two-five-almost ten
seconds it hung motionless! Ten seconds it
floated suspended in the clear heavens while the
other planes banked swiftly away. In its pit the
frantic motions of the pilot could be seen. It was a
tiny thing in the distance; and as the pilot spilled
over the cowling, as the plane hung tail
downward, his body was merely a dot which
became invisible against the white glare of the
sky.
During those ten amazing seconds, the first
plane swiftly plunged. A moan rose from the
multitude as it dropped to the horizon. A rolling
concussion shook the air from far away; a burst
of black smoke swelled up. The plane had dived
to certain destruction, carrying with it a helpless
pilot. And as doom seized the man and the ship,
eyes jerked again into the zenith.
Overhead the second plane was still
suspended! As Jimmy Christopher peered, it
suddenly began to fall. It fluttered, and turned; its
nose dropped and it began to spin. Twisting
grotesquely, its motor still roaring, it swerved into
a rocking, flat spiral. Wider and wider it swung as
it teetered from wing to wing.
"Good God-if it hits in the crowd!"
Tense seconds passed while all eyes
followed the erratic circling of the falling plane.
The crowd surged madly. Those on the outer
edge broke away, frantically running into the
open, seeking shelter. Terrified cries tore from
the lips of those engulfed in the mob, unable to
move. Down-faster and faster-the plane
swooped!
It was slashing low, seemingly about to drive
into the midst of the terrified multitude, when a
wind current tossed it and flung it farther. It
bounded, then its nose dropped toward the open
field.
"It'll hit the dirigible!"
But again some prank of the wind swerved it
away. One wing leaned down as it rocked above
the great silver envelope. Then, suddenly, its
motor choked and it pancaked. A rending crash
sounded; a burst of flying dust puffed as it
slammed hard against the earth.
Jimmy Christopher was one of the first to
sprint toward the wreck. Behind him came
breathless officers of the Valley Forge. Jimmy
Christopher slowed and stopped, peering in
amazement at all that was left of the Navy plane.
"Good Lord-what happened to it?"
Jimmy Christopher looked at the man who
made the bewildered exclamation. It was the
Secretary of the Navy, breathless, wide-eyed.
Beside him now stood Commander Duncan of the
Valley Forge.
Duncan, jaw squared, rattled out gruff
orders: "Clear the field! Take the wreck away!"
Some of the ground crew of the dirigible
hastened to obey. Jimmy Christopher stepped
closer to the ruined plane. Behind him more
startled exclamations sounded:
"The pilot's missing!"
"Looks like it hit a stone wall!"
"Wrecked in midair-but it didn't touch any of
the other ships! I was watching!"
Jimmy Christopher turned quietly to the
Secretary of the Navy. "Notice, sir," he said so
no one else could hear, "the marks on the
fuselage and the breaks in the wings. Notice the
long, deep gashes. They look as though they
were made by claws-as if some giant bird had
pounced on this ship, sir, and torn it to pieces in
its talons."
"Good Lord! Yes-I see!"
"Exactly the same thing must have happened
to the other ship. They hit something in the sky
which broke them to pieces and sank claws into
them."
"What-what could have done that? There
was nothing up there but the planes. The
others-"
Jimmy Christopher's eyes rose. The
formation of Army planes was swinging wide
above the field, still intact. Five Navy ships had
formed a new V and were shuttling lower. As the
Secretary of the Navy peered upward, a shirtsleeved
man shouldered into the crowd; he had a
pair of ear-phones clamped to his head, the
tipped ends of the cord dangling loose.
"I've just talked with the flight leader, Mr.
Secretary! I tried to find out what happened. They
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don't know! They saw those two planes go to
pieces right before their eyes and-"
Jimmy Christopher interrupted with a
snapping exclamation:
"The pilot-he's still up there!"
"What! Without-"
"That dot! See it? That's the pilot who-"
The tiny dot floating high in the sky began to
move. It streaked downward at a swifter and
swifter speed. Horrified silence swept over the
field as the speck grew into the shape of a man
spilling head over heels. He was directly above
the field, dropping free! No parachute was
breaking his fall-nothing!
A swift moment passed as the dark shape
plummeted through the air, and then a puff of
dust rose from the field not far from the Valley
Forge.
Again Jimmy Christopher was the first to
reach the spot. His eyes grew cold, his face hard
as he gazed upon the broken body of the pilot.
He turned away, gripped with horror, and came
face to face with the pale Secretary of the Navy
and the bristling Commander of the dirigible.
"Clawed," said Jimmy Christopher hoarsely.
"Like the plane."
Commander Duncan whipped about. "Radio
the planes! Order them to search the sky until
they find the thing that did this! Order every
available flight into the air to patrol this field!" He
turned back and stared hard at the Secretary of
the Navy.
"God knows what it is, sir, but-if the same
thing should strike the Valley Forge!"
The Secretary of the Navy stood, deathly
pale. "Pending countermanding orders from the
Presidents himself, Commander Duncan," he
said grimly, "you take the Valley Forge up
immediately!"
"And risk-"
"Risk any danger. The nation is waiting to
see this ship take the air. It will spread terror if
the Valley Forge fails to fly today. Take her up!"
Commander Duncan saluted briskly.
"Certainly, Mr. Secretary."
They saw Jimmy Christopher gazing at them
steadily. Their gazes dropped to his hand. He
was toying with a tiny ornament on his watchchain
-a little gold image. It was a skull and
crossbones, with rubies for its eyes. It twinkled in
Jimmy Christopher's fingertips.
He said quietly: "The pilot of that plane didn't
begin to fall until the plane was already on the
ground. Something kept him suspended in the
air- held him against the force of gravity-for
minutes. There is something in the sky above this
field, Mr. Secretary-some invisible engine of
destruction."
Again a shirt-sleeved man shouldered
through the crowd. He had crumpled in one hand
a yellow sheet. Breathless, he struggled toward
Jimmy Christopher.
A message for you, Mr. Andrews. It just
came in over the teletype."
Gravely Jimmy Christopher read cryptic
words:
CALIFORNIA NINETEEN ATLANTIC TYPEWRITER
PREPAID MONARCHY
Cortez Sept
Beyond those apparently meaningless
words, Jimmy Christopher read others:
REPORT HEADQUARTERS K IMMEDIATELY
UTMOST URGENCY
Z-7
Commander Duncan was just turning toward
the enormous silvered shell of the dirigible when
Jimmy Christopher spoke softly to him. "I regret,
Commander," he said, "that I will be unable to
accompany you on the maiden voyage of the
Valley Forge."
A few minutes later the tiny monoplane
swooped with a roar off the Lakehurst field. It
spiraled swiftly, roaring toward New York. From
the cabin, Jimmy Christopher looked down at the
black multitude framing the field, at the long silver
envelope of the dirigible.
The graceful form of the Valley Forge was
floating off the ground, rising majestically in the
white sky. The Navy's mistress of the air was
launching upon her maiden voyage while an
invisible menace hovered high in the zenith.
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CHAPTER TWO
THREAT OF THE YELLOW EMPIRE
A taxi swerved to the curb of Fifth Avenue in
the Thirties. Jimmy Christopher stepped onto a
crowded sidewalk. In the gutters and on the
window ledges thousands of the warning leaflets
lay drifted. There was a tight anxiety in the air;
worry lined the faces of those who hurried past.
Jimmy Christopher watched them, his eyes
darkened by troubled shadows.
The crowd paused; heads raised, a
chorusing murmur rose. Mingled with the sound
came the quiet churning of engines overhead.
High above the spire of the Empire State
Building, glinting in the bright sun, the silver form
of the Valley Forge floated into view. Its
propellers flashed as it glided smoothly in a circle
over Manhattan. A hush fell as thousands paused
to watch.
As the Valley Forge swung out of view the
crowds on the sidewalks began to move again.
The cry of a newsboy sang shrilly:
'War! War coming! Yellow Army Spreads
Propaganda!"
Jimmy Christopher exchanged a coin for
several papers and eyed the screaming
headlines:
WARNINGS RAIN ON CITY!
BELIEVED PRELIMINARY TO OPEN ATTACK!
War Looms as Yellow Empire Propaganda
Spreads Terror!
Another paper shrieked:
NAVY PLANE DISASTER
LINKED TO RUSS BALLOONS
IN WEIRD MYSTERY CRASH!
The destruction of two Naval planes above
Lakehurst early this afternoon by some
invisible power that struck from the sky, has
become linked with the crash of the Russian
stratospheric balloon Syrius.
The Syrius rose from the ground at Moscow
at 9:15 a.m., January 31 last, in three hours
reached an altitude of 12 miles, and fell to
earth near the village of Potiiski Ostrog, east
of Moscow, between 3:30 and 5 p.m. the
same day.
The three Soviet balloonists, Paul
Fedoseenko, pilot; Andrew Vasenko, builder
of the gondola; and Ila Usiskin, physicist from
the Leningrad Academy of Science, were
found dead following the two explosions which
occurred when the gondola hit the earth with
terrific force. The impact was so great that the
bodies of the men were mutilated and their
instruments ruined.
An official commission of the Soviet
government, which maintains a strained
relationship with Japan, immediately
conducted an investigation. The reason for the
catastrophe was not divulged.
It is now believed that the Syrius was
literally shot down from the stratosphere by a
mystery craft hovering more than twelve miles
above the surface of the earth.
No official statement has been issued,
but it is known that the destruction of the
Syrius bears a startling resemblance to
the destruction of the three Naval planes
at Lakehurst, and it is believed that the
same mysterious stratospheric craft which
is rumored to have shot down the balloon
is also responsible for the American
disaster.
Jimmy Christopher snapped the paper under
his arm and walked up three flights of stairs. He
knocked at a door lettered "Continental Silk
Company." He passed a card to the girl at the
desk-a card printed "Anthony Andrews"-and
asked to see Mr. Hudson. A moment later he
closed behind him the door of a private inner
office.
The man who rose and gripped his hand was
black-eyed, black-haired, and sharp-faced. He
escorted Jimmy Christopher into another office.
When the door closed, the sounds of the city
were shut away; complete silence reigned. The
room was perfectly soundproofed.
Operator 5 faced a man known only as Z-7,
Washington chief of the United States Intelligence
Service.
Z-7 picked from his desk one of the printed
leaflets which had showered upon the city. His
black eyes glittered as he felt its texture. He said
softly:
"You've earned a vacation, Operator 5. I
shouldn't have called you from the Valley Forge
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if the matter were not urgent-and of the highest
importance."
"I'm under your orders, Chief."
Z-7's fingertips caressed the paper slowly.
"This," he said, "is paper manufactured in the
Orient. There is no possible doubt that these
warnings were dropped upon the city by agents of
the Yellow Army. It is certain that they mean-
war. The Yellow Empire has been preparing for
war with us for years. They are armed. They are
ready. They will surely launch an attack upon us.
We cannot escape it. It is their one hope of
saving themselves from internal disaster.
"The Yellow Empire launched uncontrolled
currency inflation more than a year ago. Their
printing presses have been turning out money by
the bale. It has run beyond their control and their
currency is worth almost zero. Their only hope is
to vanquish a nation rich in gold holdings in order
to save themselves from financial ruin. They
have selected us as their target-the richest
nation in the world-and they mean to strike soon.
"The source of these handbills has not been
discovered. They were printed in Asia-that's
certain. They could not have been smuggled into
this country through ordinary channels-we've
been on the lookout for such stuff. How they
were dropped is another puzzle. Army planes
have been patrolling the skies ever since it
happened, and have found no strange aircraft. At
this moment we are completely mystified-unable
to make a move."
Z-7's mouth thinned. "The President is now
considering a message to Congress relative to
war. We must hold ourselves in abeyance
accordingly. I have called you here on another
case. Before I report to you, there is a
gentleman here you must meet."
Z-7 rose, and opened a door. From an
adjoining soundproofed room a man entered. He
was tall and square-shouldered; his face was
bearded with a closely trimmed Van Dyke. His
keen eyes glittered behind steel-rimmed
spectacles as Z-7 conducted him toward Jimmy
Christopher.
"Operator 5," Z-7 said, "I present to you Mr.
Fowler Molthrop, known as Secret Agent 44, of
the British Intelligence Service."
Fowler Molthrop's hand gripped Jimmy
Christopher's. "I am honored," he said.
"Mr. Molthrop," said Z-7, "has been
assigned to duty in this country in order to
observe espionage and propaganda activities of
the Yellow Empire. He is here because Great
Britain may be drawn as an ally into any conflict
involving the United States and a foreign power.
His presence is, of course, a strict secret.
"Operator 5, Mr. Molthrop," Z-7 continued,
"is the most valuable agent in our Intelligence
Service. You will find him a remarkably talented
young man. He is a graduate of the Salle d'
Armes of Scherevesky, the greatest living master
of the fencing foils. He has trained under
Kashawatska Hoia in Tokyo in the science of
jujitsu. He was once a sparring partner for Gene
Tunney, and has several times wrestled Zbysko,
victoriously. He graduated from Dartmouth an
all-American half-back.
"His physical talents are matched by his
mental abilities. He has defeated Dr. Casablanca,
international chess champion; as a cryptographer
he has no equal. You may believe me literally,
Mr. Molthrop, when I say that there is no officer of
the Army or Navy, no member of the President's
cabinet, no member of Congress, no other secret
operator in our Intelligence Service, who is as
valuable to us as Operator 5."
Jimmy Christopher laughed. "Don't take him
too seriously, Mr. Molthrop. I've done nothing that
any other Intelligence man couldn't do."
Fowler Molthrop bowed again. "I am quite
ready to believe everything your chief tells me
about you. But I am amazed to find you so
young!"
"I had early training at the hands of my
father, you see," Jimmy Christopher explained.
"He was known as Operator Q-6, and I could
never hope to be as clever as he was." Jimmy
Christopher's hand left Molthrop's, and he asked,
suddenly:
"You have had military training, of course,
Mr. Molthrop?"
"I? No!" Molthrop exclaimed. "I have never
served with any military unit. Why do you ask?"
"A wrong guess, then," Jimmy Christopher
answered. "You see, I'm not as keen as the chief
tries to make out."
Z-7 gestured them to chairs, and leaned
across the desk, his black eyes sparkling like
opaque diamonds. "On the face of it," he began,
"the case I've called you here to handle, Operator
5, has no connection with the probability of war
with the Yellow Empire. Yet I'm convinced that
espionage agents of the Yellow army must be
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responsible. Your orders are to discover that
connection, if possible. Listen carefully."
Z-7 looked up from a typewritten report.
"Case TR. Disappearance of Chester
Burkwell, ex-Secretary of War. Date-two days
ago. I'll recall the most important details to you.
"Just before dark Chester Burkwell left his
house in Nyack, New York, and went to the small
pier on the Hudson where he kept moored his
eighteen-foot sailboat. Four friends accompanied
him to the river, their names being-never mind
that. Burkwell sailed alone from the pier. He was
seen to begin tacking up-river, and he passed out
of sight.
"Burkwell did not return home that night. His
friends became anxious and set out in a
motorboat to locate him. No trace of him or his
boat was found. The search was continued
yesterday without result. It is not believed that he
was drowned, since he was a powerful swimmer,
and could not have passed far from shore. He
was in excellent health. Absolutely no reason for
the disappearance of the ex-Secretary of War can
be brought to light. No clues to his whereabouts
have been found. At the moment of completing
this report, he is still missing."
Z-7 picked a yellow paper from his desk and
leaned forward again. "At dawn this morning
Chester Burkwell's sailboat was found, crushed
to bits, in Central Park."
Jimmy Christopher gasped."In Central Park!"
"Exactly. The boat was discovered by a
patrolman on the baseball grounds. It was
perfectly dry. There's no possible doubt that it is
Burkwell's boat. Burkwell was not in it. Its sails
were unfurled, just as they were when it was last
seen. We've kept the story from the newspapers,
and the boat was removed from the park before
daybreak."
Jimmy Christopher looked startled.
"It seems incredible, but it's true. How did
the boat get there-miles from the point at which
it was last seen? It's absurd to suppose the boat
was dragged from the water and carried into New
York by truck. There is no reason for anyone's
doing such a thing; and if it had been done, the
boat would surely have been seen. Patrolmen
are on duty in the park all night, and no truck
traffic is allowed through it. There, Operator 5, is
the first riddle."
Z-7 peered at another yellow sheet. "And
now the second," he said. "At noon today, the
dead body of Chester Burkwell was discovered"-
the Washington chief tapped the desk with an
emphatic forefinger- "clad exactly as when he
was last seen alive. And-his body was found in
a cranberry bog-on Nantucket Island!"
"Nantucket! But that's-"
"Thirty miles off the New England coast, two
hundred air miles from New York City. The only
ways of reaching the island are by boat and by
airplane. Both means of travel have been
checked. Burkwell came neither way."
"But-"
"Remember, he was garbed exactly as when
last seen-white ducks, white sweater, sneakers.
Any man dressed like that would certainly have
been noticed boarding or leaving one of the boats.
Certainly he could not have been missed aboard
an airplane. It is an absolute fact that Burkwell
reached the island neither by boat nor by airplane.
It is equally certain, Operator 5, that Burkwell
was murdered. He died-" Z-7's finger tapped
the desk with staccato beat-"not by drowning.
Not by a bullet. Not by knife. Not by poison. But
by-freezing!"
Operator 5's blue eyes widened. "Good Lord,
Chief, how in the world-"
"There you have it," Z-7 interrupted. "An ex-
Secretary of War sails out on the Hudson and
vanishes into thin air. Thirty-six hours later his
sailboat is found high and dry in Central Park.
Within a few hours his body is discovered in a
cranberry bog on an island thirty miles at sea-
two hundred miles from New York-frozen!"
"I say!" blurted Fowler Molthrop. "And you
insist this is connected with espionage agents of
the Yellow Empire?"
"The fact that Burkwell was Secretary of War
under President-"
The soft ring of a telephone interrupted Z-7.
He spoke into the instrument with a snap. His
hand tightened upon it and his black eyes glittered
anew.
"Colonel Martin Clayborn-yes. I understand.
You were-what? When? Great Scott, Colonel,
do you mean to say that-yes. Certainly! One
moment."
Z-7 cupped the transmitter and peered at
Operator 5. "Colonel Martin Clayborn, retired, on
the wire. He reached me through Headquarters
D. He declares that a few minutes ago an
attempt was made to kill him. He demands an
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investigation, and I'm going to give it to him.
Operator 5-"
"Ask him about possible connections with ex-
Secretary Burkwell," Jimmy Christopher
suggested softly.
Z-7 snapped questions into the transmitter.
When he replaced the instrument his face was
grim. "He's a personal friend of Burkwell's. They
functioned together officially in many instances.
The man is completely mystified as to what
happened-he rattled something about a chair
disappearing from under him. Operator 5, do you
want to-"
"I'll handle it," Jimmy Christopher said
quietly. "Mr. Molthrop, do you care to come?"
"Certainly!" The bearded man sprang to his
feet. "If you feel there is some connection
between the attacks on these two gentlemen, and
the espionage activities of the Yellow Empire, I
am deeply interested."
Jimmy Christopher rose. Declaring that he
would see Colonel Clayborn at once, he gripped
Z-7s hand, and started for the door. His hand
was on the knob when a sudden clatter sounded
in the room. He glanced back to see that a
teletype machine sitting in the corner of the office
had burst into action.
Z-7 scanned the jerking tape. A gasped
exclamation broke through his lips and he raised
glinting eyes. Quick steps took Jimmy
Christopher to the machine. Words formed as the
tape uncoiled:
. . . ARMY SQUADRON SEARCHING FOR
SOURCE OF PROPAGANDA LEAFLETS AND
REASON FOR DESTRUCTION OF TWO
NAVY PLANES AT LAKEHURST WAS FIRED
UPON IN AIR ABOVE SANDY HOOK...
ATTACK BY MACHINE GUNS DESTROYED
SEVEN PLANES KILLED ALL PILOTS. . . PLANES
CHOPPED APART BY TERRIFIC
ATTACK IN MIDAIR . . . SECOND SQUADRON
RUSHED TO AID TOO LATE AND UNABLE TO FIND
ANY SIGNS OF ATTACKING
CRAFT. . .ORIGIN OF MACHINE GUN
FIRE COMPLETE MYSTERY. . . OBSERVERS ON
GROUND SAW PLANES FALL ALSO
PLUNGING BODY OF MAN MATERIALIZE OUT OF
THIN AIR . . . THIS MAN'S BODY FOUND WEARING
YELLOW ARMY UNIFORM . . .THAT ATTACKS ARE
DIRECTED BY WAR OFFICE OF YELLOW EMPIRE
NOW A CERTAINTY . . .
Z-7 straightened, his jaw squared, his eyes
smoldering, as the teletype's chattering stopped.
"It means war," he said huskily. "It means-
war!"
CHAPTER THREE
MARKED FOR DEATH
Jimmy Christopher and Fowler Molthrop
strode briskly into an apartment building in the
East Twenties of Manhattan. An elevator lifted
them swiftly to the penthouse. Their knock was
answered by a slight movement of the door. A
heavy-browed eye peered out at them warily.
"Colonel Clayborn?" Jimmy Christopher
asked, and pushed his card through the crack.
Colonel Clayborn stepped back admitting
them. He was box-shouldered, erect, stern-faced;
yet fear shone in his eyes, and his hands
trembled. His white hair was rumpled, his bristling
white mustache unkempt. He cleared his throat
nervously.
"I-I hardly know what to tell you,
gentlemen, except that I'm positive an attempt
was made to kill me not an hour ago. It's the
strangest thing that ever happened to me. I saw
no one. There was no warning. But suddenly I
was thrown-heaved into the air with the chair
under me-and by the merest chance I escaped
being hurled over the railing of the terrace, to the
ground. Come with me, gentlemen."
The colonel strode stiffly to a door which
opened upon a broad terrace. Clear sunlight
beamed upon the tile flooring; beneath a canopy,
outdoor furniture was arranged. Westward reared
the towers of the Metropolitan, the New York Life,
and the Empire State buildings. Jimmy
Christopher looked over the wrought-iron railing
and saw, thirty stories below, drab back yards.
"Exactly what happened, Colonel?"
"I was sitting here, sir, almost asleep."
Colonel Clayborn indicated a spot beyond the
awning. "Suddenly I felt my chair move. I
wakened and began to jump out of it. Some
terrific force that I couldn't see threw me forward
against the railing. I assure you that if I hadn't
caught myself in the nick of time, I would have
gone over."
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"I was absolutely alone. My man-servant is
not in the penthouse this afternoon. There was
absolutely no way of anyone's getting onto this
terrace."
"And the chair, colonel?" Jimmy Christopher
asked.
"The chair," Colonel Clayborn declared
vaguely, "is gone. It has vanished."
"Vanished?"
"Completely; absolutely! Don't ask me to
explain it, sir. I can only tell you the facts. I had
a busy time of it, I tell you, to keep myself from
going over that railing. When I managed to get
back on my feet, the chair was gone. I can tell
you nothing more."
Again Jimmy Christopher looked over the
railing. The backyards below were open, black
rectangles; the wreck of the colonel's chair was
certainly not in any one of them. He trod to the
end of the terrace, where a wooden fence, six
feet high, shut it off, and looked across at another
terrace, devoid of furniture.
"There are, you see, two penthouses on
this roof," the colonel explained. "The other one
has been unoccupied for months, and of course,
it's kept locked. I tell you, I had no warning
whatever-there was no sound-there was
absolutely no one here!"
Jimmy Christopher gripped the top of the
wooden fence, swung and cleared it, dropping
silently on the other side. As he stooped and
examined the tiles he asked quietly:
"You were rather close to this fence, weren't
you, Colonel?"
"Yes. Several feet away, I'd say. I was
getting the sun. But-"
"But," Jimmy Christopher interrupted quietly,
"you were not quite right when you said no one
was here, Colonel."
He picked a small object from the floor and
examined it. It was perhaps an inch long, pointed
at one end, ragged at the other, and curved along
its length. Its irregular edge was colored with the
redness of blood. Jimmy Christopher swung back
across the fence and displayed it on his palm.
"What in heaven's name is it?"
"A long fingernail, broken off," Jimmy
Christopher declared. "It was lost not so long ago.
The blood is dried, but not discolored. Somebody
on the other side of the fence crept up on you,
Colonel, while you were dozing."
Jimmy Christopher turned to a telephone in
the living-room. He made an inter-building call
and obtained connection with the superintendent.
He asked quietly: "Is there among your tenants,"
he asked, "a man of Asiatic descent? A Chinese,
a Japanese, an East Indian, or-"
"One," the answer came. "He lives on the
first floor, rear."
"You're to keep this," Jimmy Christopher
said, "strictly under your hat. What is his
apartment number?"
In a moment he left the instrument, signaled
Fowler Molthrop to follow, and strode out the
door without a word to Colonel Clayborn. As the
elevator carried them downward he examined the
broken, pointed fingernail again. The British
agent peered at him keenly.
"Do you mean," he asked, "that this quickly
you've succeeded in locating your man?"
"If he has all his fingernails, he's not my
man."
"But if he hasn't? It still leaves a good deal
unexplained, you know. What happened-why
the chair disappeared. I'm quite baffled."
Jimmy Christopher strode directly to the door
in the street-level corridor which bore the number
1-F. His knuckles rapped sharply.
A flurry of movement inside ceased at the
sound. Presently quiet footfalls approached.
Jimmy Christopher's hand tapped gently the
automatic in his armpit holster as the knob rattled.
The door slid open, and an eye looked out.
A quick step, a twisting thrust, and Jimmy
Christopher stepped through. One long stride
brought him face to face with a small man whose
skin was saffron, whose almond eyes glittered
threateningly. Jimmy Christopher smiled-a quite
charming and utterly disarming smile, and thrust
out his hand.
"Shake," he said.
The yellow man leaped with the agility of a
cat. Jimmy Christopher saw a long-fingernailed
hand darting toward his throat. He recognized the
swift thrust-the beginning of the Kawa Ho, the
deadliest trick of jujitsu-a blow that meant
instantaneous death.
He dropped like a flash almost to his knees.
Two swift, grappling moves spun the yellow man
about. There was the snap of a muscle, a sharp
gritting of bone, as Jimmy Christopher twisted the
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man's spine. A low moan resulted. The man
dropped, as stiff as a board.
"I say-what have you done!" blurted Fowler
Molthrop.
"Avoided an untimely end, Jimmy
Christopher answered grimly. "He's not hurt-only
paralyzed. He'll stay that way for a few minutes.
I believe my instruction in jujitsu was superior to
his."
Fowler Molthrop slipped a gun level. That
may be very well, but I trust to powder and lead!"
Jimmy Christopher smiled as he bent over
the man. He found the index finger of one
saffron-colored hand devoid of a nail; the others
were long and sharp-tipped. Across one dark
palm was a red streak, a line burned deep into the
skin.
Jimmy Christopher began a quick methodical
search of the yellow man's clothing. He found
nothing in the pockets save innocent odds and
ends. His fingers, passing over the lapels of the
man's coat, detected a slight stiffness. He
discovered the knotted end of a loose thread on
the inside of one lapel and pulled it
The narrow mouth of a secret pocket
opened. From it Jimmy Christopher removed a
small, thin folder of opaque tissue-paper. He
flipped through the silky leaves, studying the
cabalistic characters written upon it with carbon
ink and brush. His eyes shone brightly as he
thrust it into his wallet.
"A code-message," he said. "This man's an
espionage agent of the Yellow Empire, Molthrop,
without a doubt. His bags are half-packed; he
was about to slip out. Watch him a moment, will
you, while I look about?"
Molthrop blinked through his steel-rimmed
spectacles and steadied his automatic. In the
adjoining bedroom Jimmy Christopher probed
quickly into the partly-filled suitcases. He found
nothing of interest, and no better results came of
his examination of the bureau drawers. He was
beginning a more thorough search when a sudden
blast of sound from the next room snapped his
hand toward his gun.
Shots thundered.
Molthrop cried: "Here! I say! By God!"
Jimmy Christopher sped through the door.
He swung to Molthrop's side, peering through the
mist of powder-smoke. The British agent was
backed against a table, his gun leveled toward an
open window in the rear of the room which looked
out upon a closed court. The man was lying
where he had fallen; the paralyzing effect of the
jujitsu blow was passing and he was squirming in
agony.
"Outside the window! I saw him!" Molthrop
blurted. "Another fellow like this one!"
Jimmy Christopher took a step toward the
window-and stopped short. The man on the floor
suddenly moved over the rug as though dragged
by some strange unseen power. The first jerk of
his body was followed by a startling sweep across
the floor. His body was lifted; it swung to the
window-sill as though raised by invisible hands; it
spilled through into the court!
Jimmy Christopher leaped after it. As he
legged through the window the man's body
continued to glide. It rose vertically as Jimmy
Christopher flung arms around it. Utter
amazement filled him as he felt his feet leave the
ground, as the small muscular body to which he
was clinging was lifted higher. Swiftly he was
jerked upward six feet!
He dropped back breathless. The man's
body was still rising swiftly in the air. The hands
were clawing at the thin neck; the dark eyes were
bulging in terror and a horrible strangling sound
broke through the drawn lips. All the while the
man's body lifted higher.
Molthrop was scrambling out the window.
"God! What's got him?"
Jimmy Christopher's eyes clung fast to the
flying body. In a few swift seconds it whisked to
the cornice of the building-and sped still farther
up! Swiftly, as though it were flying off into the
empty space between the worlds, as though
gravity had ceased to pull upon it, the man's form
soared until it became merely a dark spot against
the zenith-and at last it vanished completely in
the void of the sky!
In the guarded room of the Continental Silk
Company, Secret Headquarters K of the
American Intelligence Service, Jimmy
Christopher sat tensely at a desk, poring over
strange symbols on tiny tissue sheets. On a pad
beside them he had scrawled fragments of
English words. The secret of the code was
yielding to his persistent analysis.
Operator 5 had returned immediately to
Headquarters K; he had plunged at once into the
task of deciphering the secret information carried
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by the man who had been so amazingly whisked
into the emptiness of the sky. As he worked, Z-7
frowned across the desk at the bearded,
bespectacled Fowler Molthrop.
"That body simply floated off into space?" he
demanded incredulously.
"Exactly that!" Molthrop exclaimed. "The
most amazing sight of my experience. By God,
sir, strange things are occurring!"
"The second yellow man you saw at the
window-?"
"I watched the man on the floor a moment,
you see. He was disabled by the blow Operator 5
gave him. There was a desk at the side of the
room, and I decided to look through it. My back
was turned only an instant. I heard a sound, and
looked over my shoulder-and the second yellow
man was on the window-sill.
"He was about to throw a knife, and I fired.
He jumped back, out of sight into the court. There
was no sign of him when we recovered from our
astonishment at seeing that body float off into the
sky. Amazing! Yet it proves your point, Z-7.
"Without doubt the espionage agents of the
Yellow Empire are guilty of the attack upon
Colonel Clayborn, as well as the death of Ex-
Secretary Burkwell."
Jimmy Christopher was rising. He placed
before Z-7 a closely written sheet. The
Washington chief read it rapidly:
Station 3 must be kept under close guard. Its
contents vital. Responsibility of safeguarding it
yours. Supply sufficient for immediate needs.
Should Station 3 be discovered by U.S.
agents, word must be flashed Atlantis
immediately. Seizure of Valley Forge planned
only for direst emergency, news of which must
come from you.
Kwo Tuska
Z-7's fist thumped the desk. "Great Scott!
'Seizure of the Valley Forge'! It's the very thing
we've dreaded most! What the devil are we up
against?"
Molthrop asked quickly: "How is such a thing
possible? The greatest dirigible in the world-how
could it possibly be seized by an enemy? Shot
down, perhaps-shelled-destroyed but seized?"
Z-7 was still peering at the message.
"'Atlantis'- what can that mean? The name of a
mythical continent supposed to have been
engulfed by the Atlantic Ocean in earliest historic
times. Operator 5, what the devil-?"
"Notice," Jimmy Christopher pointed out
quietly, "the signature: 'Kwo Tuska'."
"Chief of the Espionage Office of the Yellow
Empire!" Z-7's black eyes smoldered as he rose.
"Washington has got to know of this immediately.
It means that war-lacking open declaration-is
already being waged upon us!"
"There is another message, Z-7," Jimmy
Christopher said as he returned to his table and
his chief stepped toward the teletype machine. "I'll
have them decoded in a few minutes."
His fingers were poised above the keyboard
teletype transmitter when the receiving unit,
puttered into acting. He snatched at the tape and
watched the words click out as Jimmy Christopher
and Fowler Molthrop stepped close.
. . . FURTHER INFORMATION ATTACK ON
ARMY SQUADRON ABOVE SANDY HOOK . . .
COMPLETE DESTRUCTION FIRST FORMATION
VERIFIED. . .SIX SHIPS OF SEVEN IN SECOND
SQUADRON ACCOUNTED FOR WITH ONE
MISSING . . .MISSING PLANE HAS REPORTED
NEITHER LANDED NOR FALLEN YET IMPOSSIBLE
FOR IT TO REMAIN ALOFT THIS LONG UNDER ITS
OWN POWER.
The machine paused, and began to click
again.
. . . HQK NY FROM DEPT WAR. PRESIDENT
ORDERS INTENSIVE INVESTIGATION
DESTRUCTION OF PLANES ABOVE LAKEHURST
AND SANDY HOOK. . . RECOMMENDS
OPERATOR 5 HANDLE CASE. . . . REQUESTS
REPORTS DIRECT TO HIM . . . THREAT OF
ACTUAL WAR MUST BE AVOIDED AT ALL COSTS .
. . WGK . . .
Z-7's nimble fingers operated the keyboard,
flashing a message over secret wires to a hidden
teletype receiver in the offices of the Department
of War in Washington. He paused as the receiver
began to rattle again.
. . . RADIO REPORTS FROM VALLEY FORGE
NOW PROCEEDING TOWARD WASHINGTON
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INDICATE ALL WELL. . . COMPLETION OF FLIGHT
TO UPHOLD NATIONAL MORALE AND
COUNTERACT GROWING TERROR OF YELLOW
EMPIRE ATTACKS. . . .
Jimmy Christopher rose again as Z-7
returned to the desk. He passed his chief another
translation.
Removed from Death List name Burkwell.
Clayborn next. Emergency escape provided you.
Following Clayborn act immediately to eliminate
Operator 5.
Z-7 gasped "What!" and peered into Jimmy
Christopher's darkly clouded eyes. "They've
marked you for death!"
"It seems so," he answered quietly.
Z-7 read again:
Operator 5 greatest single threat against the
success of our plans. Dispose of him at all costs and
at soonest possible moment.
Kwo Tuska
Z-7's jaw clenched. "They anticipated you'd
be placed in charge of the espionage
investigation, Operator 5. You must have a
bodyguard at once and-"
"No bodyguard, if you please, Chief," Jimmy
Christopher protested. "They'd be a hindrance.
I'll work alone, as always. There's no other way."
"Then for God's sake exercise the utmost
care! There's every possibility that you're being
watched. It's a certainty that some attack will be
made on your life."
Jimmy Christopher nodded. His fingers
strayed to the little gold skull on his watch-chain,
and its ruby eyes sparkled as he toyed with it.
Fowler Molthrop gazed at the glittering image in
silent fascination.
Jimmy Christopher said quietly: "I'd like a
little time to lay down a plan. Within the next few
hours you'll be able to reach me at Address Y."
He turned quietly, and left the sound-proofed
room. Z-7's black eyes followed him until the door
closed. The Washington chief peered again at
the translated message of the Yellow espionage
agent, the sentence which filled him with dread:
Operator 5 . . . dispose of him at all costs
and at the soonest possible moment . . .
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FLYING DEAD
A circuitous route brought Jimmy Christopher
to a brownstone house in the East Forties of
Manhattan. A key admitted him into a quiethallway.
As he trod up the stairs, a door above
opened and a boy's voice called down eagerly:
"Jimmy! We've been waiting for you!"
Jimmy Christopher's arm tightened across
the lad's shoulders as they entered the living
room.
Their hands clasped, and Tim Donovan's
grin returned. A strong bond of affection bound
these two. In the eyes of Tim Donovan no finer
man than Jimmy Christopher had ever walked the
earth; and to Jimmy Christopher the boy was
dearer than a blood brother. There was complete
trust, unbounded admiration, loyal devotion in
their friendship that no power could ever break.
It had begun one drenching night on the
lower East Side, when Tim Donovan, a bootblack
huddling hungry and shivering in a dark doorway,
had saved Operator 5 from death at the bullet
from a criminal's gun. Jimmy Christopher had
taken the tough little waif into the warmth of his
home. He had found in the boy an ever-willing
and courageous unofficial assistant. It was Tim
Donovan's fondest hope that someday he might
become an agent in the American Intelligence
Service and serve shoulder to shoulder with the
man he revered above all others.
A bright-eyed girl hurried to greet him. Her
blonde fair hair framed her face in soft waves; her
lips were richly red; her eyes were warmly blue.
She was Nan Christopher, Jimmy's sister, and a
remarkable similarity of face characterized them.
"Hello, twin!" he greeted her when she
kissed him. "Hello, dad!"
He seized the hand of a man seated beside
the fireplace. John Christopher's face glowed
proudly. Once he had been known as Operator Q-
6 of the American Intelligence; now he was
retired. Dangerously injured by a bullet imbedded
close to his heart, he lived in constant menace of
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death without warning. His richest satisfaction in
life was knowing that his son, as Operator 5,
was serving his country more splendidly now than
he could have hoped from his own efforts.
"Dad, you look like a new man!" Jimmy
Christopher exclaimed. "You're ten years
younger."
Tim Donovan was lingering eagerly at Jimmy
Christopher's side. "Jimmy, you know that trick
you showed me about the pencils? I can do it
now. I've got all the kids in the neighborhood
guessing."
"Good boy, Tim. Want to see another one?
You'll never be able to figure it out, I warn you."
"Gee, Jimmy! You're the slickest magician I
ever saw! Let's see it!"
Jimmy Christopher took a boxed pack of
cards from the desk. With pretended solemnity
he stationed Tim in the center of the room.
"This is an experiment in mind-reading, Tim,
and I want you to watch me carefully. Ready?
Now I want you to just think of a card-any card
in the deck. Got it?"
"Okay!"
"Take this box of cards, just to make sure I
don't do anything tricky with it. And just so you
won't change your mind, I want you to write the
card down. Here." Jimmy Christopher passed to
Tim, at arm's length, a bit of paper and a pencil.
"Be careful I don't see what you write, and then
hand the slip to Nan."
Tim Donovan's tongue squirmed in the
corner of his mouth as he wrote on the slip. He
folded it carefully, and passed it to the girl.
"Now concentrate on that card, Tim," Jimmy
Christopher urged, stepping back. "Nan hasn't
looked at the slip, so she doesn't know what the
card is. Nobody but you knows. Now, think
hard.... There-I've got it!"
"You mean you've read my mind already?"
Tim gasped.
"I think so. Pass me the deck, Tim." Jimmy
Christopher slipped the pack from its box, ran
through it quickly, and selected one of the cards,
placing it face down on Tim's extended hand.
"Now, Nan, read what Tim wrote on the slip."
"King of hearts, Jimmy."
"Turn your card over, Tim."
"King of hearts!" Nan exclaimed, staring at
it. "Gee! How did you do it? You must've read my
mind!"
Jimmy Christopher grinned and sank into a
chair. "Try to figure it out, Tim." His face grew
solemn as he gazed at his father.
"Something's stirring in the back of your
mind, Jimmy," John Christopher observed. "I
know the signs."
"They've given me a terrific responsibility,
dad," Jimmy Christopher explained. "Espionage
agents of the Yellow Empire are working to bring
about a state of war. It's becoming inevitable.
The things that have already happened are only
preliminary attacks. If war is actually declared,
it's impossible to say how the Yellow Army will
strike, but it will certainly mean horrible disaster."
He outlined swiftly the events of the day.
John Christopher's eyes kindled eagerly.
"Propaganda dropped from the skies-planes
destroyed as if by giant claws-others shot
down-that's only a beginning. When the real
attack begins-" Jimmy Christopher's face faded
into ominous silence.
Tim Donovan was scratching his head in an
agony of puzzlement. "Jimmy, I can't figure it
out. It must be real mind-reading!"
"No, Tim-it's just a trick. Look here. I had
you write the name of the card for a reason. I put
you in the center of the room, away from the table
and desk for a reason, too. Do you remember
what you did?
"You thought of a card. When you wrote it
down, you put the paper on the box of cards.
When I took the deck from you, all I had to do
was take the pack out of the container, and look
at the card on the face of it. The name of the one
you'd thought of was written there."
"How?" Tim Donovan blurted.
"Because," Jimmy Christopher smiled, "on
the inside of the front of the box I'd pasted a piece
of soft carbon paper. Now you see it! The pencil I
gave you was a hard one, too, so you had to
bear hard. The carbon paper pasted inside the
box traced your writing on the top card of the
deck, which was a deuce because a two-spot has
the most white-space on it. There-see?"
The jangling of the telephone brought Jimmy
Christopher quickly to his feet. Answering him a
voice came over the wire:
"Manhattan Importing Company?"
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"Operator 5 talking."
"Z-7 calling. Another message has come
from Mitchell Field. The one Army plane is still
missing. The report of the other flyers is ready. I
suggest we visit the field at once."
"Certainly, Chief. Have you Fowler
Molthrop's address?"
"Yes." Z-7 furnished it, a number in the
Gramercy Park section. "There is an excellent
man, Operator 5. He'll cooperate with you in
every possible way."
Jimmy Christopher turned from the phone
thoughtfully. John Christopher had quietly risen
and was putting on hat and coat. His son's eyes
grew alarmed.
"You're not coming along, dad! The doctor
warned-"
"Doctor's directions are given to be ignored,
Jimmy. No arguments, my boy! I'm going along."
Jimmy Christopher knew that further protest
was useless. He drew on his hat and hesitated,
eyeing Tim Donovan. The nervy Irish lad's face
lighted.
"Tim, do you want to do a bit of shadowing?"
"Sure!"
"Keep an eye on this address, then,
beginning right away. One man living in that
building wears a Van Dyke beard and steelrimmed
spectacles. You're to watch him. Don't
follow him anywhere, though, except into
restaurants."
Tim eagerly took the slip Jimmy Christopher
handed him. "Into restaurants? Why?"
"There's just one thing I want you to find out
about him, Tim. Does he use his fork in his left
hand or his right? As soon as you find out, let
me know. It's highly important."
Tim was blankly puzzled. "Just how he uses
his fork? How can that be important?"
"It is, Tim-exceedingly. Now, get on the
case!"
Jimmy Christopher hurried from the room
with his father striding alongside, leaving Tim
Donovan staring in bewilderment.
Beacons were flashing at Mitchell Field.
From the zenith of the night sky came the hum of
patrolling planes. A line of Army pursuits sat on
the field, and half a score of pilots were clustered
near them. Jimmy Christopher, with his father,
entered the operations office. The name of
Anthony Andrews opened the way for them into
an inner room.
Z-7 sprang from a chair, gripped Operator
5's hand, and shook John Christopher's warmly.
He gestured an introduction to a uniformed Army
officer who, solemn-faced and troubled, came
toward them.
"Major Thomas-Anthony Andrews and John
Christopher. They may be trusted implicitly with
the contents of this report."
"Nothing has yet been learned?" Jimmy
Christopher asked.
"Nothing-absolutely nothing!" Major
Thomas boomed. "We are completely in the dark.
The Army planes must have been knocked down
by some strange aircraft-yet it hasn't even been
sighted. Whatever it is, it certainly is unlike
anything that ever flew the skies before. And the
one plane and pilot are still missing. It's utterly
unbelievable, but it's true."
Jimmy Christopher skipped through the
typewritten report, picking out important
passages:
Height, five thousand. Visibility thirty. Clouds
forming. Flight A was patrolling above Sandy Hook,
following orders to search for the means by which the
two Navy planes were destroyed this afternoon above
Lakehurst. Flight B was patrolling the coast
southward.
Machine-gun fire suddenly heard. Flight A seen
to be engaged in dogfight, though no attacking planes
were visible. Flight B turning to give aid, accounted
for all seven planes of Flight A in air. They were flying
directly under a thick cloud. Flight B pilots agree the
attack was coming from within this cloud.
All planes of Flight A knocked down before Flight
B could give aid. Reconnaissance disclosed no
attacking craft. On resuming formation, Lieut. Winters'
plane missing from right echelon. Pilots Flight B agree
Winters could not have fallen, yet no sign of him was
found.
As Jimmy Christopher read, the throb of a
motor beat in the air. Major Thomas peered out a
window, into the night sky and the glare of the
landing floods. He turned back frowning.
"A plane's coming down," he declared,
"without lights."
Immediately the dictaphone on his desk
began buzzing. He clicked a cam and listened. A
rattle voice spoke rapidly:
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"Plane landing, Major. Its numerals are
those of Lieutenant Winters' ship!"
Major Thomas slammed out the door. Jimmy
Christopher followed him swiftly. As they strode
upon the field, the roaring of the motor overhead
surged louder. In the glare of the beacons they
could see the winged form circling high above. It
drew away, leveled into the wind, and began to
drive down for a landing.
"By damn, it's impossible!" the Major
growled. "Winters couldn't have stayed up this
long!"
Its propeller flashing, rocking slightly from
wing to wing, the Army plane shuttled down. Its
elevators were flipped, its rudder steadied into
neutral as it sank lower. It swerved, settled, and
touched three points as its motor revved down. It
was still trundling to a stop as uniformed pilots
began to run toward it.
The first pilot to reach the plane paused, and
clung to the cowling, staring, as the others
crowded behind. Jimmy Christopher heard their
muttered, bewildered exclamations as he came
close. A growled command from Major Thomas
cleared the men away. Their faces were drawn,
their eyes troubled. One of them blurted:
"He-he's dead, sir!"
The Major snorted. "Dead? Nonsense! How
could he have brought the ship down, if-"
His words murmured off as he peered across
the cowling. Jimmy Christopher paused at his one
shoulder Z-7 at the other; the three of them stood
motionless, gazing at the white face of lieutenant
Winters-a face covered with a substance that
glittered in the light of the beacons.
Jimmy Christopher reached across the
cowling and seized the dead man's bare hand. It,
too, was covered with glittering white; it was icy
cold, immovably stiff. He turned back slowly,
solemnly.
"The white stuff on Lieutenant Winters' face,
Major," he explained quietly, "is frost. His body
is frozen!"
CHAPTER FIVE
SAFFRON MENACE
A silent moment followed Jimmy
Christopher's pronouncement. All eyes turned on
him. His statement had been made softly, yet
with a ringing conviction that could not be
protested. He kept gazing at the face of the dead
pilot-a face shining with hoary crystals, its very
placidity a horror.
Major Thomas snapped orders. "Remove
Winters from the plane! Carry him into the
hospital! Summon the surgeon at once!"
Jimmy Christopher stood back while the
grim-faced pilots obeyed orders. The man they
lifted gently from the cockpit of the plane was rigid
as an image of stone. No word was spoken while
they carried the frosted body across the field. As
Jimmy Christopher began to follow, Z-7 strode at
his side.
"Killed as Ex-Secretary Burkwell was killed,
without a doubt! Good Lord, Operator 5, what's
the answer? How can these things be possible?
Winters has certainly been dead for some time-
and yet he brought his plane in! It came in under
its own power, and yet it stayed aloft far longer
than its fuel supply could enable it to fly!"
"The answer, Z-7," Jimmy Christopher said
quietly as they neared the door of the hospital, "is
that the Yellow Empire is using some entirely new
and powerful engine of war against us. There is
no other way to explain the destruction of the nine
planes, so far."
"So far! You think-"
"What we've already seen is only a
suggestion of what is to come. This new engine
of war certainly operates in the air. Somehow it
manages to keep out of sight and to stay aloft for
long periods. It is manned and armed-a flying
fortress. What power it uses it's impossible to
guess, but it's a certainty that the flying fortress is
still in the air, even at this minute. Hovering
somewhere above us!"
"God! It might strike at any minute!"
"It will strike-God knows with what terrible
power-unless it is located and destroyed."
"But how-?"
They were at an open, lighted door; the
body of Lieutenant Winters had been carried
inside; Jimmy Christopher and Z-7 were about to
step across the sill. A startled shout stopped
them.
"It's moving! The plane's moving!"
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Jimmy Christopher whipped about, peering
across the tarmac. Several Army pilots, who had
been following, were now racing back toward the
crate in which the dead body of Lieutenant
Winters had returned to the field. Their cry was
echoed by other pilots near the door. "Winters'
plane's moving!"
A burst of power snarled from the radial
engine of the plane even as the pilots rushed
toward it. The cockpit yawned black and empty;
yet the motor thundered under a wide-open
throttle. The plane's tail-skid was scraping the grit;
the trucks were turning.
Then, as though the winged thing possessed
a mind of its own, it rushed away an instant
before the groping hands of the pilots reached its
struts.
A roaring slipstream tore dust from the
tarmac as the plane sped across the field. No
head was visible above the cowling; no hand
could be touching its stick; and yet its rudder was
flipping, its elevators swinging! The amazed
pilots stumbled to a stop, watching it as its tail
lifted-as it began to leave the ground.
Major Thomas shouldered out the door.
"Follow that ship! Duston-Race-Hart!" he
shouted.
The pilotless crate was swooping swiftly into
the air. It soared high in the glare of the floods
and it banked. Smoothly, as though a skilled
aviator was manipulating the controls, it leaned
into a circle, and the maneuver exposed again the
empty blackness of the pit. Then it swung level
and, with motor throbbing, drove into a powerful
zoom that carried it steeply toward the black
heavens.
Pilots were scrambling toward their crates.
As they ground their cranks, the warmed motors
snarled into action. A tornado swept backward,
washing grit with it, churning dust into the air.
Three men legged over the cowling and settled to
their controls; three ships trembled to launch into
the take-off.
Jimmy Christopher, peering upward, saw the
runaway crate disappear from sight above the
glare of the floods. A sudden decision took him
on a quick run across the field. One plane sped
off as he waved his arms and shouted to the pilot
of another. The second pilot thrust his throttle
back as Jimmy Christopher gripped the cowling of
the rear pit.
Brakes came free and the plane spurted as
Jimmy Christopher fell into the seat. Wind tore at
him savagely while he peered back. Z-7 and
John Christopher were running after him,
frantically signaling. His lips tightened into a smile
as he felt the trucks lift; and again he peered high
into the darkness.
Winters' plane had vanished. The first of the
pursuing ships was zooming after it. The third
followed Jimmy Christopher's as motor-thunder
beat the air. Wings tilted and flashed. Operator
5's plane spun rough a bank, leveled, and began
to climb swiftly. Now the three Army ships were
parading into the vaulted blackness of the sky.
Swiftly Mitchell Field became a shining
bubble in the darkness below. Winglights fixed
the relative positions of the three Army planes as
they roared in pursuit of the pilotless craft. For a
moment the sky was a dark void, throbbing with
the power of four exhausts, limitless and baffling.
Jimmy Christopher twisted in the pit, searching
the air.
His hat tore off and vanished in the wind;
wind-fingers snatched at his hair, stung in his
eyes. He reached forward suddenly and slapped
his pilot's shoulder.
"There!"
A vague black shadow was flitting against
the heavens. Jimmy Christopher's plane swung
toward the ghostly movement and the two other
Army crates banked to follow. He watched the
empty-pitted crate swinging through a tight,
smooth circle. It was still climbing, still driving
higher into the heavens as if guided by an
invisible hand.
The trio of Army crates drew closer. Amazed
pilots studied it through their goggles. Eyes
accustomed now to the darkness, they could see
it more clearly-the rudder and elevators
swinging. Again they could glimpse into the
emptiness of the control pit as it continued to
spiral.
They flew cautiously, chilled by the
uncanniness of the sight, swinging close behind
the pilotless plane. Altimeter needles flickered
high. Below lay a sparkling pattern of lights,
brilliant spots marking the location of flying fields.
Engines droned smoothly through still, cold air.
Now the pilotless plane leveled off. For a
moment it dead-headed into the wind. The three
tailed it, awesome pilots keeping their distance.
Then, suddenly, the empty-pitted ship roared into
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a zoom and rolled. Like a flash it executed a
perfect Immelmann turn.
While widened eyes watched, its nose
dropped-and it power-dove toward the three
pursuing ships.
Suddenly fire flashed from the bores of its
guns. Bullets slashed down!
One stunned moment the three Army crates
floated through air swarming with slugs, before
the dazed pilots realized that the empty ship had
turned its bullets upon its own kind! Crazily, they
kicked away. Motors snarled as the three hawks
whirled like leaves scattering in the wind.
Jimmy Christopher gripped the cowling,
peering at the manless crate, as it swerved to
follow. It was still plunging down, driving now
directly after him. The tac-tac of the machineguns
rapped again and fire blazed bright from the
bores. A tremor passed through the pit in which
Jimmy Christopher sat as slugs punctured the
fuselage behind him.
He whacked the back of his pilot and yelled:
"Shoot it down!"
His pilot stared and nodded crazily. A swift
bank slammed Jimmy Christopher against the
side of the pit. His plane swept vertical-winged
and leveled toward the lightless craft. It was
deadheading again, driving toward the open sea.
Jimmy Christopher's pilot roared at it broadside,
hunched behind his guns.
Fire rocked out of the barrels. Slugs
screamed across the sky, their course marked by
greenly glowing tracers. Smoky threads stitched
through the body of the pilotless plane. It lurched
and swerved, and then suddenly banked and tore
away under the full power of its thundering motor.
Another burst of gun-fire startled Jimmy
Christopher. He stared back. The two other crates
were roaring after him; but the pilots' heads were
swiveling, their goggles flashing in the glow of
their dashlights. Steadily as a roll of drums, guns
were firing at them-from nowhere!
Bullets pinged into wings. Jimmy Christopher
saw the strut of one of the other planes splinter
and crack. Slugs were raining out of the darkness
above, following the crates through the air. The
three ships rocked from wing to wing crazily and
flung themselves wide apart as the mysterious
attack subsided.
Jimmy Christopher shouted ringingly to his
pilot: "Let Winters' ship go! Find those guns!"
Suddenly again slugs swarmed out of the
zenith. The staccato reports beat through the
roaring of the whirlwinds. Dimly, like meteors,
flashes of light glowed through the fog above.
From one point and another, separated by misty
space, the darts of light flickered from points
which seemed to remain stationary within the
cloud above.
The withering fire forced the three Army
crates into a swift, bewildered series of
maneuvers to escape. They scattered again, and
again the attack subsided. For a long, stunned
moment the three planes circled through the
night, slowly drawing together. Three pilots
peered into the gray mass of fleece. Jimmy
Christopher's slitted eyes studied it as his plane
drew closer.
Suddenly, again, fury blasted out of the
cloud!
One of the army planes lurched upon one
wing. The pilot fell back with hand clutching the
stick, head upthrown in agony. He slumped
forward as the swing of the crate threw him. Swift
seconds, and the ship plunged. It whipped once,
wing over wing; its nose dropped; it began a
gyrating spin.
Jimmy Christopher's widened eyes tore from
it as the roar of a motor swelled to deafening
intensity. He twisted to see the second enemy
plane driving almost directly overhead. It swerved
close, and shot over. As it twisted, Jimmy
Christopher glimpsed the pilot in the pit. His arms
were dangling loose, his head was lolling. Dead!
Two ships plunging downward. Jimmy
Christopher's crate roared up. His pilot was
hunched forward grimly, peering into the billowing
sky above. The motor was thundering wide open;
mist flicked past. Long seconds the terrific drive
continued; and suddenly the pilot straightened in
a galvanic recoil.
A gust of wind tore away a tuft of clouds
directly ahead. Jimmy Christopher's gaze probed
deep into the mass beyond. He saw light
appear-a misty glow. He saw, dimly, forms
moving-men walking-walking in thinness of the
cloud! He saw others hunched behind machineguns.
And he glimpsed briefly, like a figment of a
passing dream, gigantic letters which seemed to
dance in the fogged air-letters spelling a word
already imbued with mystery and menace:
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Atlantis
Crashing power struck Jimmy Christopher's
plane. Whipping wind wiped away the vision in
the cloud at the instant his crate spilled over on
one wing. A roaring cyclone tore past his head as
he sprawled forward. He saw his pilot slumping-
saw the stick jerking free of any hand-saw the
sparkling lights of the earth below dancing like
flames beckoning to death at the bottom of the
abyss of night.
Like a stricken bird the plane was plunging.
Jimmy Christopher gripped the cowling to
keep himself from being flung out into space.
Beyond the flashing of the prop he saw the earthlights
revolve like spots on a giant phonograph
record.
In the forward pit the pilot's body was
lurching from side to side limply. Jimmy
Christopher held his position one long, tortured
moment before he managed to slip one hand from
the cowling. The terrific wind was draining the
breath from his lungs, puffing into his mouth,
fluttering under his eyelids. He groped to the seat
and gripped the safety-belt and dragged himself
back.
He had had no time to attach the belt sooner.
Now, bracing himself against the sudden lurches
of the plane, he buckled it tight. Hugged to the
seat, he gripped the stick of the secondary
controls, shoved it all the way forward, his feet
shooting out to the rudder-bars.
Once he glimpsed the earth rising closer as
the spin began to flatten. The oscillations became
even more violent; but suddenly the plane shot
away, swinging into a spiral. Jimmy Christopher
controlled swiftly, bringing it level. Bracing back
now, he drew air deeply into his lungs. The
controls were biting the air again in normal flight.
He peered up, and saw only dim clouds,
rolling in the wind, and the blackness of the zenith
beyond.
Mitchell Field was a swelling aura of light as
he drove toward it. Swinging into a circle, he
sensed movement above him. Again peering up,
he saw dark wings fitting against the sky-a
lightless ship spiraling. It was the pilotless plane
which had opened fire upon its air-mates. Now it
was returning to the field, nosing down for a
landing!
Jimmy Christopher swung behind it grimly.
His gaze glued on it as it dipped. Again its trucks
touched in a perfect three-point; again it trundled
and slowed. He fell directly behind it, and brought
his ship to a stop, wing-to-wing with the emptypitted
crate as pilots came on the run.
Jimmy Christopher was legging grimly out of
the pit as Z-7 rushed close and Major Thomas
puffed to a stop. Operator 5 gestured sharply.
"Attend to the pilot. I'm afraid he's dead. And the
other two ships were knocked down."
"How? By what-by what?"
Jimmy Christopher, mouth tightly pursed,
strode to the other plane and peered into the pit.
At first he saw only the same black emptiness.
He stopped in, fumbled in the dark, and felt the
smooth surface of a box, warm to the touch. It
gave when he lifted it; and in the gloom there
glowed points of cherry-red light- the filaments of
vacuum tubes.
"That's it," he said quietly. "A robot pilot-
radio controlled."
Major Thomas stared blankly as Operator 5
climbed out and swiftly narrated the incidents in
the air.
"A radio robot in that plane?" the major
blustered. "How did it get there? Winters had no
such equipment!"
"Then it was installed," Jimmy Christopher
declared, "between the time Winters vanished,
and the time he reappeared. The robot brought
that plane back to earth, and not Winters-
because Winters was dead. It was controlled by
radio, every move it made. See for yourself!"
Z-7 was peering at Jimmy Christopher
intently. "Your pilot is riddled-dead. How the
devil did you get back?"
"I brought the plane down, Chief, and I have
a report to make to you as soon as I can make it
privately."
"Yes, yes. And I can give you a report at this
moment, Operator 5, concerning Lieutenant
Winters. The man was dead six hours before he
was brought down by his plane-"
"Six hours? That fixes the time of his death
shortly after he disappeared."
"Yes. His body was frozen to the marrow of
his bones, but freezing didn't kill him. It was-"
"Suffocation?" Operator 5 asked softly.
"Yes! How did you know?"
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Operator 5 made no answer. His eyes
raised toward the black zenith. Grim shadows
darkened them as, unconsciously, his fingers
strayed to the tiny golden skull that dangled from
the chain of his watch.
CHAPTER SIX
FORTRESS IN THE SKY
A key clicked in the darkness of a hallway,
and a door swung open. Jimmy Christopher and
Z-7 stepped into a black room. Their steps were
muffled and quiet as they sought their way into
the soundproofed chamber designated
Intelligence Headquarters K.
The door closed softly. A subdued light
clicked on. Z-7 strode to the teletype machine in
the corner and looped up a length of tape which
had clicked out of the machine since he had left
the office. He snapped it off and passed it silently
to Operator 5.
. . .REPORT FROM OUR SECRET AGENTS
STATIONED WITHIN THE YELLOW EMPIRE. . .
INFORMATION CONCERNING KWO TASKA
STATES HE WAS DEFINITELY KNOWN TO BE
PRESENT ONE MONTH AGO . . . NO TRACE OF
HIM SINCE THEN . . . BELIEVED TO BE IN HIDING
IN THE UNITED STATES . . . LOCATE HIM AT ALL
COSTS IMMEDIATELY . . .
"It is very possible," Jimmy Christopher said
slowly, "that Kwo Taska is not in the United
States, but above it."
"Above-?"
Operator 5 leaned forward. "Things
happened pretty fast up there in the air above
Mitchell Field tonight. I'm not sure of what I saw.
It seems like a dream. I hesitate to tell you,
but-it bears out my theory.
"We were fired upon from the clouds by
machine-guns. There were no other planes flying.
The gun-fire came from some entirely different
type of aircraft-something the like of which the
world has never seen before. The thing in the sky
is a floating fortress, and the name of that
fortress, Chief, is the Atlantis."
Z-7s eyebrows arched. "That connects with
Kwo Taska's code message to the spy who tried
to kill Colonel Clayborn!"
"Yes. It all links together. I'm not able to say
definitely what the Atlantis is like, of course. But
from what has already happened, I can draw
conclusions about what the flying fortress is able
to do.
"In the first place, it can be neither an
airplane nor a dirigible. It is a lighter-than-air craft
of radical design. It is heavily armed and
maneuverable to a high degree. It is able to
ascend or descend swiftly, to travel horizontally
or hover absolutely motionless. Most certain of
all, it is able to rise at will into the stratosphere."
"The stratosphere! Great Scott, that's-"
"Higher than any plane of present-day design
can reach. The altitude record for airplanes was
made by Lemaire in September, 1933; he
reached 44,820 feet-not a great deal higher than
the highest clouds, which float at an elevation of
seven and one half miles. The Atlantis is able to
rise to a height probably equaling that of the
stratospheric balloons of Piccard, the Russian
expedition, and Lieutenant Commander Settle.
That means it's able to recede above the earth to
a distance of about twelve miles. And the
temperature at that elevation, Chief, is seventy
or eighty degrees below zero."
Z-7's black eyes lighted. "That explains-"
"-What happened to Ex-Secretary Burkwell
and Lieutenant Winters. It's the only possible
answer. They were, somehow, carried by the
flying fortress into the stratosphere. Unprotected,
the terrific cold froze their bodies after the rarefied
air caused them to die of suffocation."
"How the devil could they get up there?"
"Anything I might tell you about Ex-Secretary
Burkwell is only guess-work. It is probable that
wires were used-very thin, very strong wires.
Picture the Atlantis-supremely maneuverable, it
is able to drop close to the earth and remain
stationary in the air. It must be able to conceal
itself, perhaps half by camouflage, perhaps by
cloud-generating machines which cover it with a
blanket of mist. Suppose, since Ex-Secretary
Burkwell's name was on Kwo Taska's death list,
he was being watched. Radio communication
between the earth and the Atlantis could direct
the maneuvers.
"First, Burkwell's boat was looped or hooked
by a wire dropped from the Atlantis. Man and
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boat were whisked into the air. The boat was
lowered again, at night, into Central Park. The
man was lowered later, during a voyage of the
Atlantis, to Nantucket. The same thing must
have happened to the Empire spy who attempted
to kill Colonel Clayborn.
"The Empire agent was acting on orders.
The Atlantis was hovering directly over the
Colonel's penthouse, a wire dangling from it. The
Empire spy, getting onto the adjoining terrace,
manipulated the wire and attempted to loop it over
the Colonel. He missed the man, but must have
looped the back of the chair. In the act, the
Empire spy lost a broken fingernail, and he had a
burn on his hand that must have been made by
the wire.
"Drums aboard the Atlantis must have reeled
in the wire swiftly while the flying fortress
remained stationary and invisible in the heavens.
Recall a sentence in Kwo Tuska's code message
which I deciphered- 'Emergency escape
provided you'. There must have been another
wire, its end dangling into the apartment-house
court, outside the first-floor apartment of the
Empire agent, for his use in case he was seen
and followed. It was that wire which hoisted him
into the sky."
Z-7 blurted his amazement. "But-why did
Kwo Tuska select for his death list an Ex-
Secretary of War and a retired Colonel of the
Army?"
"I don't know," Jimmy Christopher
answered, "but I have a hunch about that I'm
going to follow it up as soon as I have certain
additional information. To get back to the
Atlantis:
"The flying fortress must be large enough so
that airplanes can land and take-off from it in
midair. Do you realize what that means? Planes
can ferry to the Atlantis all necessary supplies-
provisions for the crew, ammunition, fuel for the
engines, gas to maintain its suspension. It means
that the Atlantis must be able to remain in the air
indefinitely, that it need never come to earth!"
"God! And it can fly, when in danger of
attack, into the stratosphere, beyond the reach
of any other aircraft!"
"Exactly. Lieutenant Winters, you remember,
was seen plunging into the cloud from which the
attack on the other Army planes seemed to come.
He must have sighted the Atlantis-must have
actually landed upon its deck. Certainly he was
overpowered and held prisoner aboard it. While
the Atlantis rose into the stratosphere, his plane
was equipped with a radio controlling device. He
was allowed to choke to death in the rarefied air
twelve miles above the earth and allowed to
freeze, then his body was sent back-a
defiance-a deliberate provocation to a
declaration of war!"
"The flying fortress, Atlantis, must be
equipped with bomb-racks!"
"You may rest assured Chief, that the
Atlantis is equipped with every possible
destructive weapon. Bombs, poison gas,
everything. I tell you its in the air right now-at
this minute. Perhaps its hovering above New York
City, waiting for the signal to attack!"
Z-7 rose stiffly.
"Poison gas?" he repeated. "Great Scott!
I've had reports on that from our operators in the
Yellow Empire."
He turned quickly to the wall. His foot
touched an invisible spot on the carpet; a section
of the cork wall-paneling swung outward. In the
recess were disclosed several file-cabinets of
toughest steel. Z-7's nimble fingers spun a
combination dial, and he took from a drawer a
thick folder of papers.
Studying them, he returned to the desk. His
eyes rose haggardly to Jimmy Christopher's.
"Report from Operator U-11, received only a
few days ago, by wireless code. He describes
what appears to be a rice-paper mill in the largest
seaport of the Yellow Empire. He has learned
that in reality it is a manufacturing plant for lethal
gas. More than a month ago the plant was
working at full capacity, making countless drums
of quintoxigene."
Jimmy Christopher's eyes widened.
"Quintoxigene! Chief, that's the deadliest gas yet
developed!"
Z-7 nodded. "Yes, without doubt. U-11
reports that to his certain knowledge enough
quintoxigene has come out of that plant to utterly
destroy half the population of the globe if it were
released. The peak of production in the plant was
just prior to Kwo Taska's disappearance."
"It means," Jimmy Christopher declared
soberly, "that huge stores of quintoxigene are
being carried aboard the Atlantis. And it can drop
the ghastly stuff, upon any city it chooses. A few
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bombs loaded with it will be enough to annihilate
every living thing for miles around. Chief-"
"Great Scott! How can we stop-?"
"The Chemical Warfare Service in
Washington," Jimmy Christopher reminded Z-7,
"has been seeking a counteractive for
quintoxigene. They've found it-ionic nitrous
emanation."
"Yes. Ionic nitrous emanation reacts with
quintoxigene and forms a harmless gas, but the
emanation has been used only in gas-mask
cartridges. It's impossible to supply every person
in the United States with gas-masks. Even if we
had a sufficient store of them and emanation, we
couldn't possibly make distribution before the
Atlantis might choose to strike."
Jimmy Christopher leaned forward. "I've
studied the government chemists' reports of ionic
nitrous emanation, Chief. Gas-masks are
unnecessary. There's another way. Word must
be spread immediately to all Army, Navy and
commercial air fields all over the country. To
these fields smoke-screen-laying planes must be
sent and held ready to fly at an instant's warning."
"Yes?"
"These planes can lay down a blanket of
ionic nitrous emanation instead of a smokescreen,
using their regular apparatus, if the
emergency arises. It's our only hope against a
possible attack, Chief."
"But is that the best we can do? Can't we
find the Atlantis and crowd it out of the sky-force
it down? Surely it must come down sometime,
and it a constant watch is kept for it-"
"The machine must have been secretly
constructed, assembled and inflated in the Yellow
Empire, Chief. It must have risen into the skies
first on the other side of the Pacific. It has floated
from one hemisphere to the other, carrying heavy
armament and a trained crew. If Kwo Taska is
aboard the Atlantis, it means that the flying
fortress rose into the sky a month ago-that it had
been hovering above the earth ever since, without
once coming down."
"God! How-how can we fight such a
machine of war? We have no means of reaching
into the stratosphere after it! Once it rises to its
maximum level it's beyond all reach!"
Jimmy Christopher nodded. "Yet it certainly
is able to descend swiftly, to bomb cities, to
spread virulent germs, to drop incendiary mines,
to wipe out battleships and armies and sweep the
sky clear of airplanes. Chief, it's the most gigantic
engine of destruction that's ever threatened
civilization! And as yet there's no means of
fighting it now-none!"
Z-7 turned slowly to the teletype machine. He
threw a switch; his nimble fingers flicked over the
keys. Then he finished, he stood back, grimfaced,
waiting.
"Your information, Operator 5, has gone
straight to Washington. I have directed that it be
placed in the President's hands at once. I have
asked an immediate answer."
Long minutes passed in the utterly silent
room Jimmy Christopher spoke no word. Z-7
stood rigid, staring at the inert machine. Long
minutes trailed one after another.
Suddenly the teletype chattered. Z-7's
trembling fingers snapped off a length of tape
when it subsided. He straightened, his black eyes
smoldering upon Jimmy Christopher.
"The President has ordered all Army and
Navy air units along the Atlantic Coast to maintain
constant patrols, day and night, in search of the
Atlantis. He has ordered them to attack the flying
fortress on sight and attempt to destroy it. But-"
Z-7 left the machine, his black eyes glittering
into Jimmy Christopher's. "The whole air armada
of the United States won't be able to touch that
craft. If what you say is true, it will be able to
elude or destroy the entire air fleet. It's
hopeless-hopeless!"
Jimmy Christopher rose smartly. "Not quite
hopeless, I think Chief. I have only the beginning
of a plan. All we can do now, Chief, is to wait."
Z-7's fists bunched. "It's your case, Operator
5," he said tersely. "We're relying on you-
completely."
The city of Bridgeport, Connecticut, sits hard
by Long Island Sound. Ferries and coastwise
boats shuttle to and from it. It hums with the
activity of gigantic manufacturing plants which
turn out firearms, typewriters, tools, hardware,
machinery. Its 150,000 inhabitants are industrious
folk.
It was high noon, and a bright sun was
streaming upon the crowds tramping the
sidewalks of Main Street and its capillaries.
Automobiles were weaving; restaurants were
busy; street-cars were grinding over their tracks.
There was no hint of disaster in the air.
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But disaster came.
A loud, hollow explosion sounded in the sky
above the intersection of Main and State streets.
It brought a few eyes upward, but the crowds
tramped on. A second report, like the handclap of
a giant, sent a startled shock through the city.
This time thousands peered skyward, to see a
yellowish cloud forming in the air above the
buildings.
It was a thick oily mass, spreading rapidly
through the air, reaching out trickling arms like a
liquid; and from these arms cloudy mist melted
down. The sign atop the Barnum Hotel became
obscured. The sun was dimmed. A pungency
sharpened the air in the streets as it began to
take on a saffron tint.
The traffic officer at the busiest intersection
of the city was the first to fall. He was raising his
whistle to his lips and taking a deep breath when
death struck him down. He sprawled on the cartracks
while screams sounded around him-
screams he did not hear. For the faintest wisp of
the yellowish gas-cloud had entered his lungs and
destroyed him instantly.
Suddenly havoc swept the sidewalks. Like
ten-pins struck by a gigantic, invisible ball, people
collapsed on the sidewalks. Men and women
toppled against plate-glass windows; cars clashed
bumpers in the streets as the dead hands of the
drivers fell from the wheels. A street-car ground
to a stop as its conductor spilled away from his
switchbox. Along Main Street and its branches
Death stalked, invisibly, swinging his ruthless,
sharp-bladed scythe.
Screams shrilled again. The atmosphere was
thickening with the sweet pungency of the yellow
fumes. Desperately and unreasoningly scores of
people tried to escape it as those around them
toppled. They pressed into doors and slammed
them shut. And overhead again, two more dull
explosions sounded, and thicker clouds of yellow
sprang into the air.
The saffron arms reached into the open
windows high in the office buildings.
Stenographers dropped limp across their
typewriters. Executives toppled out of their
chairs. Others, terrorized, rushed to slam the
windows shut, and sank from the sills, instantly
killed.
From a window of the Stratfield Hotel a
young man was peering down into the street.
Before his startled eyes he saw scores in the
street collapsing. He saw the thickening yellow
vapor lowering between the windows. No scent of
it came to him because the room in which he
stood was air-tight to keep out the street noises:
it was a studio of Broadcasting Station WICC.
Behind him another young man was playing
jazz on a piano, supplying a fifteen-minute
program. The notes he struck were emanating
from loudspeakers in front of radio stores, in
restaurants, in apartments, in hotel rooms, as
those near dropped with ears dulled by death.
The startled announcer whirled toward the
microphone and his voice rang shrill with panic.
"The city is being bombed! Gas-bombs are
breaking in the streets; thousands of people are
collapsing! The city is being bombed!"
On the field of the airport a few miles away-
the field which had marked the crashing finish of
the transoceanic flight of the Johnsons-the
hollow explosions of the quintoxigene bombs had
been heard. Observers had sighted the yellowish
fumes expanding in the air above the city.
On the field two smoke-screen-laying planes
of the United States Navy had been stationed
only a few hours. Their pilots heard the startling
announcement and loped toward their ships. The
engines, following the widespread warning which
had originated with Jimmy Christopher, has been
kept warm. Now those motors snarled at the limit
of their power as frantic aviators flung the ships
into the air.
Wings flashed through the sunlight as the
planes soared. Pilots peered up into the air, but
no craft was visible above the city. There was
only the drifting yellow clouds, the mocking
explosions as two more bombs burst over the city.
While the yellow, oily arms of the vapor reached
far out, the two planes whirled high above the
buildings.
When they zoomed the smoke-screen-laying
apparatus was roaring. From the tails of the
planes a bluish gas whisked. It swirled swiftly. At
their controls, the pilots were now peering through
the goggles of gas-masks, breathing through
inhalators charged with ionic nitrous emanation.
Behind them, billowing gusts of the counteractive
cut through the yellowish vapor. The mixture
became a green, dark cloud. Dust fell from it as
the color rose higher into the sky.
Sweeping low across the tops of the
buildings, daring to dip into squares where walls
cleared their wing-tips only by inches, whirling
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over the railroad station, whisking above the river,
wreathing blue vapor around the Barnum and
Stratfield Hotels, the planes roared. And from
closed windows terrorized eyes peered, hoping
that these flashing wings were bringing salvation.
"The city is being gassed!"
The alarm reached Mitchell Field, Long
Island, seconds after the two planes bearing loads
of counteractive launched into the death-laden
sky. On Mitchell Field at that moment were
Jimmy Christopher and Z-7; they had come to
discuss plans of defense with Major Thomas.
Within a minute they were in the air.
Territory unrolled beneath the trucks of the
two planes which carried Operator 5, and Z-7 out
above Long Island Sound. They whisked along
the coastline, past Stamford and Norwalk. In the
air ahead they saw the hanging, green cloud, the
falling mist of dust, with the two Navy planes
plunging in and out of the poisonous masses
lowering toward the city.
From Mitchell Field, as two planes tore up,
three flights of Army and Navy planes had
launched. The orders of Major Thomas were still
ringing in the ears of the pilots as they raced
toward the stricken city. "Locate that craft! Shoot
down the craft that's gassing the city! Give no
quarter!"
They saw the blue and yellow vapors
coalescing into a green cloud as they climbed
swiftly toward the zenith; but they saw no strange
craft in all that sky.
Jimmy Christopher's plane whisked him low
above the city. He peered down into dusty air.
The impalpable cloud forming in the atmosphere
was a product of a chemical reaction between the
quintoxigene and the ionic nitrous emanation; it
was harmless. The greenish gas lifting in the air
was likewise harmless. The last few gusts of the
yellowish, oily gas were disappearing as the props
of the two screen-laying planes churned them.
Jimmy Christopher peered down at sidewalks
littered with dead. Hundreds of victims had been
taken by the lethal vapors. But now doors were
opening, and people were pouring out-people
who breathed and still lived. Thousands of pairs of
eyes peered upward at the sweeping wings that
had brought salvation.
He looked upward, higher into the sky, at
the three V formations prowling through the
zenith. His lips pressed grimly. They would not
find the Atlantis-he was sure of that. It was far
out of reach now, hovering in air too rarefied to
support the searching government planes. At the
first sweep of approaching wings it had certainly
shot upward to safety above the ceiling.
But now, far up, another cloud appeared. It
spread darkly, falling slowly, billowing in the
wind. The sun darkened again as it turned into a
fluttering mass. Jimmy Christopher's plane
whirled away as the cloud descended-a mass of
tiny leaflets, spreading far over the city, carried
into every street and open space by eddying air
currents.
Some of them had fluttered to the tarmac of
the airport before Jimmy Christopher directed his
pilot to land. As the plane trundled to a stop, as
that bearing Z-7 braked behind him, he picked up
one of the leaflets. Again it was blackened by
heavy type;
WAR!
Destruction has Come!
You have seen your friends and dear
ones gasp out their lives! You have seen
Death sweep out of the sky! THIS IS WAR!
Destruction will strike and strike again if
you choose to fight the invincible. Your
cities will lie piled with dead. Disaster will
come if you invite its horrors.
WAR OR PEACE?
CHOOSE!
Jimmy Christopher peered at the warning
with deep-shadowed eyes. He looked up at the
squared face of Z-7.
"Good God!" the Washington chief breathed.
"The people back there in that city are terrorized.
Helpless to defend themselves! They'll not choose
to fight, after this. The whole country will rebel
against inviting certain destruction. They are
leaving us no choice but to submit!"
Jimmy Christopher peered up at the tiny dots
moving in the sky-the Army and Navy planes
hopelessly searching for the Atlantis.
Z-7 declared grimly, "Operator 5, that entire
city would be filled with dead by this time if you
hadn't issued your warning. If the planes with the
counteractive hadn't been waiting here, ready to
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hop at an instant's notice, hundreds of thousands
would be lying dead now. A few hundred were
killed, but you saved the rest. Thank God for
that!"
Jimmy Christopher said nothing. His fist
closed hard upon the leaflet which had fluttered its
warning from the sky; and the deep shadows in
his eyes grew black.
It was night again-night in New York.
Newsboys were screaming on the corners:
"Bridgeport Gassed! Six Hundred Dead!
Warnings Drop From Sky! Six Hundred Dead in
Bridgeport! No Trace of Attacking Bomber
Found!"
As he trod briskly along a gloomy side-street
in mid-Manhattan, a cold tingling sensation
played up and down Jimmy Christopher's spine.
He felt with uncanny certainty that he was being
watched and trailed. His quick glances backward
disclosed nothing suspicious, yet the sensation
continued and grew stronger.
He turned and walked quickly down Third
Avenue. His growing hunch directed his steps
toward the door of a hardware store. Of the clerk
he requested to be shown various pliers. He
selected a pair of finest steel, paid for them, and
thrust them unwrapped into his outer coat pocket.
Again he walked quickly. He paused,
appearing to look into lighted windows while
covertly watching the sidewalks behind him; but
still there was no sign of the shadow he felt sure
was trailing him. He circled two blocks, crossed
Third Avenue again, walked north, and presently
turned toward the brownstone house which was
his father's home, known on the secret books of
the New York Intelligence Bureau as "Address
Y."
He was slipping his key into the lock when a
furtive movement in the dark startled him. He
glanced upward swiftly to see a dark form leaning
down, arms outspread. The man was hanging
over the railing of a balcony almost directly above.
Even as Jimmy Christopher glimpsed him, he
leaped.
Jimmy Christopher sprang backward, his
hand snapped toward his arm-pit gun. The weight
of the assailant crushed upon him, and he
sprawled. He glimpsed a dark face, small eyes,
and flashing teeth exposed by fiercely drawn lips.
He struck out wildly, while supple arms grappled
around him.
A gasp broke through Jimmy Christopher's
lips as he felt a cold line draw tight about his neck.
A wire! His hands flew to it, but instantly it
snapped so snugly about his throat that his
fingernails could not pry beneath it. His skin
bulged over it as the sharp, terrorizing pain of
strangulation gripped him.
Dimly he was aware that his assailant was
leaping up. He heard sharp heel-beats on the
pavement and strove to rise. Suddenly his bent
knees were lifted from the pavement. He
straightened quickly, yet his feet touched nothing
solid. He was being lifted into the air-jerked high
by the wire noose cutting into his neck!
His one hand shot upward and gripped the
thin strand. His other darted in and out of his
pocket, gripping the pliers. Swiftly he thrust its
jaws upon the metal thread, and all his strength
clamped the cutting edges together. A sharp click
sounded. Jimmy Christopher dropped.
He fell upright through twenty feet of space;
his soles smacked to the cement, and his supple
muscles absorbed the shock of the impact like
tempered springs. He sagged to his knees,
tearing at the noose that still encircled his throat.
He slipped it loose and rose, gasping, peering
up.
He saw nothing but empty air above. Quick
glances along the street disclosed no sign of the
assailant. Jimmy Christopher ran to the
intersection; as he reached it, an elevated train
rumbled past, picking up speed from a station a
block away. A grim smile tightened Operator 5's
lips as he realized the possibility that the train was
carrying away the man out of reach. A chase was
hopeless.
Jimmy Christopher stepped into the corner
drug-store and into a telephone booth. The
number he called was known only to Intelligence
operators working within New York. The voice that
answered said:
"Continental Silk."
"Operator 5 calling, Z-7. Flash information at
once to the air squadrons. The Atlantis is directly
above Manhattan!"
After Jimmy Christopher had explained, he
stepped into the street and walked north quickly-
still sensing that hidden eyes were watching him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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MYSTERY TANKS
Four taxies, each one abandoned after a
few blocks, carried Jimmy Christopher by steps to
the entrance of a quiet, smart apartment house in
the East Sixties. As he strode in, a doorman
nodded to him and said, "Good evening, Mr.
Walsh." An elevator whisked him to the eleventh
floor. He unlocked a mahogany veneered steel
door with a key of which no duplicate existed, and
stepped into a tastefully furnished room.
He entered the adjoining bedroom and
swung toward the window an anchored stand
bearing a strange machine consisting of a drum, a
ratchet, an arrangement of electrical wires, and a
small box projecting on a flexible arm. He opened
the window, thrust the box over the sill, and
turned a crank which unwound from the drum a
length of rope ladder.
When forty feet of it had slipped over the sill,
Jimmy Christopher eased over. He toed down
into black space. Beneath him gaped an open
passage, and behind his back lay the roof of an
adjoining apartment-house. From the bottom of
the ladder, Jimmy Christopher swung across to a
narrow balcony.
From his pocket he removed a small
flashlight, and turned its beam upward. When the
glow flicked across a lens protruding from the
black box on the sill above, a motor began to
whirr softly. Activated by a photoelectric cell
relay, the mechanism drew up the rope ladder
until it disappeared; then, uncannily, the black box
withdrew, and the window slid down without the
touch of a hand.
Jimmy Christopher opened a door which
gave onto the balcony, crossed a small, dark
room, and let himself into a corridor. He strode
around a bend and punched a button over a
name-plate, which was inscribed "Carleton
Victor."
A cool-faced manservant opened the door.
"Good evening, Mr. Victor," he greeted Jimmy
Christopher.
Carleton Victor stepped inside. Under that
name only was he known to the manservant;
likewise, under that name only he was known to
the elite and the famous who came to his
photographic studio on Fifth Avenue. For
Carleton Victor was a portraitist extraordinary of
the haute monde, and none of the renowned who
posed before the lens of his camera suspected
that "Carleton Victor" was a cloak of identity
behind which Jimmy Christopher hid the activities
of an Intelligence operator.
"Good evening, Crowe," he said.
"A good day, I hope, sir?"
Carleton Victor smiled. "An interesting day,
Crowe."
"I must say, sir, that I have had a most
distressing one. Shortly after noon I discovered
that the terrace was literally snowed over with
handbills. They had even come in the windows
and made a frightful mess. I was busy an hour
disposing of them, sir."
Carleton Victor smiled. "You read them, or
course, Crowe?"
"Read them? No, sir," Crowe answered
aloofly. "It was only an advertising stunt, of
course, sir. Most vulgarly commercial."
Carleton Victor's eyes twinkled. "Is there,
Crowe, any exciting news in the papers?"
"I don't know, sir. I never read the papers."
"There is some talk, Crowe, about war."
"Really? I think we shall have to change
laundresses, sir. Your shirts have not been done
properly, if I may say so."
"By all means, Crowe," smiled Victor,
"concern yourself with the most important matters
first. Find a new laundress."
He stepped into a closet and closed the door.
It was soundproofed and contained nothing save
a telephone, a chair, a scratch-pad and a pencil.
Jimmy Christopher dialed the number of his
home. The voice that answered was Tim
Donovan's.
"Jimmy speaking, Tim. Any report?"
"Sure, Jimmy! I followed that man with the
Van Dyke beard and the spectacles into a
restaurant and watched him eat. He took the fork
in his left hand and the knife in his right. He cut
his roast beef, then put down the knife, and
transferred the fork to his right hand-and ate,
that's all. The same as everybody does."
"You're absolutely sure of that, Tim?
Because it's tremendously important just that
small detail. Good work, boy. I'll be seeing you."
Carleton Victor hung the receiver and
opened the door to step from the booth. The ring
of the telephone bell stopped him. He stepped
back and answered the call.
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"The Secretary of the Founders' Club
calling," came over the wire.
Jimmy Christopher's fingers promptly
touched the handle of a cam protruding from the
wall. The hidden mechanism in the panel,
connected with the telephone wire. It was a
distorter, a device which changed the high
frequencies of the voice to low, and the low to
high. When Jimmy Christopher spoke again, any
wire-tapper could have heard only meaningless
gibberish; but a reversing distorter on the other
end of the line, switched into action at the same
moment, unscrambled the sounds into clearly
intelligible words.
"Z-7 calling. I've just had a report from
Operator D-9, who has been stationed at Floyd
Bennett airport. His information may connect with
the operations of the Atlantis. He states that he
has lately observed planes taking off with a
number of large corrugated cardboard cartons
aboard. In every case it was a private plane, and
the cartons were unmarked. He observed these
planes always returned within an hour or two
without the cartons.
"The information he was given concerning
this was obviously misleading, for he flew after
one of the planes today and discovered that it did
not go where its log indicated. It flew up and
disappeared. D-9 saw it plunge into a cloud-and
it didn't come out for almost forty minutes. It flew
directly back to Floyd Bennett field-and when it
landed its cargo of cartons was gone. There's
only one answer, Operator 5-the plane must
have landed on the Atlantis."
"Exactly! D-9 has discovered some sort of
supplies being carried to the ship. The cartons-"
"Are brought to the field in a small truck. D-9
trailed the truck this evening, the last time it
appeared on the field. It returned to Manhattan,
and went to an address downtown. The name of
the firm on the door is that of a maker of wicker
furniture and baskets. D-9 did not attempt
entrance, and has just made his report."
"Well look into that wicker-weaving
establishment tonight, Z-7."
"Good! Meet me at Headquarters K at once.
Fowler Molthrop is here with me."
"Your warning to the air units-?"
"No results. If, as you say, the Atlantis was
directly above Manhattan earlier this evening, it
was able to fly away before the Government
planes could spot it."
Jimmy Christopher's eyebrows drew together
as he clicked the distorter off and stepped out of
the soundproof cubicle. Crowe was just placing
an iced grapefruit upon an exquisitely appointed
table.
"No dinner tonight, Crowe," said Carleton
Victor. "I am called to the studio for an important
sitting."
Crowe looked his disapproval. "No one is
important enough to disturb your dinner, sir, if I
may say so. I am afraid you are far too obliging,
sir."
"The dinner, Crowe," said Victor, with a
smile, "is all yours," and he stepped briskly out
the door into the corridor.
It was the smartly-tailored Carleton Victor
who strode into the street from the exclusive
apartment house and into a waiting taxi; and it
was Operator 5 who stepped from the same taxi
as it drew to the curb on Fifth Avenue in the
Thirties fifteen minutes later.
Jimmy Christopher was pushing through the
door which led to the flights ascending to
Headquarters K when he heard a quick call
behind him:
"Jimmy!"
Tim Donovan, white of face, shouldered in.
The tough little Irish lad rushed to grip Jimmy
Christopher's hand. He blurted breathlessly:
"Jimmy! Something's happened-"
"How'd you get here, Tim? How'd you know
I was coming here?"
"I took a chance, that's all, Jimmy. I had to
find you!" And he said explosively: "Nan's
gone!"
"Nan?" Jimmy Christopher's hand grasped
the lad's arm. "Tim! What happened?"
"I don't know, Jimmy. She was alone in the
next room when I was telephoning you. When I
went back, she was gone. The window into the
court was open and-she was gone!"
Jimmy Christopher's eyes clouded. "She's
pretty well able to take care of herself, Tim, but-
run right back there. I'll phone right now. If-"
"Nick Barker's there now, Jimmy. He came
in just before I left, to see Nan. He said he
thought he saw her getting into a taxi on Third
Avenue, but he wasn't sure. It was a girl who
looked like Nan, but-"
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Jimmy Christopher turned quickly and ran up
the stairs. Tim Donovan legged behind him and
sidled with him past the door labeled "Continental
Silk Co." as a key clicked the way open. They
strode quickly to the door of the rear
soundproofed room. As they entered Z-7 and
Fowler Molthrop came briskly to their feet.
"One minute, Chief!" Jimmy Christopher
urged as he lifted the telephone. He dialed the
number of his home, and Nick Barker's voice
answered. Barker was Nan's fiancee; and now
his voice was anxious but Jimmy Christopher's
questions gained no new information. "Stay
where you are, Nick and if any word comes from
Nan-"
"Lord, Jimmy-if anything's happened to
her!"
"Find dad and tell him everything. And if
anything further happens, let me know as soon
as possible. Dad can reach me."
His face was lined as he replaced the phone.
"My sister, Chief," he explained. Can you excuse
me from this trip downtown and let me try to find
out where- "
Z-7's eyes were sympathetic, but he said:
"I'm sorry, Operator 5, but a matter of this
importance-"
Jimmy Christopher sighed. "I know. I-I'll
go."
Z-7 turned to Tim Donovan wryly. "Young
man," he remarked gravely, "you don't know that
this room exists-do you understand? As a future
member of the United States Intelligence Service,
you're to keep absolutely mum."
Tim Donovan's eyes glowed. "Certainly,
Chief!" he said.
Fowler Molthrop was gazing at Tim Donovan
with frank astonishment. "This is the boy who
gave Operator 5 assistance in the discovery of
the negative ray machine some time ago?" he
asked.
"Yes," Z-7 said. "His services, you see,
entitle him to certain unique privileges. He can be
relied upon absolutely."
They left the soundproof room, the three
men and the Irish lad. They settled into the seats
of a powerful car waiting at the curb, and a
soundless motor whisked them down the black
avenue.
Into one of the gloomy, narrow streets of old
New York the car turned. It slid to a stop in front
of a building sandwiched hard between two
wholesale distributing houses. They strode to a
door lettered: "Wicker-Weavers, Inc."
The door was locked; its glass panes were
as dark as every window above. Jimmy
Christopher took from his pocket a folder of keys.
His third try drew back the bolt. Z-7's gun was
leveled; Fowler Molthrop's was in his hand, when
they stepped through. Tim Donovan kept close at
Jimmy Christopher's side as they paused in the
darkness.
Dim light filtering into the room through the
windows disclosed piles of wicker baskets, and a
number of unpainted chairs. In a tank more
wicker was soaking. They trod silently to the rear
of the room, and paused at a closed door. Again
it was found to be locked, and again Jimmy
Christopher's skeleton keys came into play to
open the way.
Operator 5's flashlight gleamed. A sound of
elation passed Z-7's lips. The moving cone of
light disclosed piles of corrugated cardboard
cartons piled against the walls. No labels
identified the contents of any of the hundreds of
them.
Jimmy Christopher passed the light to Tim
Donovan, and seized a box in his hands. Its
weight was astonishing, considering its size-it
was a foot deep and about four feet long. He
ripped one end from the carton, and tore it along
its length. The light of the torch disclosed a
metallic cylinder, certainly thick-walled, with a
valve and a screw-cap affixed to its tapering end.
"Gas tanks!" Z-7 exclaimed.
Operator 5 twisted the valve. A sharp hiss
sounded as the compressed gas sizzled out. It
was colorless and odorless. Jimmy Christopher
reduced the flow to a mere whisper, struck a
match, and held it in the invisible stream. The
flame flickered out.
"Helium," he said softly.
Z-7's voice clicked. "That means the planes
were carrying these tanks to the Atlantis! This is a
secret supply station for the flying fortress. The
supply of gas taken up almost daily lets the
Atlantis stay in the air without ever coming down!"
"Exactly that, Chief ," Jimmy Christopher
said slowly. He twisted the valve tight. "Perhaps
this is just one of a number of supply stations
hidden in New York, but if it is the only gassupply
source, it means that we've found a way
of forcing the Atlantis down! There must be a
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certain amount of leakage from the Atlantis, and
the lost gas has to be replaced. That's the reason
for this station. If the supply is cut off, the leakage
will continue regardless, and in time the ship will
be forced down!"
"Perhaps. It's not a certainty. But-"
A sound startled Jimmy Christopher. He
whipped about. He reached quickly for the torch in
Tim Donovan's hand, and saw a dim square
appear in the side wall. Faint light shone through
the rectangle; and silhouetted behind it was a
man's head. At the same moment there was a
flash of metal as the gleam of the torch reflected
off a gun-barrel.
"Down!" Jimmy Christopher gasped. He
snatched the light from Tim Donovan's fingers;
with a click the beam vanished. Darkness closed
in. Again he cried "Get down!" as he dropped to
his knees. Almost instantly the room was jarred
by the rocking reports of the gun looking in
through the opening.
A flickering stream of fire played out;
explosions cracked in swift succession; a hail of
bullets streamed across the room. The shadowed
head in the square in the wall was hunched
behind the breech of the machine-gun, weaving
its fire back and forth. Slugs slammed into the
opposite wall, tore through the cartons, clicked
against the metal of the tanks.
Darkness-except for the tongue of flame
licking from the bore of the machine-gun!
Jimmy Christopher rolled swiftly, spilling
himself against the base of the wall. He heard
frantic movements around him, the scraping of
heels, breathless gasps. Tim Donovan called
frantically, "Jimmy!" and scrambled madly to
Jimmy Christopher's side. Z-7's gun cracked out
a bullet, and the flash disclosed him huddled
behind a tank. Fowler Molthrop lay flat on the
floor.
The withering fire continued. Jimmy
Christopher straightened quickly, the automatic
from his arm-pit holster snapping into his hand.
He fired swiftly at the dim square in the wall. The
head disappeared, and a rattling thump sounding
from beyond told that the machine-gun had been
dropped.
Jimmy Christopher whirled, snatching at the
knob of the door through which they had entered
the room. Quick strides took him into a hallway.
A dim flight of stairs rose beyond, and on it
sounded the thump of heels. Jimmy Christopher
leaped up as fast as his legs could swing.
Z-7 and Tim Donovan rushed after him as he
reached the landing. The slamming of a door
sounded sharply. Jimmy Christopher's torch shot
out its beam again as he paused. Two closed
doors connected with the hallway; beyond them
now sounded quick footfalls. He threw himself
against the nearest. It gave under the impact of
his shoulder, and he stumbled into cold gloom.
Tim Donovan and Z-7 crowded beside him
as he paused, astonished. The room they had
entered was large, narrow and long; and it was
open at the top. Torn plaster disclosed that the
ceiling and roof had been torn away. The sky
spread above, glowing dimly. By its vague light
Jimmy Christopher could see a grotesque
machine at the rear of the room.
The snarl of a motor sounded suddenly. A
blur in the darkness was a spinning propeller.
Above it, like a horizontal windmill, spread
drooping vanes which began to revolve. The
whole building trembled with the roar of the
powerful engine as Z-7's voice rang:
"Autogyro!"
Now a dark form appeared behind the
cockpit. It heaved up and down, as a man
sprang over the cowling. Jimmy Christopher
sprinted forward, and at his first move a gun
barked, and a blaze of red light flashed. It
gleamed an instant in the face of the man with the
gun-a face darkly yellow, with cruel, slanting
eyes, thin lips drawn back from gleaming teeth. A
name burst through Jimmy Christopher's lips:
"Kwo Taska?"
He fired swiftly, leaping aside. Z-7 echoed
the shot Jimmy Christopher hunched against the
side wall, aware of a quick movement past him.
He glimpsed Tim Donovan running forward. The
boy darted dangerously close to the slashing
propeller, and whirled against the opposite wall.
Kwo Taska's gun spat again as Tim Donovan
gave a leap that carried him toward the cockpit.
He groped wildly for the hand gripping the
gun. Kwo Taska wrenched away from him
savagely, striking out. The weapon slammed to
the side of Tim Donovan's head, and the boy
dropped back. He sprawled on the floor,
squirming.
Jimmy Christopher shouted: "Look out for
Tim!"
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The engine of the autogyro snarled with
savage power as Tim Donovan struggled up. The
plane moved, and he grabbed desperately,
unseeingly. His hands closed upon a thick rod
and clung. He felt himself dragged across the
floor; he looked up to see the body of the plane
above him. And suddenly, he was carried into
the air, lifted into the open above the ceiling-less
room, as the autogyro shot upward.
"Drop, Tim!" Jimmy Christopher cried.
One uncertain moment Tim Donovan clung
to the axel of the gyro's landing-trucks-and that
moment wiped away his opportunity to drop. The
plane whisked above the street, rising swiftly,
flitting like a bat into the darkness. Jimmy
Christopher peered upward, chilled, as it soared
out of sight-with Tim Donovan still clinging to its
undercarriage, dangling, as black space
engulfed him!
CHAPTER EIGHT
PLUNGE THROUGH SPACE
Fear of hitting Tim Donovan had kept the
guns of the three men silent during that swift
moment. Jimmy Christopher sped to the end of
the long room, striving for a glimpse of the
autogyro, but it had passed far from sight. The
drone of its motor was already receding high into
the night sky.
"There must be a phone in this place!" he
called anxiously. "Signal the air units, Z-7!"
He hurried from the open room and ran down
the stairs to the street. Crossing the sidewalk he
caught no glimpse of the dying windmill. He
ducked under the wheel of the Intelligence car
and the motor surged out power. He shot to the
corner, turned, and sped into Broadway.
Once he glimpsed a moving dot in the sky,
but only for an instant before the heavy blackness
engulfed it. Cold dismay filled him as he turned
back. Z-7 hurried out of the entrance of the
secret gas-supply station with Fowler Molthrop
when Jimmy Christopher swung to the curb.
"The planes are being radioed now."
Jimmy Christopher's lips pressed tightly as
Z-7 and Molthrop stepped into the car. The motor
pulsed again, and he stepped hard on the
accelerator pedal, heading toward Mitchell Field.
Lost in the vastness of the night sky, the
autogyro soared. The man in the pit had thrown a
lever which brought into action a muffler that
robbed the exhaust of its noise. Silently as a bat
the craft hovered above skyscrapers that now
seemed tiny toys.
Tim Donovan hung with hands clamped
whitely about the rod, eyes closed, swinging in the
rush of wind. His arms were throbbing with pain.
He dared not look down. The force of the rushing
air made it impossible for him to attempt to move.
A black eternity passed while he clung for dear
life, until, at last, he sensed the craft slowing.
The tearing power of the wind diminished.
Tim Donovan peered up, at the underside of the
fuselage. His face twisted with the strain of his
exertion as he began to swing his body back and
forth like a pendulum. His arms were so numb
that he scarcely dared trust the grip of his fingers.
He flung his legs apart suddenly-and hung
gasping, with one heel hooked over the rod.
The autogyro began to move again as he
pulled himself up. He gripped the V brace inside
the nearest wheel and heaved himself again. He
curled both legs around the rod and lay at full
length, looking down now to see the lights of New
York sparkling like distant stars floating off into
the blackness of space.
The wind was steady now, and colder. The
lights below grew dimmer, and a vast expanse of
unbroken black slid beneath. The boy sensed
that the plane was swinging above the harbor,
along a smooth, swift course.
Mist began to float past Tim Donovan. He
sensed the autogyro swing; the fog grew thicker.
Another long moment, and he saw a glow
appear. He shifted his head and his eyes
widened.
In the sky, obliquely below, a light was
shining in the midst of a cloud. It was a peculiar
reddish diffused luminescence. At the same time
Tim Donovan sensed that the autogyro was
lowering slowly. It was dropping toward the
source of the rusty glow.
Now the autogyro hovered again. The
shining light coalesced, and became four
separate points, in the form of a square. They
shone at equal distances around the lowering
craft. When they were almost at Tim Donovan's
level, he gazed down, startled. Something was
coming up through the mist, a flat surface.
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The trucks of the gyro lowered and touched
it, rolled a moment and stopped. Tim Donovan
peered around, bewildered, through thinner fog.
The glow was now overhead; a deck-like surface
spread away on all sides. Then the motor of the
autogyro revved down, and stopped. Tim
Donovan saw booted feet striding toward him.
He slipped along the rod into the blackest
shadow under the fuselage. The marching feet
stopped; heels clicked. From the side of the
plane another pair of feet lowered. A guttural
voice spoke unintelligible syllables, and a like
answer came.
From a point beyond, in the mist, another
man approached; Tim Donovan could see only
the lower half of his body. He was uniformed in
black. The pilot of the autogyro strode to meet
him; they paused, facing each other.
A conversation was carried on in the same
throaty language. Tim Donovan huddled
motionless in the shadow for long minutes. He
realized that he was still in midair; the coldness,
the cloudy mist, the slight difficulty of breathing,
made that a certainty. The deck upon which the
autogyro had landed was literally suspended in
the sky. He could see, now that his eyes were
becoming accustomed to the haze and the
peculiar light, the flat surface spreading all
around, ending at an abrupt edge. Beyond there
was nothing but floating mist and the vastness of
the night sky.
The metallic deck began to tremble. A
buzzing sound came softly, increasing to a
steady murmur. The mist beyond the edges of the
deck began to flow steadily. Tim Donovan sensed
the power of propellers churning the air, sensed
that the floating deck was moving.
The pilot of the autogyro spoke a sharp
command. A pair of the booted feet strode away,
and again Tim Donovan saw that the man was
uniformed in black. Presently he returned with
two other men, both wearing civilian clothes. They
paused in front of the pilot.
"The Atlantis," the guttural voice said,
speaking this time in accented English, "is now
proceeding at full speed toward Washington. The
course is set pending further information from the
ground by wireless. You are prepared?"
The answers were affirmative.
"The nature of the Atlantis has been
discovered by United States Intelligence
operators. Government planes are searching for
us even at this moment, overland. We do not fear
them, but as a precaution against possible attack
you are to make ready to carry through your
plan."
Again an assent.
"We are proceeding in the direction of
Washington on the assumption that the
President's son is there. We are expecting
definite word on that point by radio immediately.
Regardless of where he is-in Washington, or in
New York-your object will be the same. You are
to seize the son of the President and bring him
immediately aboard the Atlantis.
"Circumstances will determine the details of
your plan. Once definite word is received
concerning the whereabouts of the President's
son, you will fly to the ground. You will appear to
be ordinary passengers landing from an ordinary
flight-the necessary papers have been prepared.
You will communicate to us by short-wave, as
arranged.
"Your first object is to make sure that the
President's son becomes our prisoner. Your
second is to escape, but your lives are of far less
importance than the success of this plan. Let
there be no question of that."
"We understand."
Tim Donovan was listening with fast-beating
heart. He watched the two pairs of civilian-clad
legs stride away. The guttural-voiced pilot
mouthed another command. The booted feet
began a march toward the autogyro. Tim
Donovan's breath stopped as the men surrounded
the craft.
A sudden exclamation startled him. He
twisted to see a face-a face, tinged a weird red
in the glow of the strange light, turned toward him,
its eyes widened. One of the uniformed men had
stopped; now he was staring straight at Tim
Donovan!
A command snapped. More faces appeared.
Tim Donovan squirmed off the rod, frantically.
Hands reached for him, and he ducked away.
More feet ran toward the plane; a nightmare of
groping fingers clutched at him. Suddenly his
arms were seized and he was dragged from the
shadow.
He fought desperately, kicking and
squirming; but the hands gripping his arms were
like talons. Two other men closed upon him. Held
helpless, he looked up to see the pilot of the
autogyro striding close.
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In the dull glow the Asiatic's face seemed an
unreal mask. His eyes were cold, glittering, his
mouth a twisted line. He peered implacably at Tim
Donovan, his expression one of cruel triumph. In
English he snapped: "Who are you, boy?"
Tim Donovan strained to escape the biting
fingers fastened upon his arms, and made no
answer.
"It does not matter," the twisted lips said
tightly. "You are an American. You have seen
and heard too much!"
Tim gasped: "Let me go!"
"Let you go?" came the guttural tones.
"What would that avail you? You are in midair.
There is nothing around you but empty sky.
There is nothing below you but salt water. It is
quite impossible for you to escape!"
Tim Donovan straightened, trembling.
"Perhaps you are not convinced." The voice
of Kwo Taska was a threatening purr. "In that
case, I shall be happy to prove it to you." And,
stepping back, he mouthed commands in his
native tongue.
The black-uniformed men pinioning Tim
Donovan's arms dragged him squirming across
the metal deck. His resistance availed him
nothing. He was thrust and pulled until he
glimpsed a metal railing ahead. Beyond it he saw
mist floating, a foggy emptiness.
Another throaty command stirred the blackuniformed
men. They seized Tim Donovan's legs
and lifted him. They swung him closer to the rail.
He squirmed in terror as he was lifted out into the
air beyond the edge of the deck. Bottomless
space yawned beneath him while he was held
suspended an instant.
Suddenly the hands on his arms and legs
loosened. Tim Donovan made a frantic grab at the
railing, and missed. Darkness enveloped him.
Legs spread, arms out-thrust, twisting slightly, he
dropped!
Over Mitchell Field, Long Island, the glare of
floodlights lifted the darkness. On the tarmac
planes were waiting, engines warmed; pilots
were standing in readiness to receive orders.
Overhead the sky trembled with the droning of
engines. Near the operations office stood the
Intelligence department car which had brought
Jimmy Christopher, Z-7 and Fowler Molthrop
swiftly to the Field.
Bright lights burned in the dispatcher's office.
At a desk a shirt-sleeved officer sat tensely in
front of a stand microphone, fingers delicately
adjusting the dial of a sensitive short-wave radio
receiver. Beside him stood Jimmy Christopher
and Z-7; at their shoulders were Fowler Molthrop
and Mayor Thomas. From a loud speaker a voice
issued:
"Calling KX. Calling KX. Race in three-fourfive.
Flight B patrolling above Long Island Sound,
Connecticut area. Autogyro not yet sighted."
The voice was flashing through the ether
from a plane in flight. The dispatcher adjusted a
knob, pressed a button, and spoke into the
transmitter! "Calling one-eight-nine. Calling
Bellows in one-eight-nine. Any report?"
The loudspeaker hissed. "Calling KX.
Bellows reporting from one-eight-nine. Patrolling
shoreline Section B. Maryland area. The
autogyro has not been sighted. No sign of the
autogyro."
The dispatcher glanced at Major Thomas.
The Major spoke with a snap. "Order all patrols to
continue searching as long as they have a drop of
gas in their tanks!"
Jimmy Christopher's face was grim. "It's
certain that the autogyro slipped past all the
patrols. Major Thomas, is there no other way of
searching the sky?"
The major sighed. "One other, but we can
scarcely look for better results. There is a
sounding device on the roof of this building,
sensitive enough to detect the presence of aircraft
within approximately one hundred miles under
favorable conditions, but with so many planes
already in the air-"
"Is it able to distinguish between planes?"
Jimmy Christopher asked.
"Yes. It's the most highly developed skysounding
device ever put into use. With it we are
able to locate and identify a plane long before it
comes into sight of the field. I don't dare hope for
results from it. But well try it!"
Major Thomas led the way from the room as
the loudspeaker continued to drone negative
reports from the sky. Jimmy Christopher, Z-7 and
Fowler Molthrop followed the Major up three
flights of stairs. They strode across a roof upon
which sat a superstructure resembling the dome
of an astronomical observatory.
Inside it a technician worked over maze-like
charts. Directly under the dome, on a dolly which
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enabled it to be swung in any direction, a giant
parabolic horn was suspended. Major Thomas
spoke crisply to the technician.
"Take soundings, Roberts. You have the
codes of all Government planes now in the air?
Good! We want the location of any other aircraft
you may be able to pick up."
Lieut. Roberts slid open a section of the
dome beneath the mouth of the receiving horn,
clicked switches, and adjusted dials. Vacuum
tubes glowed dimly; from a loud-speaker a
steady hiss emerged. Plying levers, he swung the
sounding device due north, keeping one hand on
a black knob which he twisted slowly back and
forth.
Presently a high-pitched peeping noise
issued from the loudspeaker. Lieutenant Roberts
touched another switch, and the needles of two
indicators on a black panel swung into position.
Consulting a chart, he said:
"What we hear is flight B patrolling above the
Connecticut area. Distance, fifty miles, altitude,
almost five thousand. Seven Army planes are in
the formation."
He swung the giant horn slightly. The
peeping noise disappeared; for a moment there
was silence. Then a long whistling note sounded.
"New York-Boston passenger plane in the
air, passing near Providence," Lieut. Roberts
declared, consulting the charts and the indicators.
"No other single craft, Lieutenant?'' Major
Thomas asked impatiently. "Sure that no-"
An odd sound which whispered faintly
interrupted him. He turned the dial, and the
murmur was amplified to a chattering roar. He
peered at the dials, at the charts; and his eyes
rose quickly to those of the major.
"Something in the air near the coast, almost
out of range of the sounder. Height, seven
thousand-just under the ceiling. We have no
code that checks."
"A commercial ship?" Jimmy Christopher
asked quickly.
"No. The strange part of it is-the number of
motors. At least twelve."
"Twelve!" blurted. "Then it can't be the
Valley Forge-the dirigible has only ten!"
Jimmy Christopher stepped forward. "Can
you keep that aircraft in the sounder? Can you
keep other planes informed of its position, so that
it can be found?"
"Certainly, as long as it stays within range.
The response seems to be growing stronger. It is
evidently flying almost due northward."
Jimmy Christopher turned quickly to Z-7. "I
want the best pilot on the field. I'm going up."
"You?" Z-7 protested. "You came near
losing your life last time. Another man-"
"I'm going myself."
Major Thomas led the way down the stairs as
Lieutenant Roberts plugged in a connection which
established telephone connection with the
dispatcher's office. Z-7 and Fowler Molthrop
followed Jimmy Christopher across the field. The
major barked orders; a pilot saluted, and
scrambled into his pit. Jimmy Christopher was
silent as he climbed into the rear cubby, adjusting
a specially equipped helmet and goggles.
"Parachutes in place?" the major asked
cautiously.
"Two, Major."
"Lieutenant Drake, maintain constant radio
communication with the dispatcher. Follow his
directions to the letter. You are also, of course,
under the orders of this young man."
Z-7 was peering across the cowling at
Operator 5.
"You think-?"
"The craft we heard may be the Atlantis."
The roar of the pursuit's motor put a period to
his low-voiced assertion as the brakes went free
and the plane began to roll.
Mitchell field dropped into the darkness of
the night. Lieutenant Drake spiraled swiftly to an
altitude of five thousand feet. Beneath his helmet
earphones were clamped; Jimmy Christopher had
adjusted another pair to his ears. The carrier
wave of the transmitting station on the ground
was hissing steadily.
The dispatcher's voice sounded. "Calling
five-four-three. Calling Drake in five-four-three.
The sounder indicates the unknown aircraft
traveling northward inland twenty miles, altitude
seven, speed steady. Report your course."
The announcer spoke crisply into a
microphone held before his lips by a headclamp.
Jimmy Christopher listened and watched the dash
dials as they indicated a change of direction and a
slight lift. The course set, the dispatcher's voice
sounded again.
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"Course checks, Drake. Allow for northward
movement of unknown aircraft. Its speed
estimated at one-twenty. Your distance now
approximately forty miles."
Suddenly another voice rattled in the earphones;
that of Z-7. "Calling Drake's passenger.
I urge every possible personal caution. Patrolling
ships will attack if necessary, if the unknown ship
is the one you believe it to be. Make observations
only and then report to the field."
Jimmy Christopher's answer: "I'll follow
orders."
The plane was climbing steadily, holding to
its course. The terrain below was spotted with
clusters of lights of cities and towns. Highways
were merely lines of brilliant dots. The airspeedometer
indicated a rate of travel that would
rapidly erase the distance separating the pursuit
from the mystery craft.
"Calling Drake in five-four-three. Adjust your
course two degrees. Altitude and speed of
unknown craft remaining constant. Certain it can
be no ship ever picked up by the sounder before.
Be prepared for possible attack by it. If you sight
it, signal immediate orders for relay to patrols."
The smooth climb continued. The altimeter
was flickering toward seven thousand. Jimmy
Christopher peered straight ahead at rolling
masses of vague clouds. The air had become
misty and cold. Minutes ticked by as Lieut. Drake
kept his swerving course calculated to meet the
unknown craft in flight.
Jimmy Christopher thumped the pilot's
shoulder. He pointed into the floating fleece
ahead. At the same time he spoke into his
microphone.
"Drake's passenger calling. Clouds directly
forward. Wind carrying them due west, except
one formation. One mass of clouds is moving in a
direction counter to the others-due north."
The strange sight ahead was exactly as he
described it. Some strange power was driving
one billowing mass directly across the prevailing
wind.
"Your approximate distance from this cloud?"
the question came through the air.
"Three miles."
"You are now three miles from the unknown
aircraft!"
Jimmy Christopher thumped his pilot's
shoulder again, and shouted: "Throttle down!
Duck under that cloud. Trail along with it. Be
ready to report to patrols."
Lieutenant Drake nodded tensely. He swung
the pursuit lower, swinging slowly. The roar of the
engine diminished. Jimmy Christopher leaned
forward, eyes fast on the fugitive mass of fluff.
He saw nothing but mist; yet he sensed a
presence in the air, felt a haunting premonition of
danger.
Now the cloud was hovering directly above.
The pursuit circled slowly below it. The mist was
thick, billowing; and there was a peculiar
pungency in the air. Twice the pursuit circled,
while Drake and Jimmy Christopher peered all
around.
The dispatcher's voice spoke in the
airphones. "Your position and that of the
unknown craft now coincide."
Jimmy Christopher gestured as the pilot
glanced back. "Fly through the cloud," his motion
ordered. The pursuit swerved, climbing. Mist
slashed back from the prop as he drove into the
fog.
The plane became completely enveloped in a
clammy vapor. The faintest light shown through it
from the sky and from the ground. One moment
the plane dead-headed, but suddenly Drake
kicked at his controls and swerved sharply.
When he straightened he was flying at rightangles
to his previous course, and staring, wideeyed,
over one wing. He turned suddenly and
yelled. "A net!"
Jimmy Christopher glimpsed it-thin, almost
invisible strands in the air. Vertical and horizontal,
they formed a huge mesh. The billowing of the
mist sometimes wiped from sight the tracery of
the lines as the pursuit soughed with motor almost
idling. Then again they could be seen-crisscrossing
strands, extending into the mist above,
disappearing into the fog all around-a huge net
hanging slanted in the sky.
Drake let the plane mush through an easy
bank. Jimmy Christopher peered again at the
amazing sight. The move had swung them closer,
and they were traveling now directly across the
criss-crossed maze. Another detail tightened his
hands on the cowling and leaned him forward.
At intervals on the net he saw sharp-pointed
hooks-hooks affixed to the wires, dangling as
though in wait for prey. Sight of them ran the
blood cold through Jimmy Christopher's body. He
realized now the reason for the destruction of the
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two Navy planes above Lakehurst, the reason for
the bewildering suspension of the one ship and
the pilot in midair.
They had driven against the net; the giant
hooks had caught the fuselage of the plane and
the body of the man; the tearing of the wind had
ripped them off again, to plunge to the earth!
Jimmy Christopher's voice rang into his
microphone. "The Atlantis is directly above!
Notify all patrols at once!"
His throat caught tight and he twisted to
stare. The net was flying in the wind, inclined at
an angle and on one of the strands, something
was clinging. He glimpsed it only a second as he
sped past-it was there and gone in a flash. But
in that instant Jimmy Christopher realized that it
was a human figure clinging to the net-the figure
of a boy.
He blurted a name, and it rang through
space into the ears of the startled men below.
CHAPTER NINE
SEVEN THOUSAND UP
Mist whipped past the wings of the Army
pursuit, blotting away all sight of the net. Jimmy
Christopher peered tailward in a vain attempt to
sight again the vague form he had seen. His
hand whacked hard to his pilots shoulder. "Bank
back!"
Lieutenant Drake leaned the plane carefully
on one wing and spun to the opposite direction.
The maneuver swerved the ship closer to the
dangling air-trap; it became visible again; sketchy
lines making lace of the fog. Jimmy Christopher
gripped the cowling and searched the gray
confusion as the voice of the dispatcher at
Mitchell Field sang in his ears.
"All patrols ordered to your position. Shall I
direct them to attack the craft when sighted?''
Jimmy Christopher snapped, "Yes!"
Again he glimpsed a dark blot in the mist. Its
outlines sharpened as the plane shuttled. Breath
tightened in Jimmy Christopher's lungs when he
discerned, plainly this time, the figure of a boy
clinging desperately to one strand of the dangling
net. His arms were wrapped around it; his feet
were braced upon a horizontal wire; and his
haggard face was turned toward the passing
plane.
Jimmy Christopher saw him shout, but no
sound carried through the drone of the motor. An
instant later the floating figure was gone again.
Jimmy Christopher's mind worked rapidly. He
dragged from beneath the seat the pack of a
parachute, and wriggled into the harness.
Jimmy Christopher leaned against the wind
and shouted into Lieutenant Drake's ear. "Bank
again-go higher! Fly as close to the top of the
net as you can. Got it?"
The helmeted head nodded quickly.
"The instant you sight that boy, throw the
plane into a bank away from the net, then go
down. Hand me your parachute."
The pilot looked startled, but complied. As
the second pack was shifted back to Jimmy
Christopher, he seized it and looped a buckle
through the strap of his own harness. Promptly
Drake swerved the plane, and it rose, crabbing
toward the net.
The approach toward the trap was fraught
with danger. A drop into an airpocket might fling
the pursuit into the wire trap, might impale it upon
one or more of the dangling hooks. The sharp
points glinted as the net materialized out of the
mist again. It was close now; the giant meshes
flickered past.
Then the dark blot appeared again, and
focused into the figure of Tim Donovan, still
clinging to the wire.
Jimmy Christopher slapped Drake's shoulder
and yelled: "Now!"
He leaped up as the pursuit banked stiffly.
Flexing muscles threw him out into the air. His
momentum carried him ahead, and he fell
through a curve, as the plane swerved off. He
crossed his legs, peering down, fog tearing past
him. His arms were outflung, his shoulders
hunched.
His body jarred with the shock of an impact
as one of the wire strands brushed the side of his
body. He strove to grip it, but his own weight tore
him loose.
Another strand slapped against him, and his
arms closed about it instantly. He slipped down it;
his body struck a horizontal line; he sagged to a
stop.
His fall broken, he clung to the slender
strand while the net all round him shook in the
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wind. Breathless, he peered around. Except for
the criss-crossing lines he seemed alone in the
emptiness of the mist. The drone of the pursuit
was beating the air, but now it was out of sight.
Tim Donovan must be hidden somewhere in
the fog above.
The jarring concussions of machine-gun fire
stirred the air. Faint light flickered obliquely
above. Jimmy Christopher knew that he was
hanging under the Atlantis, that now guns were
pouring lead over the edge of the deck at the
Army plane. New thunder rolled through the night
sky as Lieutenant Drake power-dove. The guns
kept chopping, and the roar of the plane dropped
low. The gunner had not reached it.
Jimmy Christopher steadied his feet on the
horizontal wire, clinging to the vertical strand. The
next cable stretched within reach above. Legs
wrapped around the one cable, he pulled himself
higher. Precariously he lifted himself to the space
within the next mesh. Again he clung, searching
the mist, trying to locate Tim Donovan.
A faint call came: "Jimmy! Jimmy!"
"Hold on, Tim!"
The voice sounded from a higher level,
toward the right. Jimmy Christopher worked
himself along the horizontal strand, reaching from
one vertical wire to the next. The wind tore at him
as he balanced. The cold air numbed his body
and the chill of the wires stiffened his fingers.
From opening to opening he groped, until another
call came.
It sounded directly above. Jimmy Christopher
pulled himself up again. Three times he swung to
the next vertical line, straining every muscle.
Looking up he then saw the dim, black figure of
Tim Donovan. The boy's position had not
changed; he was peering down, huddled.
"Coming, Tim!"
Twice more he lifted himself. Tim Donovan
was clinging in the next opening above. Jimmy
Christopher shifted aside, and pulled himself to
the boy's level. His feet slid over the smooth wire
and he paused, hanging close to Tim Donovan.
The little Irish lad's face was pinched with the
cold; he was shivering uncontrollably; but a
twisted grin formed on his lips.
"Steady, Tim! Can you grab this?" Jimmy
Christopher shouted above the rush of the wind.
He lifted the parachute pack dangling from his
harness, swinging it toward the boy.
"Hold onto it, Tim! I'll keep its weight off you
until you get into the harness. Look at mine-see
how it goes. Got it?"
"Sure!"
Jimmy Christopher clung with one arm while
he held the pack extended in the other. Tim
Donovan freed a blue hand, and wriggled a strap
over his shoulder. He teetered on the wire as he
worked himself into the harness and drew the
buckles tight. When the pack was fastened in
place his wide eyes turned to Jimmy
Christopher's.
"Take that ring in your hand, Tim. That's the
rip-cord. We're going to drop-understand? Jump
away from the wire. Don't pull that cord until
you're clear of the net. Watch me."
"All right, Jimmy."
"A good silk-sailor doesn't let go of that ring,
Tim. He holds onto it. Now, jump right after me!"
Jimmy Christopher poised, knees bent. His
body straightened like a spring. He sprawled,
arms wind-milling, into the mist. A wrench of his
body turned him so he could glimpse the boy,
sagging against the net. As Tim Donovan's body
began to blur from sight he yelled:
"Now, Tim!"
He was dropping swiftly, and the meshes of
the net were flickering past, when he saw Tim
Donovan spring out into the emptiness. The boy
spilled head over heels, straightened out, and
began to fall flat, face downward. Jimmy
Christopher gave a swift glance around, made
sure they were clear of the net, and yelled again:
"Pull it!"
At the same instant he yanked at the rip-ring.
The pilot chute flipped out of the pack; it dragged
out the folds of rippling silk. A dull pung sounded
as the wind swelled the white bell. Jimmy
Christopher jolted in the harness and began to
swing like a pendulum. He shot quick glances
upward; and saw nothing of Tim Donovan in the
mist.
Heart chilled, he floated. The mist thinned
around him. Abruptly a black void opened
beneath his feet. Far below, like the lights of
another world, white dots sparkled out of the
darkness. The mass of fog receded upward.
Jimmy Christopher yanked at the shroud-lines to
turn himself, still searching for Tim Donovan. All
around was nothing but clear air.
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Had the boy struck the net in falling? Had
one of the barbed hooks impaled his body-
ripped the silk of his chute? The possibilities
weighted Jimmy Christopher's heart with dread as
a long minute passed.
Then, emerging like a ghost from the cloud, a
swinging form appeared. Pendulumming in the
harness of his parachute, Tim Donovan floated
downward. Jimmy Christopher sobbed a glad
shout, and jerked the shroud-lines again to swing
closer to the boy.
Then the thunder of motors shook the air.
From the east the rolling roar came. Off in the
vastness of the sky-colored lights were
twinkling-the lights of an Army patrol, sweeping
toward the Atlantis.
The gleaming pin-points on the earth grew
brighter as Jimmy Christopher's parachute floated
him lower, alongside the silken bell carrying Tim
Donovan. The boy's body was slowly swinging in
a circle as he dangled in the harness with eyes
closed. High above, the sky still shook with the
exhausts of airplanes.
A second and a third patrol were sweeping in
to join the first in the search for the Atlantis.
A moment later the purr of an engine
sounded closer. Jimmy Christopher sighted a
single plane circling beyond. In the glow of its
dashlamps he saw the pilot signal with waving
arms and recognized Lieutenant Drake. As the
two parachutes drifted with the wind, the plane
spiraled up, hovering above them.
Long minutes passed while Jimmy
Christopher peered into the darkness below.
There were no lights shining beneath his feet.
The two chutes were dropping into open country,
but the topography was still blanketed by the
darkness.
He shouted through the air: "Keep your legs
crossed, Tim! As soon as your feet touch, pull
on the shrouds to empty the chute!"
A blur appeared below. A bare hillside came
into view like an image developing on a
photographic plate. Jimmy Christopher's feet
touched first. He allowed himself to fall flat,
gripped the lines, and pulled while the flapping
bell collapsed.
He saw Tim fluttering down fifty feet away.
He shrugged out of his harness, ran quickly, and
sprang past Tim Donovan's body as the boy was
dragged through the grit. Again he gripped the
lines and fell back with them. The parachute went
flaccid, and Jimmy Christopher sprawled over
Tim Donovan gasping.
He helped the boy to a sitting position. Tim
Donovan was breathing hard. He peered wideeyed
at Jimmy Christopher and held out one small
hand.
"I kept the ring, Jimmy."
"Good boy!"
Jimmy Christopher peered up. Drake's plane
was circling above, feeling its way down for a
landfall. The hillside was a spreading slope, bare
and even enough to make the attempt safe.
Drake's goggled eyes peered down as he weaved
back and forth, settling.
"Gee, Jimmy! I thought I was done for!"
"Lord, Tim-how'd you get onto that net?"
Tim Donovan breathlessly related the actions
of the autogyro carrying Kwo Taska.
Jimmy Christopher's throat grew tight. "Lucky
for you they tossed you over that side, and not the
other, Tim! The motion of the ship was drifting
the net so that it was sloping right under you.
Lucky you didn't land on one of the hooks!"
"Jimmy, listen! I heard that guy talking-the
one you called Kwo Taska. I heard him say
something about grabbing the President's son
tomorrow, taking him up to that airship, and
keeping him prisoner."
Jimmy Christopher peered his amazement.
He listened silently as Tim Donovan's breathless
explanation continued. Glancing about, he saw
Drake's ship swing low over the hillside, touch its
trucks, and begin trundling to a stop. He sprang
up.
"Come on, Tim!"
He ran across the slope toward the plane as
Drake began to leg over the cowling. The tough
little Irish lad panted beside him. Jimmy
Christopher hoisted Tim to the rear cubby and
snapped orders to Drake.
"Back to Mitchell Field, fast as you can make
it!"
He huddled beside Tim Donovan as the
radial roared. The trucks rolled swiftly over the
hillside and lifted. Wings tilted in a quick bank. A
powerful exhaust whoomed across the sky as the
plane drove through the night with its engine
revving to the limit.
Mitchell Field glided into view and expanded
beneath the trucks of the pursuit. When the ship
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rolled to a stop, Jimmy Christopher legged out
first. Tim Donovan trotted after him toward the
open door through which Z-7, Fowler Molthrop
and Major Thomas hurried. He stepped aside
alertly with Z-7.
"Tim was actually aboard the Atlantis tonight,
Chief! He heard Kwo Taska outlining a plan to
kidnap the son of the President."
Z-7 gasped: "What!"
"Where is he, Chief? We've got to locate
him-warn him to keep under guard. Use the
radio-the swiftest possible means-"
Z-7 whipped about. "Major Thomas!" he
snapped. "A message of the utmost importance
for Washington-at once!"
Jimmy Christopher hurried behind them into
the building which housed the dispatcher's office.
In an adjoining room Major Thomas uttered quick
orders to an officer who was plying the key of a
wireless transmitter. Z-7 wrote rapidly on a blank
and handed the operator a cabalistic message:
W-WH, WX3R
IMMINENT DUKE WESTOVER CRASH
HUDSON CHEMICAL RAILWAY
CORTEZ SEPT
The key vibrated under the operator's fingers
as the message flashed into the ether.
"An answer will be coming immediately," Z-7
declared tersely.
Jimmy Christopher stepped briskly into the
adjoining room. The dispatcher was speaking
monotonously into the microphone. When he
paused, a voice twanged in the loudspeaker.
"Calling KX. Calling KX. Race in three-fourfive.
Flight B still patrolling as last ordered. No
sign of any strange craft in the air. Any further
orders?"
"Order them," Major Thomas growled at the
dispatcher, "to remain in the air until lack of fuel
forces them down. They've got to find that craft if
it's humanly possible!"
The dispatcher mumbled. Z-7 peered
haggardly at Jimmy Christopher. Their eyes
shone with mutual understanding. They realized
that the Atlantis must have sighted the
approaching Army and Navy patrols; that it must
have risen. Swiftly beyond the reach of the
planes; that now, in all certainty, it was hovering
far above the earth in the stratosphere.
"You might as well order the patrols to return
to the field, Major," Z-7 said wearily. "The hunt is
quite hopeless."
There was silence in the office a moment.
Then quick steps came over the sill. The wireless
operator handed to Z-7 a scrawled sheet. The
Washington chief peered at it, his jaw-muscles
bunched; and he raised glittering eyes to
Operator 5's.
"Advice from Washington," he said tersely.
"The President's son left the White House not half
an hour ago and is traveling now by car toward
New York."
CHAPTER TEN
TERROR IN THE STREETS
At ten o'clock next morning, Mr. Carleton
Victor stepped from his bedroom, the embodiment
of sartorial perfection. Crowe drew his chair at a
table on which a delicious breakfast waited.
"You rested well, I hope, sir?"
"Excellently, Crowe."
Carleton Victor smiled as he stepped toward
the door of the soundproofed telephone room. He
had rested not at all; he had remained awake the
entire night, absorbed in perfecting plans the
nature of which would have dumbfounded Crowe
if the manservant had known.
"No breakfast this morning, Crowe."
"No breakfast, sir?" Crowe repeated in
dismay. "I beg your pardon, sir. I hope you are
not upset?"
"No, Crowe. Just very busy."
Carleton Victor left the puzzled manservant
blinking, and stepped into the silent cubicle. He
dialed first the number of Address Y, the home of
his father, John Christopher. An anxious question
was on his lips to ask the moment Ex-Operator Q-
6 answered , but a girl's voice stalked him.
"Nan!"
"Jimmy-I'm so sorry you were worried about
me!"
"Worried doesn't express it, Nan! Where
have you been? When did you come back?" He
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asked the questions swiftly. "Why didn't you let
me know?"
"I couldn't let you know, Jimmy." Nan's voice
was eager, elated. "You and Tim and Dad aren't
the only ones in this family who turn detectives."
"Please, Nan-"
"Jimmy, last night while Tim was telephoning
you, I was left alone in the rear room. I happened
to look into the court, and I saw somebody
sneaking through the shadow. "
"Nan-Good Lord!"
"He was sneaking toward the open window,
Jimmy. I simply put my head out and called
'What do you want?' He whirled like a top and ran
off. I wasn't going to let him get away, so I
hopped out through the window, and ran through
the back way to Third Avenue when he took a
taxi. I hopped into another and followed him. He
went uptown to Riverside Drive above 150th
Street. He has an apartment there under the
name of Juan Ramoz-but of course he isn't
Spanish or Mexican, really. So I kept watching the
place and-"
"All night?" Operator 5 blurted.
"Of course. I couldn't give up. I couldn't get
to a telephone, either, without risking the chance
that he'd slip away while I was gone. So I kept
watching, and nothing happened. Finally I
decided that you might be worrying about me-"
" 'Might!' Nan, you crazy kid! You're the best
sister a fellow ever had, but you shouldn't have
taken that chance!"
"He's probably," Nan said quietly, "a secret
agent of the Yellow Empire, Jimmy."
"Nan, you've run onto something. I'll certainly
look into it. But you're not to do any more
detective work-understand? Now, listen. Get
some sleep and I'll call you later."
He hung the receiver, puzzled. A glance at
his watch, and he took up the instrument again.
He dialed the number of Intelligence Headquarters
K and when he obtained connection with
a certain Mr. Hudson he clicked the can of the
distorter.
"Operator 5 calling, Z-7. Any further reports
on the patrols?"
"None. The Atlantis succeeded in slipping
away completely, far beyond the reach of the
planes. The patrols are continuing, but it's almost
hopeless to expect any results from them."
"The President's son?"
"Arrived in New York early this morning. At
the present moment he's at this address," Z-7
stated a street and number. "He has been warned
to keep himself safe, but he's an independent
sort and he hasn't taken my warning seriously. I
suggest that you keep watch on him personally,
Operator 5."
"I will."
"Fowler Molthrop offered his services and is
now with the young man, but I won't feel easy
until you're on the spot yourself. You've read the
morning papers? You know what the President's
son is planning to do?"
"Yes. I'll try to discourage him. In the
meantime, Z-7, I have a request for certain
information that's highly important to me. I want a
search made of the records of the War
Department. I want data on a man of the
following description:
"An ex-Army officer, now of middle-age, who
was perhaps cashiered out of the service as a
result of court-martial. He should be six-feet oneinch
tall and weigh about one hundred seventy.
Eyes, greenish blue. This man was probably once
stationed in the Philippines. I want a photograph
of him."
"I'll do everything possible to match your
description with a real man, but who-"
"Until you find that data, I hesitate to say
anything more, Chief, but-it's of the highest
importance."
"Certainly. You're leaving now?"
"For the President's New York home, yes."
The distorter clicked off. Jimmy Christopher
opened the booth door, and Carleton Victor
stepped out. Crowe was waiting at the breakfast
table and frowning disapprovingly. Carleton Victor
gazed at the front page of the morning
newspaper.
Headlines declared that a parade of the
Veterans of Foreign Wars was scheduled to begin
at City Hall at ten o'clock, and that prominent
officials would lead it, including the son of the
President.
The account stated that the parade was to
be a demonstration of the man-power and loyalty
of ex-service men calculated to strengthen the
morale of a fearful populace; that, since the
President himself was engaged with important
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matters of State, his youngest son would lead the
parade in his place.
Carleton Victor paused on the entrance sill
and glanced at Crowe.
"You will, I presume, watch the parade this
morning, Crowe?"
"The parade, sir? What parade? I never
watch parades, sir. They are, I find, a bit
monotonous."
Carleton Victor was smiling as he closed the
door-a smile that became tense and grim as he
strode away. This parade, if it were held, he
believed would prove exciting to even such a
blasé man-of-the-world as Crowe.
A cab carried Operator 5 to a modest house
on a side-street west of Fifth Avenue. Two men
on the steps allowed him to pass with scarcely a
glance; they were Secret Service agents. He
entered and stepped into a quiet flying-room.
Fowler Molthrop hurried from a chair and gripped
Jimmy Christopher's hand.
"The President's son is here?"
"Yes-but he's preparing to leave," Molthrop
answered nervously. "He won't listen to my
advice. Look here. Do you seriously fear that
some attempt may be made to abduct him?"
"Yes, and with good reason," Jimmy
Christopher declared. "Where is-"
His question was answered before it was put
by the opening of a door. A young man entered
the room. He was of Operator 5's age, handsome,
square-shouldered. He extended his hand, and
Jimmy Christopher seized it.
"You're Operator 5?"
"Yes, sir. I consider it an honor-"
"And I consider your saying that sheer
nonsense," the President's son interrupted with a
smile. "The honor is mine. I'm proud to meet you.
My father has spoken of you in the highest
possible terms."
Jimmy Christopher bowed.
"But," the President's son continued, "if
you're going to tell me that I'm in danger of being
kidnapped, and all that sort of stuff-"
"I'm here to tell you exactly that. I believe
Mr. Molthrop has already tried to dissuade you
from leading the parade this morning, and I urge
you-"
"Oh, that's all nonsense, I'm sure," the son
of the President protested. "What could possibly
happen to me? I'll be within the sight of thousands
of people continually."
"I urge you not to lead the parade."
"It would give a very bad impression if I
didn't. It's expected of me. I'm quite decided that
I'm going to lead it."
"And ride in an open car, a perfect target for
any attempt that may be made upon you?"
"Why not?"
Jimmy Christopher sighed. "If you insist upon
leading the parade, I'll insist upon several details
myself. I've been sent here to keep watch on
you, and you're my personal responsibility. Will
you compromise?"
"Of course."
"Then you'll ride in a closed car, in company
with at least two bodyguards. A car will precede
you carrying Secret Service men, and another will
follow you."
"All right. But I'll have to be leaving right
away. I've just time to get to City Hall before the
parade starts. I'll phone for the car that brought
me from Washington."
As the President's son talked over the
instrument, Operator 5 stepped close to Fowler
Molthrop. "You want to go along?"
"I'd be honored to be allowed to take a seat
in his car," Molthrop answered. "Rest assured I'll
keep on the alert."
"Certainly. I'll send a car of Secret Service
men ahead, and I'll ride in the car behind."
Jimmy Christopher took up the telephone as
the President's son left it. He called the secret
number of Intelligence Headquarters K and
obtained connection with Z-7. "Operator 5 calling.
The patrolling planes are still in the air?"
"Yes."
"Is the sounding device of Mitchell Field in
use?"
"Yes, constantly. Earlier today they thought
they heard the noise of the Atlantis, but it was lost
again immediately. There is no indication that it is
anywhere near."
"Good. Note this address, Chief." Jimmy
Christopher repeated the Riverside Drive number
which Nan had given him. "I want it watched, and
anyone leaving it trailed. How about the wickerweaving
place?"
"All gas drums removed. It has been
watched constantly. No one has come near it."
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"Good. Keep in touch with Mitchell Field,
Chief, and be ready to receive a report from me in
case of an emergency."
The son of the President was waiting.
Jimmy Christopher's eyes were serious as he
opened the outer door. The young man strode
briskly to a sedan waiting at the curb, a red car,
on the door of which a crest was emblazoned.
When the President's son was inside, and Fowler
Molthrop was seated with him, Jimmy Christopher
gave quick directions to the Secret Service men
on guard.
A minute later the car bearing the President's
son was speeding down Fifth Avenue. The way
was cleared for it by a sedan carrying four
Intelligence operators. Behind it, in another,
Jimmy Christopher kept anxious eyes upon it.
Unconsciously his fingers strayed to the little
golden skull on his watch-chain.
The sidewalks of lower Broadway were
crowded with thousands waiting for the passing of
the veterans' parade. Thousands more peered
down through open windows. Branching up Fifth
Avenue the lines at the curbs continued, miles of
spectators stretching from Central Park to City
Hall. The hour for the start of the parade was at
hand.
City Hall Park was thronged with waiting
marchers. Bands were playing; flags rippling in
the breeze. Cordons of police were on duty,
keeping clear a space in front of the Hall.
A chorus of cheers swelled up as the red car
bearing the President's son, preceded and
followed by the black sedans, eased to a stop
near the steps.
A burst of martial music filled the air as a
band strode out into Broadway. Following it the
black sedan carrying Intelligence men rolled. The
red car of the President's son followed, and that
carrying Jimmy Christopher kept close behind.
Slowly the parade formed, flowing briskly up
Broadway.
Radio announcers perched on buildings
along the way reported its process as it
proceeded uptown. Torn paper fluttered in the air
from the hands of the thousands peering out of
the windows. The sidewalks were two flanks of
spectators, faces in endless lines.
Jimmy Christopher saw nothing, watched
nothing, except the red car rolling ahead of him.
The President's son was bowing, waving his hat
in greeting to the throng that cheered his
appearance. The din of the brassy music
continued. Each minute was a long anxiety to
Jimmy Christopher.
The cars rolled through, past Union Square,
and the files twined on, keeping to Broadway.
Cross-town traffic was at a halt. The pace of the
procession was that of the marchers; the cars at
the head of the column rolled slowly.
From the tower of the Metropolitan Life
Building, another radio announcer spoke to
millions listening at radio receivers.
"We can hear the music of the leading band
now, ladies and gentlemen, and in a moment the
parade will pass into Madison Square, to proceed
up Fifth Avenue. It is an inspiring sight, the
thousands waiting to pay tribute to the service
men who-
"There is a disturbance on Twenty-Third
street, ladies and gentlemen. Traffic officers are
rushing toward a truck which is trying to push its
way through the crowd in the street. The truck is
heading west, an immense vehicle, and if-
"It has just spurted ahead, through the
crowd, and is turning into Broadway! Policemen
are swarming toward it, trying to stop it, but the
driver is paying no attention. In another moment
he is going to block the avenue of the parade
and-
"The truck has stalled directly in the line of
march!"
Jimmy Christopher peered from the sedan
warily as he saw the tremendous vehicle swing
into view from the side street. It swerved toward
the leading band; the musicians forced to stop,
marked time. Whistles shrilled a signal to halt
along the marching column. Jimmy Christopher
opened the sedan door and began to slip out.
At the same moment the driver of the truck
dropped from his seat and started a swift run.
Uniformed policemen darted after him; heavy
hands dragged him down. The crowd murmured
as, for blocks back, the procession came to a
halt. Jimmy Christopher glanced swiftly up and
down the street; and suddenly his hand darted to
the gun in his arm-pit holster.
He saw two men poised upon the sills of
open windows above the sidewalks. Immediately
he glimpsed them, they leaped off. A force
greater than that of their muscles seemed to
swing them out over the heads of the crowd on
the sidewalk, into the clear space of the street.
They struck the pavement at the same instant and
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sprang swiftly toward the car carrying the son of
the President.
Jimmy Christopher's gun snapped level as
one of them sped to the front of the red car, and
past. A clatter of metal upon metal sounded as
the second leaped to the rear of the car. Both
men whirled away, springing to the opposite side
of the street, as Jimmy Christopher shouted a
staccato warning.
His finger tensed on the trigger, but the
danger of hitting one of the crowd beyond kept
him from firing. He took a quick step toward the
red car. One of its forward doors was opening,
and an Intelligence man was stepping out when-
The red car rose off the pavement!
Swiftly it was lifted into the air by an invisible
power. Its rear wheels spun as the traction of the
pavement was removed; the motor hummed
high. The Secret Service man on the runningboard
lurched, lost his hold, and fell as the
automobile soared. Jimmy Christopher leaped
toward it as it whisked beyond his head.
Startled cries came from its interior. At a
window the terrorized face of the President's son
showed. One swift moment lifted the car so high
that the face was no longer visible. Up it flashed,
like a red meteor-as high as the Flatiron
building-higher!
Into the empty air of the sky it rose as
dismayed thousands watched, as Jimmy
Christopher stood paralyzed in consternation. It
swung swiftly, streaking into the open above
Madison Square. It diminished swiftly in
perspective. An uncanny, startling sight-an
automobile sailing through the sky!
Each swiftly passing second whisked it
higher into the air. Jimmy Christopher spun. A
glance told him that the police squad had closed
in upon the truck driver and the two who had
dropped from the window-ledges; they were
squirming to escape, but being held. He sped to
the curb, shouldered through the crowd, dashed
into a cigar-store, slammed into a telephone
booth. The air was trembling with the dismayed
moan rising from the crowds on the sidewalks as
he called the number of Intelligence Headquarters
K.
"Z-7! The President's son is being lifted to
the Atlantis-car and all! It's above Manhattan!
Signal all air units!"
When he shouldered upon the sidewalk
again, the crowd was milling. Terrorized faces
were looking upward. Another chorus of dismay
was echoing, swelling like the voice of a giant
organ. Swarms of people were pouring off the
curbs into the streets, crying out their fear.
For, above, the sky had suddenly become
clouded. A blackness had formed in the air above
Manhattan and was settling slowly. Wind churned
it as it floated, the sunlight sparkled through it;
and soon it became a mist enveloping the spires
of the tallest buildings.
Thousands of printed slips, the fearful
propaganda of the Yellow Empire-were mowing
down from the sky!
Through the fog of paper, Jimmy
Christopher glimpsed in the sky a tiny floating
thing-a mere red dot-the car carrying the son
of the President. It was soaring into the very
zenith. Grimly he watched it, while the cloud of
warnings settled into the streets; watched it until
it vanished completely in empty space.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"LET WAR BE DECLARED-"
Newspapers screamed the sensational news
of the abduction of the President's son. Extra
edition after extra flipped out of roaring presses.
Shrill-throated newsboys ran through the streets.
"Official car found! Official car found-
empty!"
U.S. SEDAN FOUND CRUSHED,
EMPTY BELOW PALISADES! PRESIDENTS
SON VANISHES!
Bulletin
Car Which Soared Into Sky Carrying
President's Son Discovered Near Bear
Mountain Bridge Early This Evening. No
Passengers Found. Crime Shocks Nation.
Agents of Yellow Army Charged With
Abduction. Congressional Action Certain.
Radio networks abandoned their commercial
programs and broadcast a running account of
news developments.
"The President has called an extraordinary
session of Congress for tomorrow morning!
Evidence has been found linking the abduction of
the President's son with secret agents of the
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Yellow Empire. An open declaration of war has
become a certainty!
"The President is preparing tonight a
message to Congress recommending that a state
of war be declared to exist between the United
States of America and the Yellow Empire!
"All resources are being marshalled in an
effort to learn the fate of the President's son. The
startling nature of the crime is unparalleled in
history. The entire world is shocked and appalled
by the daring crime! The President's message to
Congress tomorrow will be broadcast over a
coast-to-coast network!"
"The warnings dropped from the sky, at the
moment the Presidential automobile, carrying the
Chief Executive's only son, was whisked into
space, again urgeing the people to submit to
invasion!"
The electrical tension in the air reached even
into the silenced room that served as Intelligence
Headquarters K in New York City. Quiet reigned
within that room, a quiet more wearing to strained
nerves than the loudest din. The teletype
machine was strangely inert. The two men within
the cork-lined walls peered at each other as
though words were futile. Z-7's eyes smoldered.
Operator 5's face was lined with deep-felt anxiety.
They sat motionless for minutes.
Z-7 burst suddenly: "God, why doesn't that
damned machine start working? No reports-
nothing! At a time like this-"
"Everything is being done that can be done,
Chief," Jimmy Christopher said quietly.
"Except-"
"I know. Planes roaring over the city ever
since it happened-and finding nothing. Every
inch of the sky being searched-without the
slightest result. There's only one answer. That
damnable flying fortress has hidden again in the
stratosphere. With the President's son a prisoner
aboard it!"
Suddenly the teletype machine chattered. Z-
7 jerked around to it and snapped off a length of
tape. He passed it across the desk, and Jimmy
Christopher read:
. . . FROZEN AND CRUSHED BODY OF
CHAUFFEUR OF PRESIDENTIAL CAR JUST
WASHED UPON BEACH AT HAMPTON, NEW
HAMPSHIRE . . .
Z-7 said soberly: "No word about Molthrop.
Poor devil, he was in that car too when it went
into the sky. What in God's name can we do?
You spoke of a plan, Operator 5."
Any plan I might have is absolutely worthless
unless the position of the flying fortress in the sky
is known. Since we don't know that, since it is
able to fly and rise and fall so swiftly that we can
never know its position for a certainty-" Jimmy
Christopher shrugged and grew silent.
The telephone clattered. Z-7 snatched it up.
He listened, pronged the receiver, and said
tersely:
"S-8, watching the Riverside address, just
reported. The man known as Juan Ramoz has
been there all day, and another man has just
entered-a man, S-8 declares, resembling Kwo
Taska!"
Jimmy Christopher straightened quickly.
"Stick with me, Chief. We're looking into
that!"
He strode out the door, and down the steps
leading to the street, with Z-7 striding swiftly
beside him.
The car which Jimmy Christopher swung to
the curb of upper Riverside Drive was a Dieselengined
roadster of tremendous power.* He left
it several blocks from the address which was their
destination, and walked briskly with Z-7 northward.
The sun was setting over the Palisades as
they strode into the entrance of an apartment
building.
An elevator carried them to the thirteenth
floor. Z-7's code-knock was answered by the
clicking withdrawal of a latch. Operator 5 stepped
with his chief into an utterly bare room, and the
secret agent known as S-8 latched the door again
behind them.
The apartment had been commandeered by
Z-7's order immediately after the information
furnished by Nan Christopher had been passed to
him.
*This automobile, designed and built especially for
Operator 5's use, was a powerful means of combating the
menace of the Darkness of Doom.
It was located directly over that occupied by
the man known as Juan Ramoz. No word was
spoken as the three men moved quietly to the
center of the floor, where an instrument rested.
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It consisted of a powerful audio-frequency
amplifier, to which ear-phones were attached;
fastened in the cone of a sound-reflecter was a
super-sensitive microphone; the cone was
pressed tightly against the floorboards.
S-8 lowered himself beside it, passing earphones
to Z-7 and Jimmy Christopher. He slowly
turned a knob on the amplifier, and smooth
mounting power flowing through a potentiometer
brought a hissing into the ear-phones. Beyond
the sound there were others-far-away voices.
Another turn on the potentiometer knob, and the
words became audible.
Two men were conversing in the room
below; the super-sensitive microphone was
recording the infinitesimally weak sound-waves
that penetrated the ceiling and floor.
One of them said: "No, no. I was not
followed, I am sure."
The other voice answered: "The danger is
too great. You were seen. The girl might
recognize you again. You must be transferred."
"Very well."
There was a pause. Jimmy Christopher's
eyes rose to Z-7's. "The second man speaking
was Kwo Taska."
Z-7's eyebrows arched. "Then he's dared
come down again from the Atlantis after flying off
in the autogyro!"
Now the voices were speaking again. "Am I
needed aboard the Atlantis?" the man known as
Juan Ramoz asked.
"Not yet," answered the voice of Kwo Taska.
"Afternoon tomorrow you will be assigned new
duties. You are aware of our plans?"
"No."
"It is no secret that the United States
Congress will meet in extraordinary session
shortly before noon tomorrow. At noon the
President will address the joint session,
recommending that war be declared. The instant
a state of war actually exists between the United
States and the Yellow Empire, the Atlantis will be
hovering, at that moment, stationary in the sky
above the Capitol-high enough so that no
airplanes and no anti-aircraft guns can reach it
even if its presence is known. The self-calculating,
telescopic sights of the bomb-racks will be trained
upon the dome of the Capitol.
"And, since the proceedings of the Congress
will be broadcast for all to hear, the Commander
of the Atlantis will know of it the moment the
vote, declaring a state of war to exist, is taken.
"At that very instant tons of bombs will drop
upon the Capitol.
"The Capitol will be utterly destroyed in an
instant. It will be our first attack of the war-a
telling one. Perhaps it may even be the last. A
complete surrender may follow promptly. If it does
not, we will strike and strike again until every unit
of defense in this country is destroyed. And then
we will be able to invade it as we please!
"Our first step upon crushing the United
States will be to seize the Treasury and subtreasuries.
We will confiscate all gold stores. Our
Emperor will immediately declare all United States
money worthless. The billions of dollars in gold
will then back the inflated currency of the Yellow
Empire and establish it as the wealthiest, most
powerful nation in the world. It is now only a
matter of hours."
Again there was silence in the room below.
Jimmy Christopher rose silently. He signaled Z-7
and S-8 silently.
They left the super-amplifier and moved
toward the door. Outside it, Jimmy Christopher
brought them to a pause. "That information must
be conveyed to the President at the soonest
possible moment!"
"Good God, Operator 5-there is no way of
stopping the Atlantis from carrying out that plan?
If Congress meets and votes to declare a state of
war-!"
Jimmy Christopher didn't answer then, but
his crystal-blue eyes were deep-shadowed as he
trod to the stairway. Z-7 and S-8 followed him
down the flight quietly. They paused in the
corridor, studying a door which duplicated that
which they had just left on the floor above. It was
the only entrance to the apartment of the man
known as Juan Ramoz.
Jimmy Christopher glided silently toward it.
From his pocket he slipped his pack of superskeleton
keys. As he pointed one into the lock,
faint voices, unintelligible words, were audible
through the metal door. A fraction of an inch at a
time, soundlessly, Jimmy Christopher slid the key
into the socket. When his fingers twisted it did not
turn.
A second and a third key he tried as
cautiously, while Z-7 and S-8 stood at his
shoulder, hands ready to flash to their guns. The
fourth key turned slowly in Jimmy Christopher's
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fingertips; without the slightest noise, all
unknown to the two men in the room, the bolt
drew back.
Jimmy Christopher glanced back and nodded
his head slightly. Z-7 left the door quietly and trod
back to a window in the rear wall of the corridor
which looked out upon a court. He slid it open
and leaned across the sill, gripping his gun,
watching the windows of the apartment of Juan
Ramoz.
Jimmy Christopher slipped his automatic into
his hand. His shoulders hunched; he poised.
Suddenly he stepped forward, and the door
swung open swiftly.
The two men leaped from their chairs. The
smaller, Ramoz, sent a hand flashing inside his
coat. A warning shout from Jimmy Christopher
sounded while gun metal streaked in the light. He
leaped aside as two guns blazed out one report.
Jimmy Christopher heard a moan of pain as
he sprang past the table toward the second man.
Kwo Taska had whirled away. His sharp, cruel
features were twisted into a leer as Jimmy
Christopher moved toward him. A huge automatic
spat fire from his hand.
Spattering lead stung into Operator 5's hand.
The force of the bullet tore his gun away and
wrenched him half about. He dropped to one
knee, face pinched with pain, as Kwo Taska
leaped. A powerful hand gripped his throat, and
he saw the black bore of Kwo Taska's automatic
loom large before his eyes.
His own gun fumbled from his numbed
fingers as he was thrust back. He groped for it,
and heard it spin across the floor as Kwo Taska's
foot struck it. His left hand shot upward and
gripped the wrist of the tawny hand grasping the
automatic; he was thrust still farther backward,
and claw-like nails bit into his neck.
Jimmy Christopher's sharp twist on Kwo
Taska's wrist brought a scream from the man's
hard-drawn lips. The arm dropped limp, and Kwo
Taska recoiled as Operator 5 regained his feet.
The man whirled toward the wall. Jimmy
Christopher spun to face him.
Another swift glance told him that the springhinged
door of the entrance was again closed and
latched. A thumping sounded upon it, and Z-7's
voice called anxiously. S-8 was squirming on the
floor, helpless. Jimmy Christopher faced Kwo
Taska in the locked room, empty-handed.
The Asiatic's hands snatched at a machete
hanging on the wall. He gripped it and lunged; the
razor-sharp edge cut the air with a hiss and its
wind fanned Jimmy Christopher's face. Operator 5
sprang back, his left hand snapping loose the
buckle of his belt.
One pull jerked the belt away from his waist;
it sprang out straight. A wisk, and the strap flew
away, exposing the shining blade of a needlepointed
rapier. The belt was in reality a long,
narrow sheath concealing the supple blade. It
flashed, and its steel clashed with the metal of
Kwo Taska's weapon.
The startled Asiatic jumped, but the lightning
of Jimmy Christopher's rapier again struck the
machete. A thrust whipped the needle point
across Kwo Taska's face. Blood spurted down
the slashed cheek. Kwo Taska screamed again,
and his muscles flung him backward in a long
leap.
His arm shot up, back, forward, swiftly. The
heavy knife left his fingers spinning. It slashed
straight toward Jimmy Christopher as Kwo Taska
whirled desperately, snatching open the door of a
closet. Jimmy Christopher dropped like lightning,
and the blade of the machete whirled past his
cheek nicking the shoulder of his coat, as the
closet door slammed.
He sprung, gripped the knob, twisted and
pulled. The door was shut fast. He tossed his
rapier; its point plunged into the upholstering of a
chair and it quivered upright. He gripped the
standard of a floor-lamp and swung its heavy
base toward the door.
The panel cracked and splinters flew. Three
more swift blows broke a section inward,
disclosing blackness beyond. Jimmy
Christopher's rapier was in his hand again when
he reached through, drew a bolt, and stepped
into the gloom. He saw bare walls, empty space,
and a ragged hole in the floor of the closet.
Beneath there was dim light, shining through
an open door into a closet duplicating that in
which he stood.
He spun and snapped open the entrance. Z-
7 peered at him white-faced as he sidled past and
gasped: "Take care of S-8!" Long strides took
him down the stairs. On the next floor an
apartment door was standing open.
Bounding steps carried him from platform to
platform, down the stair-well; but his eyes caught
no glimpse of the fleeing Asiatic . . .
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Ten minutes later Jimmy Christopher
stepped from the elevator car into the corridor of
the twelfth floor. Grim-faced, he entered the
apartment of Ramoz. Z-7 had helped S-8 up and
was inspecting the secret operator's bullet-broken
arm. The man was lying on the floor, dead. Z-7
peered up.
"Kwo Taska-?"
"Slipped me," Jimmy Christopher said in a
cold whisper. "Let's go."
The door of the inner room of Intelligence
Headquarters K swung open. Soft lights clicked
on as Jimmy Christopher and Z-7 entered. The
Washington chief stepped immediately to the
teletype machine. His eyes widened; he stripped
off a length of tape and passed it silently to Jimmy
Christopher.
The message read:
. . . ORDERS DIRECT FROM THE PRESIDENT
TO OPERATOR FIVE: REPORT AT ONCE TO THE
WHITE HOUSE . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
UNSEEN VOICES
In the study of the Chief Executive of the
United States, in the historic White House at
Washington, D.C., a bright cone of light shone
upon the broad top of a desk. It reflected into the
grave eyes of the man who sat there alone. His
aristocratic face was firm, but deep-lined. He was
reading carefully, weighing every word of a
typewritten document. It was headed:
A Message of the President of the United
States to the Senate and the House of
Representatives Assembled in Joint Extraordinary
Session: Recommending that a State of War be
Declared to Exist Between the United States
and-
A knock sounded on the door of the
President's study. "Come in," he said quietly.
His secretary entered, and placed on the
desk a sheet. "This message has come over the
air at regular intervals since dark Mr. President,"
the secretary said anxiously. "I feel that it cannot
be ignored."
The President read:
12.6 meters at midnight.
"No call letters are signed," the secretary
explained. "The short-wave station which sent out
the message is unknown to us. Considering, sir,
your anxiety over your son, I suggest that you
listen in, as this message directs."
The President said wearily: "Very well," and
his haggard eyes looked a desk-clock. It lacked
ten minutes of midnight.
The secretary withdrew. Almost immediately
he turned back. His eyes were brightened as he
said:
"Two gentlemen, sir. They give their names
only as Operator 5 and Z-7."
The President rose as the door swung wide.
Jimmy Christopher briskly entered the room. The
President's hand gripped his firmly. Z-7's quiet
greeting followed.
"Operator 5, you know fully the situation
confronting us," the President began. "A state of
war is inevitable. Tomorrow at noon-"
"Not inevitable, sir," Jimmy Christopher said.
"Rather-impossible."
"Impossible?"
"Mr. President, tonight we heard the chief of
the Espionage Office of the Yellow Empire
outlining a plan-"
As Jimmy Christopher spoke rapidly, the
Presidents eyes filled with dread. He leaned
forward tensely, the dark lines of his face
deepening. Then he rose. "I'II order all Army and
Navy air units on patrol! I'll establish full air
protection over the Capitol. Every possible
means of defense will-" His voice trailed off as
he peered at Jimmy Christopher.
"AII that will avail us nothing, Mr. President.
The Atlantis is impregnable before any means of
attack or defense we might choose. It will hover,
at noon tomorrow, at such a height that airplanes
and antiaircraft guns will be unable to reach it. At
the same time it will be able to maintain its
position and drop bombs with absolute accuracy
upon the Capitol. Those bombs will fall the very
instant war is declared.
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"I have been formulating a plan, Mr.
President, but it is impossible to put it into
execution by noon tomorrow."
"AII the resources of this nation are at your
disposal, Operator 5!"
"Thank you. There are various devices which
I wish to be constructed as soon as possible. I
have drawn plans and specifications for all of
them, and I will turn them over to government
experts at once. But even these devices will be
useless, even this plan will avail us nothing, as
long as we are unable to predict the position of
the Atlantis at any given time."
Jimmy Christopher drew folded sheets of
paper from his pocket and placed them on the
Chief Executive's desk.
"First, I want available the stratospheric
balloon recently used by Lieutenant Commander
Settle. Experts must determine whether or not it
can be put to the use I outline here. If it cannot,
then another such balloon must be specially built.
In either case, the stratospheric craft used must
be maneuverable, by means of propellers or
compressed-air currents. It must have enough lift
to carry three or four men besides a number of
storage batteries and tanks of compressed
oxygen.
"Beneath its first basket, a second must be
hung. In this second basket must be stored
certain devices which I have described in writing.
First, at least two suits of woolen coveralls thickly
lined, and the lining must include heating coils.
Second, at least two gas-masks. Third, a
telescopic rifle of special design, for which I have
drawn plans.
"The projectile which this rifle must fire is
entirely new-something like an arrow and a
propeller combined. The propeller, at the forward
end of the arrow, must be of finest steel
sharpened to a razor edge. As many of these
projectiles as possible must be made, and they
must be stored in the lower basket of the plane.
"All this must be assembled and held ready
at the soonest possible moment. The plans and
specifications will explain the details."
The President touched a button on his desk.
When his secretary answered the summons, he
gave crisp directions; the secretary took Jimmy
Christopher's plans into his hands. He said,
before he turned to the door: "It is one minute of
midnight."
The President nodded, handed to Operator
5 the cryptic message saying "12.6 meters at
midnight," and walked to the door. Jimmy
Christopher and Z-7 followed him into a small
room at the end of a corridor. There a short-wave
receiver and transmitter were housed. An
operator was adjusting dials as the President
entered.
In the room also stood a stiff-backed man in
uniform. He was Major-General Robert
Parkhurst, Chief of Staff of the United States
Army. Beside him stood another impressive,
uniformed figure: Rear Admiral Mark Douglas,
Chief of the Bureau of Aeronautics, Navy. They
were grave and silent as the President came
close to the table.
The President's eyes rose to an electric clock
an instrument synchronized to the split second
with the master chronometer of the Naval
Observatory. A red hand was swinging around
the dial. Only seconds remained until midnight,
while a surging hiss came from a loudspeaker
resting on the table. Then the second hand swung
to midnight.
A voice spoke. It came gutturally from the
loudspeaker. No man moved at the first words
sounded.
"Communication is requested with the
President of the United States."
The wireless operator indicated slowly a
microphone standing on the table. The President
gravely moved toward it. His voice rang clear:
"The President of the United States is speaking."
The throaty voice from the ether responded
at once. "I greet you, Mr. President, from the sky.
I am the commander of the aircraft Atlantis.
"I am speaking to you, Mr. President, from
the stratosphere. The exact position of the
Atlantis I regret I cannot reveal to you. Suffice it
to say that we are far beyond reach. I have
established communication with you tonight for an
important reason.
"You have been gravely concerned, of
course, Mr. President," the voice resumed,
"about your son. I am happy to inform you that he
is well and safe aboard the Atlantis. He is, in fact,
in the next office, waiting my signal to speak with
you."
The President leaned forward tensely. "Let
me hear his voice."
"In one moment, Mr. President," the suave
guttural tones continued. "The Command of the
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Yellow Army is aware, of course, that you may
direct an offensive upon this craft. As long as we
remain stationed in the stratosphere, we are quite
safe from any attack you may direct. It will
become necessary, of course, for the Atlantis to
descend at times much closer to the earth. Such
descents will bring the Atlantis within range of
attack by your air fleet and anti-aircraft batteries.
It is for that reason that I wish to convince you
your son is aboard.
"It is our intention to keep him prisoner on
the Atlantis. His presence will be confirmed to
you from time to time. I inform you of this so that
you may know that any attempt to destroy the
Atlantis will result in his certain death."
The Presidents hand gripped the edge of the
table, his knuckles white.
"If the Atlantis falls, your son will fall with it.
As long as we remain untouched, your son will
remain safe. It is within your power, Mr.
President, to preserve or destroy the life of your
son."
Another tense, silent moment passed.
A clear voice from the loudspeaker: "Hello!
Hello, father!"
The President straightened. His voice grew
calm and firm. "Hello, my boy. Are you well?"
The answer came: "I am perfectly well,
father, and comfortable. Please don't worry about
me."
"Do you know where you are?"
"Only that I'm aboard this aircraft. There is
nothing around it but clouds and dark, empty
space. It's impossible for me to tell you where the
aircraft is flying now, but it is in motion. Father-I
know why I was brought here."
"You heard this conversation?"
"Yes, entirely. I want to urge you not to let it
make any difference. Never mind me. Go ahead
and try to knock this damnable machine from the
sky! Turn everything we've got onto it! If it's the
last thing I ever see, I want to see this machine
falling to the ground broken. Whatever may
happen to me, it's of no importance compared
with the preservation of the nation."
The President stood motionless, staring at
the microphone that was carrying his voice out
through the dark ether.
"Come after it with everything we've got
father! Let loose on it! Show 'em they haven't got
us licked!"
The guttural voice returned abruptly to the
loudspeaker. It spoke in a low, menacing tone. "I
need only remind you, Mr. President, that the life
or death of your son is resting in your own hands."
A click sounded. The hissing of the carrierwave
in the loudspeaker vanished.
The President straightened. His gaze went
first to Operator 5. Jimmy Christopher stood pale,
wordless. The Chief Executive turned slowly and
faced his officers of the General Staff.
"Gentlemen," he said slowly, "I assumed my
office under an oath sworn before God. I have
not forgotten it-'I do solemnly swear that I will
faithfully execute the office of the President of the
United States-and will, to the best of my ability,
preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of
the United States.'
"My orders to you, as Commander-in-Chief
of the Army and Navy of the United States,
gentlemen, Major-General Parkhurst, Rear
Admiral Douglas: The entire armed forces of this
nation are to be marshaled at once with one
paramount objective-the destruction of the
aircraft Atlantis!"
The Chief Executive turned, took up a
scratch-pad and a pencil. He wrote swiftly-on
that cheap sheet of paper, with that blunt stub-
his command. He ripped the sheet off, and
passed it silently to Major-General Parkhurst. The
Chief of Staff took it.
Again the President turned. "Establish
communication with the Valley Forge at once,"
he directed the radio technician.
Silence reigned in the room. Haggard eyes
peered at the President. His face was drawn with
anguish, his mouth pinched with repressed pain.
He stood motionless until a voice rumbled in the
loudspeaker: "The Valley Forge."
The Chief Executive leaned close to the
microphone. "The President is speaking Orders
for Commander Duncan."
A short pause. Then, "Commander Duncan
speaking."
"Your position, Commander?"
"Approximately latitude thirty-five, longitude
seventy-six, approaching Cape Hatteras."
"Proceed immediately to Washington, D.C.
Station the Valley Forge above The Capitol at the
soonest possible moment. Keep an alert watch
for any indication of enemy aircraft. If you sight
such aircraft-attack!"
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The President straightened, and turned again
to his officers of staff.
"Execute your orders, gentlemen."
Both men saluted. Major-General Parkhurst
strode stiffly out the door. His heels beat sharply
along the corridor. Rear Admiral Douglas
accompanied him to the entrance of the White
House. There they paused. Slowly Major-General
Parkhurst folded the scribbled sheet signed by the
President of the United States. Slowly he ripped
it in two; then again; then again. He thrust the
fragments deep into his pocket.
"Never before," he said in a whisper, "have
I been guilty of gross insubordination-but, by
God, sir, I'm guilty of it now!"
The President turned slowly to step into the
corridor. He stood erect, his head thrown back,
his chin high and firm. He was pale, but his eyes
were gleaming with a grim determination. His foot
was upon the sill when a sudden sound brought
him to a pause.
A voice rattled in the loudspeaker. "Calling
WH! Lieutenant Commander Nelson of the
Valley Forge calling WH!"
The announcer snapped an answer.
Lieutenant Commander Nelson's voice
rumbled again. "We are being attacked!"
The President turned back quickly. Operator
5 stepped closer to the table, muscles snapped
tight. The straining voice came again: "The
Valley Forge is surrounded by Yellow planes!
They have dropped on us from above! They are
swarming upon the dirigible."
Through the air, mingled with the terrorized
voice, the throbbing reports of machine-gun fire
carried. "Commander Duncan has ordered all
guns manned! The attack is concentrating upon
the gunlofts and the control cabins. Commander
Duncan requests aid-"
A shattering crash jarred out of the
loudspeaker. A moan carried over the ether, a
muffled cry of pain. Nelson's voice came again
breathlessly: "The control cabin is being raked by
terrific machine-gun fire. Our guns are having no
effect on the attacking planes. Commander
Duncan-has been-wounded. The Valley
Forge-is-"
The chattering roar of machine-gun fire
sounded more loudly. The thunder of flying
engines swelled until it drowned out the lieutenant
commander's voice. Another low moan carried
over the air, a moan that might have been the
last sound uttered by a dying man.
Then, abruptly, the chaotic noises ceased.
Even the hiss of the carrier-wave vanished. For
one frantic moment the radio operator twisted
dials, threw switches twirled volume-control
knobs. He sat back slowly, and his white face
turned toward the President.
"Communication with the Valley Forge is no
longer possible, sir."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHILE DISASTER HOVERED
The coast wise steamer Ramses II was
proceeding northward that night off the coast of
North Carolina. Its decks were dark, its lanterns
gleaming in clear air. A glow of light enveloped
the bridge where a helmsman watched his
compass and swung his wheel. At the chart table
Captain Anderson stood studying the log.
There was no sound save the faint soughing
of the wind, the familiar creaking of the hull and
the churning of the screw as the boat ploughed
along its course; no sound until a splashing noise
attracted the Captain's attention. He gazed out
across the dark water.
Almost immediately a second splash
sounded. The Captain cupped hands against the
pane and peered. Again he saw nothing. The
third splash urged him to step out with a pair of
binoculars. As he reached the rail he was startled
to see a flash in the air, a metallic glint. It
streaked downward into the waves, and whitened
water spumed.
The first mate peered behind him. At once
another of the falling objects appeared, splashed,
and vanished. Captain Anderson growled an
order, and the powerful beam of a spotlight swung
across the water.
Through its moving cone still another of the
falling objects flashed.
"Be damned!" he growled. "Those things
falling. They look like some kind of metal beams."
"There's another, sir!"
It was spinning out of the vastness of the
night sky. The beam of the searchlight caught it
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high in the air and followed its swift fall. This time
the Captain and the first mate saw it certainly as a
metallic beam. Its ends were ragged. It followed
the others into the sea.
"What the devil is going on up there?" the
Captain mumbled. "Some kind of airship throwing
over ballast?"
Again the flashlight flicked upon something
spilling out of the blackness of the heavens.
Captain Anderson muttered the name of his
Maker and gripped the rail. For the thing he saw
in the air this time was not a beam. It was a man,
arms outflung, legs spread, plunging.
It dived into the waves and disappeared.
Swiftly the shaft of light swung up again. Out of
the night the tumbling form of another man
materialized. A few swift seconds, and it also
vanished into the depths of the sea.
Captain Anderson shouted crackling orders.
The first mate bellowed from the bridge. Seamen
scampered up companionways and across the
deck. Davits creaked and a lifeboat swung over
the rail. Ropes whined in the wind as it lowered to
the surface. Wet oars flashed as men bent their
backs to row. Out on the swells the boat swung
as seamen reached for the floating bodies.
From the bridge Captain Anderson watched
grimly. Oarlocks chunked as the boat moved
back. Until it was lifted, until it was swung again
over the rail and lowered to the deck, Captain
Anderson stood straddled, watching. Then he
hurried down the companionway and peered.
"Riddled, sir-all of them!"
A hoarse exclamation broke through the
Captain's lips as he bent forward. He studied a
white face, peered at a sopping uniform, and
blurted a command which sent the first mate
rushing to the wireless room.
"I knew that man, sir," he said when the
breathless mate returned. "He's the commander
of the dirigible Valley Forge."
Radios shouted: "Shortly after midnight last
night the Navy dirigible Valley Forge was
attacked in midair while flying near Cape Hatteras
by planes believed to be part of the air fleet of the
Yellow Empire!
"The world's greatest dirigible has been
destroyed on its first voyage!
"Only a part of the framework of the
tremendous dirigible is accounted for. Huge
masses of it are missing. The metallic framework
was cut apart in midair by high-temperature
torches!
"According to the testimony of Captain
Anderson of the Ramses II, given before a
special investigating committee of the Senate
early this morning, some of the framework fell
piece by piece into the sea as girders were cut off
in midair.
"The Valley Forge was literally dismantled in
the sky!"
In his study in the White House, the
President sat peering haggardly at a sheaf of
reports. He lowered them slowly, and looked up
into the brilliant blue eyes of Operator 5.
"These reports are hopeless," said the
President. "The Atlantis has still not been sighted.
There is absolutely no clue to its whereabouts.
Last night it must have been approaching the
Valley Forge even as my son was speaking to
me."
"I feel positive, Mr. President," Jimmy
Christopher said, "that we know the reason for the
destruction of the Valley Forge. The Atlantis did
not fear the dirigible as an adversary. It seized
upon the ship in order to preserve itself."
Z-7, watching Operator 5, asked quietly,
"You base your belief on Kwo Taska's code
message?"
"Yes. You remember, Chief, what the
message said? 'Should Station Three be
discovered by U.S. agents word must be flashed
to the Atlantis immediately. Seizure of the Valley
Forge is planned only for the direst emergency.'
I'm convinced that the hidden helium supply
station, disguised as a wicker-weaving company,
was known as Station Three.
"When we discovered it and confiscated the
drums of gas, we imperiled the Atlantis. Leakage
of helium from it would soon bring it to earth
unless more gas were constantly supplied. We
shut off the supply. The Atlantis seized upon the
Valley Forge to satisfy its pressing need for more
gas.
"Four million cubic feet of helium was
contained in the envelope of the Valley Forge.
The dead weight of her framework must have
been close to 250,000 pounds. The Atlantis could
not drain off, compress and store the dirigible's
helium in midair without supporting this terrific
dead weight in addition to its own. That being
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impossible, the crew of the Atlantis cut the
framework to pieces, thus reducing its weight
gradually while the helium was also taken off.
"By destroying the Valley Forge in that
manner, the Atlantis was able to gain a supply of
gas that will enable it to keep in the air for an
amazingly long period-until, as they plan, they
can land the flying fortress safely in a United
States governed by the Yellow Emperor."
No further details concerning the destruction
of the dirigible in the sky were definitely known;
yet it was a certainty that the attacking Empire
planes had launched off the deck of the Atlantis.
After killing the officers and the crew with an
overwhelming machine-gun attack, men had
transferred to the dirigible, no doubt by means of
parachutes, and taken control. The supporting
gas bag had been sucked rapidly from the airship
to the flying fortress while Empire men carved the
dirigible framework with torches.
The President spoke solemnly. "We are
facing a foe which we are unable to fight. If we
cannot fight, our only alternative is submission.
Yet that we can neither face nor accept."
"The devices which I asked to be
made-?" Jimmy Christopher asked.
"They are now being constructed. All of
them will be ready within the day. But before then
action must be taken. Time grows short!"
The President lifted from his desk his
prepared message to Congress recommending a
declaration of war. Again his eyes rose to Jimmy
Christopher's. "If Congress votes to declare war
today, the Atlantis will strike."
"Mr. President," Z-7 said tensely, "the flying
fortress is almost certainly in the sky above
Washington at this very moment. The
commander must be listening to the broadcast
originating the Senate chamber. When he hears
the vote it will be the signal for the bombs."
A gavel rapped through the Senate
chamber. Its sound brought silence. The
Congressmen in their seats grew quiet. The
spectators in the gallery became motionless. The
hush settled as all eyes turned to the presiding
officer, the Vice-President of the United States.
"I declare this Congress of the United States
of America is now in session."
Long moments passed while the roll was
called. No name lacked a response. The tension
increased as a hush settled down again. Again
the presiding officer rapped his gavel. "Senators
and Representatives of the United States, we are
awaiting the President."
The Senate clock lacked a few minutes of
twelve. Scarcely a sound stirred the air. Through
the eye of radio announcers stationed within the
Senate chamber, millions of people from coast to
coast were watching this scene. Seconds ticked
past.
"We are still awaiting the President of the
United States, ladies and gentlemen of the radio
audience. It was expected that he would appear
before this. He will read his message
recommending-
"Some word has just been brought to the
presiding officers platform, ladies and gentlemen.
He is reading a communication. Now he is
turning to the joint Congress and taking up his
gavel."
The Vice-President's voice boomed: "The
gallery will be cleared at once!"
Startled exclamations followed as the
presiding officer turned and issued orders to men
standing beyond a door. A corps of ushers came
marching into the spectators' gallery a few
moments later.
"Everybody outside. The gallery must be
emptied."
The Vice-President's gavel was rapping
again. "All representatives of the press, all
newspaper reporters and correspondents of
whatever connections will retire from the Senate
chamber!"
Consternation spread. Protests sang
through the air. Men in plain clothes-secret
service operators closed down upon the press
representatives. While confusion reigned within
the Senate chamber, the radio announcers
talked:
"Something very strange and unexpected is
happening here, ladies and gentlemen! We will
continue to give you a running account of this
session-"
Raps from the presiding officer's gavel
punctuated the rustle in the air. "All radio
announcers will leave the Chamber immediately!
All microphones must be removed at once!"
The Senators and Representatives in their
seats peered at each other wonderingly. The
chamber was swarming with stern-faced men in
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plain clothes. Now the gallery was cleared; the
representatives of the press had been ejected, the
bewildered radio announcers were leaving.
Confused minutes passed while the roll was
checked rapidly, each face scrutinized as the
responses came. When the task was almost
completed, the plainclothesmen retreated
through the doors, herding before them the
mystified ushers. Locks clicked. Several Senators
delegated to make sure of absolute secrecy went
the rounds of the Chamber. Finally a hush settled
again.
"Senators and Representatives of this
Congress, I have directed that no record be kept
of what is about to transpire. The words which are
about to be spoken from this platform must
remain a strict secret among you. Your oath of
office fixes this secrecy unshakably upon you.
"Gentlemen, the President of the United
States will not appear before you today. He will
not read the message which he had prepared for
you. He has, instead sent a representative who
will inform you of the extraordinary danger
threatening this country. He is here."
The presiding officer stepped aside, and
opened the one door which remained unlocked.
The young man who entered strode briskly to the
speaker's stand. At sight of him a gasp came
from the collective throat of the assembled
Congress. For, as the young man faced them,
he was seen to be wearing a black velvet mask
across his eyes.
"Gentlemen, the messenger from the
President. He is known to you only as-United
States Intelligence Operator 5!"
He spoke softly. "Gentlemen, I bring you a
personal word from the President of the United
States, a message which he had delegated me to
deliver to you. You have assembled here in
extraordinary joint session to declare war upon
the Yellow Empire. The Presidents message:
"War must not be declared!"
A murmur was stilled as Operator 5's calm
voice continued: "The very existence of this
nation is threatened by an engine of destruction,
controlled by the Yellow Empire's agents, which is
hovering in the sky, directly above this building,
at this very moment. It is the machine which has
destroyed Army and Navy planes, the machine
used for the attack on Bridgeport, the machine
which was used for the abduction of the son of
the President, the machine which annihilated the
Valley Forge last night.
"Its power is greater than that of any other
engine of war ever constructed. At this moment
we are helpless to combat it. It is ready to begin
its work of destruction the instant a declaration of
war is voted. Had you proceeded as expected,
this building, and every one of you, would have
been destroyed.
"A declaration of war at this time, gentlemen,
would mean the destruction of this nation. War
must not be declared!"
Into the silence that followed broke the sharp
rapping gavel,
"I declare this session adjourned!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
UNDER THE RED LIGHT
The studio of Carleton Victor was located on
the top floor of a white stone building on Fifth
Avenue in the Fifties. Only the name of the
eminent photo-portraitist appeared in gold on the
door. No one saw Carleton Victor without an
appointment made weeks in advance.
The world outside was stunned by the failure
of the United States to declare war upon the
Yellow Empire; but the world was shut away from
Carleton Victor this night.
In the studio a red bulb glowed. Over a table
Jimmy Christopher bent, gently rocking a tray
containing a developer formulated from a secret
ingredient. In the clear solution a tiny wafer of film
was drifting. On it an image appeared.
The jangle of a telephone aroused Jimmy
Christopher. He answered the call from an
instrument in the darkroom.
"Z-7. I have just returned by plane from
Washington. I have brought with me the data you
requested from the files of the War Department.
I'll bring it."
Jimmy Christopher returned to his developing
tray. With tweezers he removed the tiny film, no
larger than a twenty-five cent piece. He
immersed it in a fixing bath which cleared it
rapidly; a hot-air blower dried it. He placed it on a
slide, and pushed the frame into a specially
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designed enlarging camera. When he touched a
button, an image appeared on a white screen, the
face of a man in negative.
Jimmy Christopher exposed a sheet of
bromide paper under the image. He developed it,
washed it, covered it with fixing-bath, and studied
it intently. A buzzer sounded.
He walked through the lightless rooms to the
entrance, and drew the bolt. The lean form of Z-7
sidled in. Jimmy Christopher led him back to the
dark-room. A white bulb glared.
"No. Your devices have been completed,
Operator 5, but the Atlantis has not yet been
sighted."
Z-7 removed a thick envelope from his
pocket and removed from it, documents, to which
a photograph was clipped. Jimmy Christopher
studied the photograph silently, nodded with
satisfaction, and turned to the reports.
"These," Z-7 explained, "cover service
records of one Major Benton Vetterick. You will
find that he was court-martialed and dismissed
from the service eight years ago following a crime
committed at New Orleans. At that time a
salvage vessel had brought into port a cargo of
gold bullion taken from the wreck of a sunken
ship.
"Major Benton Vetterick was detailed to
escort the gold to Washington by special army
truck. The next development was surprising.
"The truck was discovered, abandoned, the
gold gone. My operators again took charge.
Quick work brought results. Major Benton
Vetterick was discovered attempting to smuggle
the gold out of the country over the Mexican
border. He had involved his men in a plan of
stealing it, promising them their share. He was
seized by my operators before the plan could
succeed.
"Major Benton Vetterick, as a result, was
court-martialed and cashiered out of the service,
as were the others. Shortly after that he
disappeared, and there is no further record of him.
He is, however, the only man in the files who fits
the information you furnished."
Operator 5 said quietly: "He is the man I
want, Z-7. You may be surprised to hear it, but
Major Benton Vetterick is at the very bottom of
the crisis that's threatening the country tonight. I'll
stake everything on that assumption. Because,
Chief, Major Vetterick and the man we have
known as Fowler Molthrop of the British
Intelligence are and the same man."
"What?" Z-7 stiffened, wet his lips and his
black eyes bulged with amazement on Operator
5. Jimmy Christopher continued:
"I have proof of it. I suspected something
was wrong about Fowler Molthrop the first
moment I met him-and for a good reason. You
remember, I asked if he had ever had military
training and he declared emphatically that he had
not. If he had admitted that, it would have
seemed perfectly natural, but the fact that he
didn't forced me to suspect him.
"Why? His bearing? Appearance?"
"No. His bearing and his appearance are no
longer military-but one of his habits is."
"What do you mean?"
"It's an established fact, Z-7, that righthanded
people are also right-footed. That is, a
right-handed man always steps out with his right
foot first. A left-handed man uses his left foot
first. It is absolutely unvariable-true in every
case except one.
"That exception is found in men who have
had intensive military training. Soldiers are
trained to step with the left foot first, always. After
a period of training, right-handed and left-handed
soldiers alike step with the left foot first. So it
becomes a certainty that if a right-handed man is
left-footed, he has had military training."
"And Molthrop-"
"-Is right-handed. He used his right hand to
shake mine when I met him. But, when he started
toward me, from the rear room of Headquarters
K, Chief, he stepped first with his left foot. Next,
he denied having had military training-and I
knew something was wrong.
"I had Tim Donovan do a bit of shadowing
and checking up. I put him on the job of watching
Molthrop eat.
"Americans, Chief, handle a knife and fork in
a certain way. When cutting meat, the knife is
held in the right hand, the fork in the left. The
knife is then placed on the edge of the plate and
the fork transferred to the right hand. The right
hand then uses the fork to raise the meat to the
mouth."
"Certainly. But-"
"Perhaps you've noticed something odd
about the manner of English people at the table.
You might have felt they had bad table manners,
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but its only a difference in their habit of handling a
knife and fork. Their way is simpler and more
direct. English people take the knife in the right
hand, the fork in the left, and keep them there,
without shifting them, as we do. Fowler Molthrop
was supposed to be a Britisher, yet he used his
knife and fork as no real Britisher would."
"Good Lord!"
"You'll probably find on checking with the
British Intelligence Bureau that Molthrop was
ordered to the United States. But you'll also find,
if you persist, that the real Molthrop has
disappeared. The man who presented credentials
to you as Molthrop is really-Major Benton
Vetterick!"
Jimmy Christopher lifted from the wash-water
the enlargement he had made. It was a full-face
likeness of the man they had known as Fowler
Molthrop. "I took this photograph with my scarf-pin
camera, Chief."
"Your-what?"
Jimmy Christopher smiled. From a box on a
shelf he removed a strange device. It was a
heavy, imported silk neck-tie, with what seemed
to be a crystal pin affixed in it. Jimmy Christopher
pointed out that the pin was in reality the lens of a
tiny camera protruding through the cravat fabric.
The camera was so small that it was entirely
concealed behind the tie when the device was
worn.
"I snapped 'Molthrop's' picture in your office
shortly after I met him, Chief. I merely pulled a
release cord running down beneath my vest, a
silent shutter snapped, and I had his picture. This
evening was the first opportunity I had to develop
the film and enlarge it. Now compare the
enlargement with Vetterick's full-face photograph."
Jimmy Christopher brought into play a tiny
pair of calipers, equipped with a proportionalizing
device. With the tool he measured the length and
breadth of Vetterick's ears, upper lip, chin, eyes,
forehead; and compared them with the
photograph. Each checked.
"Their appearance is utterly unlike," Jimmy
Christopher said, "yet the Lombrosian
measurements prove they're the same man.
Vetterick probably substituted himself for the real
Fowler Molthrop. The reason the Yellow Army's
Station Three was deserted when we reached it,
Chief, and the reason we were fired upon by a
machine-gun in an attempt to kill us, was that
Vetterick sent a warning ahead that we were
coming.
"He must have suspected that I had an
inkling of the truth. He must have feared
discovery. That's probably the reason why he
offered to ride with the President's son in the
parade."
"The devil! The real Molthrop-"
"-is probably dead, lying on the bottom of
the Atlantic. Chief, Benton Vetterick is beyond
doubt one of the commanding factors of the
Yellow Emperor's attacks upon this government.
At this moment he must be aboard the Atlantis."
"I'm going to check up at once!"
"I'll get in touch with you very shortly,"
Jimmy Christopher answered. "In the meantime,
all sky-sounding devices along the Atlantic
seaboard are to be kept in constant operation in
an attempt to pick up the motor-noises of the
Atlantis. Once it is sounded it is to be kept in
range, and its movements followed if possible."
Z-7 turned quickly. Jimmy Christopher
strode with him to the reception-room entrance.
The Washington chief hurried down to the street,
and Jimmy Christopher returned to the darkroom.
He placed the enlarged print of the false
Fowler Molthrop in the dryer, and began studying
the detailed report on the service record of Major
Benton Vetterick.
A buzzer sounded.
Jimmy Christopher rose, puzzled, and
walked through the dark rooms to the entrance of
the studio. On the glass pane a black shadow
was moving; a small man wearing a visored cap
was in the hallway outside. Jimmy Christopher
snapped a light-switch, gave a cautious touch to
his armpit holster, and opened the door.
The small man was dusky-skinned and clad
in the uniform of a messenger. He offered a
heavily wrapped package through the door.
Jimmy Christopher saw that it bore the label of a
photo-supply manufacturing company, as well as
the name and address of Carleton Victor. Labels
proclaimed redly, Urgent! Special!
Jimmy Christopher took the package, signed
the receipt, and closed the door. Swiftly he
turned, placed the package on the table, and
studied it. Bending close, he made sure that the
almost inaudible noise was issuing from the
interior of the package
Clock-work ticking!
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Swiftly Jimmy Christopher turned. He jerked
a Persian rug aside and touched a hidden button
on the wall. Quickly a hinged section of flooring
rose, disclosing blackness below. He dropped
into it, running quickly down a short ladder. The
room beneath the studio was dark and empty.
Jimmy Christopher stepped through a door
into the hallway. On the stairs the hurrying
messenger, paused, startled.
"Go back!"
The messenger stood motionless a moment
His eyes were slightly glittering and dark. He
blinked, and appeared to look bewildered.
"I said, go back!"
The messenger turned without speaking,
and trod up the stairs. Jimmy Christopher followed
him grimly, forcing him through the door into the
reception room of the studio. Immediately the
door closed, the small man turned sharply. Jimmy
Christopher's engaging smile came.
"The package may not be for me after all,"
he said. "I suggest you open it."
Swiftly the man leaped. Jimmy Christopher
side-stepped alertly; but hard, dark fingers seized
his wrist. A quick jerk and his gun was torn away.
The uniformed man sprang back again. His hand
darted; it flashed upward from a pocket gripping a
knife. The blade glittered brightly in the light.
Jimmy Christopher's fingers-clicked the
buckle of his belt. A whisk and the long, narrow
leather sheath flew away from the supple blade of
his rapier. Its needle-point hissed as the Yellow
man tensed. During one wordless second the
package on the table could be heard ticking
quietly.
The messenger leaped with knife upraised.
Jimmy Christopher's rapier snapped and glistened
with red. . . .
The quiet hum of Fifth Avenue was shattered
by the terrific blast of an explosion. The deafening
concussion roared between the buildings as a
swelling gust of fumes broke into the sky. Debris
rained up and down. On the third floor of the
white stone building the pane inscribed "Carleton
Victor" disintegrated into dying fragments.
Screams came from the sidewalks. Traffic
stopped. Police whistles shrilled. Broken plaster
spilled into the avenue; leaves of tin roofing
rattled down. Dust gusted and smoke poured. In
one instant the studio of Carleton Victor had
become a broken shell.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SECRET STRATEGY
The hovering menace of war still blackened
the front pages of the New York newspapers, but
scare-heads shouted the news of the bombing.
FIFTH AVE. STUDIO BLASTED
MUTILATED BODY FOUND!
Carleton Victor Killed by Mysterious
Explosion, Top Floor of Building Rocked
Destruction evidently wrought by an
infernal machine last night demolished the
studio of the noted photographer, Carleton
Victor and killed instantly the man who has
made photo-portraits of more notables than
any other artist of his time. . . .
In the brownstone house in the East Forties
of Manhattan, John Christopher, Ex-Intelligence
Operator Q-6, sat in his chair and read the
account. Nan Christopher looked over his
shoulder. Tim Donovan, at one side of the room,
was busy fumbling with quarters in an effort to
master a feat of legerdemain which Jimmy
Christopher had shown him.
Not even to them was the secret known that
Carleton Victor, photo-portraitist, was in reality
Jimmy Christopher, U.S. Secret Service Operator
5.
"We've scarcely seen Jimmy at all lately,
dad," Nan said quietly. "Sometimes I wish he was
just a plain business man. He'd be with us so
much more then."
"Jimmy's kept pretty busy," John
Christopher said quietly. "They know that boy's
worth in Washington."
Tim Donovan's eyes widened eagerly. "Gee,
dad! Why don't I get older any faster? Waiting
until I'm of age before I can get into the service-
it seems like the day'll never come."
"You'll get there, all right, Tim," John
Christopher smiled. "Z-7 promised it to you,
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didn't he? Anyway, you're lucky. You have it all to
look forward to, and I can only look back."
"Well, I wish Jimmy would come, or at least
call up," Nan said worriedly. "Do you suppose its
because we're twins that I miss him so when he's
away? He's like another me, and when he's not
around, it's as though part of me were missing."
A ring at the door sounded. Tim Donovan
pushed a button that released the electric lock at
the street entrance. He hurried out to the
stairway rail and came back breathless, wideeyed.
"Gee! It's Z-7!"
John Christopher rose quickly as Tim held
the door wide. Z-7 gripped the Irish lad's
shoulder, came quietly to Ex-Operator Q-6, and
clasped his hand. His greetings were quiet,
solemn. John Christopher asked quickly:
"Anything wrong?"
"I-I've come here because-there is bad
news. The worst possible news."
Tim blurted : "Jimmy! Has anything
happened to-?"
Z-7 said slowly, "I'm afraid so, Tim. You've
got to prepare yourselves for a terrible shock. I'm
still so stunned myself, I can hardly realize it,
but- "
Z-7 hesitated. Tim and Nan and Nick Barker
and John Christopher were peering at him with
dread in their eyes. The Washington chief said
slowly: "There is scarcely any doubt of the truth
of it. I hoped there was, but-Operator 5 is-
dead."
They stood stunned, peering into Z-7's white
face, tenable to believe the words they had
heard. Into the tough little Irish lad's eyes crept
glistening tears. Nan Christopher's hand rose
slowly to her parted lips; and Nick Barker came
to her quickly, taking her into his arms. John
Christopher stood stiffly erect, his face ashy, his
fists clenched and white.
"Jimmy-isn't-dead!"
A slight sound came from the door opening
into the hallway. Z-7 looked up to see a startled
light kindle in John Christopher's eyes. He heard
a gasp from Tim Donovan, and whirled around.
Swiftly his hand shot toward his pistol.
A man had appeared silently in the doorway.
He was wearing a black felt hat pulled low. His
eyes were gazing through dark-rimmed
spectacles. His skin was swarthy, the lower part
of his face shadowed by a dark beard. He looked
sinister, menacing, as he stood on the sill,
peering into the room.
Then he spoke; and the sound of his voice
wiped away instantly the grief of Z-7's tidings:
"You're right, dad. Jimmy isn't dead."
It was the voice of Jimmy Christopher.
"Jimmy! Jimmy!"
Tim Donovan cried the name and rushed
toward him. Nan hurried with a cry toward her
brother, and his arm tightened across her
shoulder as he kissed her. John Christopher
came forward slowly, his eyes lighted, his hand
outstretched.
"I knew it wasn't true, my boy."
Z-7 whispered, "Thank God!"
Jimmy Christopher's laughter broke the
tension. He removed his disguise, chided them;
scolded them; and in a few minutes they were
laughing with him. They followed him as he
crossed to draw the window shades; they
listened to his every word as he explained about
the Empire agent, and the delivery of the
explosive.
"I tried to get here sooner, but I couldn't," he
finished. "Lord, Chief, I was afraid you'd think that
was me. I had to keep out of sight-absolutely. I
knew Empire agents were watching the building,
and I tried to shake them. Even so, I'm afraid
they've spotted me through the disguise. Ever
since the explosion, when I tried this masquerade
I've been trying to shake off shadows.
"I planned to let the Empire agents think
they'd killed me, so I could work in absolute
secret, but that plan's all shot now. They've been
watching me. The disguise didn't fool them. This
place is being watched right now. My presence
here is dangerous to you all, but I had to come.
I'm leaving right away, and-"
"What! With the Empire agents waiting to-
?" Z-7 broke off, not daring to speak his fears in
front of the others. Operator 5's bright blue eyes
caught his meaning-a warning based on the
secret code message of Kwo Taska declaring that
Operator 5 must die.
"Chief, listen. The stratospheric balloon, and
the rest of the apparatus is ready, you've said.
We've got to put it to use at once. Send orders to
Mitchell Field that the balloon is to rise tonight. It
is to sail up to the stratosphere and stay there as
long as possible. Radio communication between
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the balloon and the ground must be maintained at
all times.
"If the sky-sounders locate the Atlantis, the
men in the stratospheric balloon are to be kept
informed. They are to rise above the Atlantis-
since the balloon is a lighter craft, it will be able to
do that-and wait. On no account are they to
attack. If they did, they would be shot down
instantly.
"They are to watch for heliograph signals
from the deck of the Atlantis. They are to be
prepared to descend toward the deck of the
Atlantis immediately on signal, or if the craft
appears to be sinking beyond control, or
experiencing difficulty in navigating. They will
lower only far enough for the second basket to
come within reach of the deck of the Atlantis."
"But who will send the signals from the
Atlantis to the balloon?" Z-7 asked.
Jimmy Christopher grew quiet. "Chief, there
is only one plan possible. We dare not attempt to
destroy the Atlantis as long as the President's son
is aboard. He must be removed from danger.
"My plan is the only possible way, rest
assured of that. In order to carry it out, I've got to
get aboard the Atlantis."
"What!"
"Just that, Chief. There is only one
possibility of my ever reaching it. I've already told
you that Empire agents are watching me even
now. I believe their orders to kill me have been
changed, otherwise they would have made the
attempt before now. I believe that they are
planning to grab me and make me a prisoner
aboard the Atlantis. And if that's true, Chief,"
Operator 5 said quietly, "I'll be taken prisoner."
"My boy-I" Z-7 and John Christopher
moved instinctively toward him.
Jimmy Christopher's eyes were glittering.
"It's the only way. I have my plan all perfected. If it
works-" Jimmy Christopher hesitated. "At least
the President's son will be safe."
"But if it doesn't?"
Jimmy Christopher's fingers strayed to the
gold ornament dangling from his watch-chain, the
tiny skull with its eyes of sparkling rubies. He
pressed a hidden spring and, though no slightest
crack had been visible, the top of the skull sprang
up on a concealed hinge. From the cavity inside
Jimmy Christopher lifted a tiny sphere.
"If your plan fails, you'll use that?" Z-7 asked
in a whisper.
Operator 5 had once explained to Z-7 the
nature of that small ball. It was a thin-walled bulb
containing a concentration of diphenolchlorasine,
a liquid which changes instantly into gas in
contact with air, one undetectable wisp of which
produces instant death. A slight pressure of the
fingers would crush the bulb; a fall to the floor
would break it, and invisible death would instantly
fill the air.
It was Operator 5's precaution against an
emergency from which there could be no other
escape. Should circumstances ever arise making
the shattering of that little silver sphere
necessary, those near Operator 5 would perish.
And he would die with them.
Operator 5 replaced the silver pellet in the
cavity in the golden skull. The cap clicked down.
His eyes rose.
"There is no time to be lost, Chief. Here are
detailed orders for the navigator of the
stratospheric balloon." He passed the sheets to
Z-7. "I'm on my way."
Z-7 stood wordless. Jimmy Christopher
smiled slowly. He took Nan Christopher into his
arms and kissed her warm lips. He gripped John
Christopher's hand.
"Luck my boy."
"Thanks, Dad."
Tim Donovan was gazing wide-eyed into
Operator 5's face. He followed wordlessly as
Jimmy Christopher turned and walked down the
stairs. At the outer door they hesitated, and
Operator 5 closed his hand tightly on the tough
little Irish lad's shoulder. "So-long, boy."
Tim Donovan's throat tightened so that he
could scarcely answer. "So-long, Jimmy."
"There's a chance, Tim," Operator 5 said
slowly "that I'll never come back. If I don't, well-
it won't be long before you're taken into the
Intelligence Service, Tim. When that day comes,
just-think of me. You'll give it everything you've
got, Tim, I know you will. You'll make the best
Intelligence Agent this country ever had."
"Nobody could ever be better than you,
Jimmy! Nobody ever could!"
"Good boy, Tim. And if I don't come back
you- you'll watch out for Nan, and stick close to
Dad, won't you?"
"Sure, Jimmy."
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Tim Donovan stood with his hard fists
clenched as Jimmy Christopher turned to the
door. He could not move as the door opened, as
Jimmy Christopher paused on the sill and looked
back smiling. Then he saw the door close.
In Tim's ringing ears sounded footfalls on the
sidewalk. They moved off into the darkness and
merged into the night.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TWELVE MILES UP
Jimmy Christopher strode quickly down the
dimly lighted street, away from the door of the
brownstone house. He glanced back once, as
though to glimpse a picture to keep stored in his
memory. The cold thought still persisted that he
might never again return there.
Passing through the gloom of the side street,
he sensed with uncanny certainty that he was
being watched and followed. Deliberately he
refrained from glancing back. Walking quickly
westward, he turned north, and continued up Fifth
Avenue until he reached Fifty-ninth Street and
Central Park.
The prickling sensation on his spine
continued. He thought grimly: "Come on. Grab
me. I'm waiting for it."
He left the paved walk which led him into the
park and followed a bridle-path. The way was
dark and lonely. He walked with head lowered,
alert. He peered into the darkness of a bridge
which crossed the tanbarked lane and his
muscles jerked as he glimpsed a furtive
movement.
Deliberately he walked ahead, closer to the
forms lurking in the shadow. The span of the
bridge closed over him-thicker blackness like a
shroud. And then, suddenly, the attack came.
Black figures sprang from the sides of the
path. Jimmy Christopher was aware of the
movement a moment before he allowed himself to
react. As he straightened and whirled, groping
arms fastened upon him. He grappled with four
dark figures that crushed him down.
It was an onslaught which Jimmy Christopher
deliberately allowed to overwhelm him. He fought
only to lead his assailants to believe that he had
been taken by surprise. In a moment he was
thrown to the tanbark and pinioned down. There
had been no sound; but now, from one of the
shadowy men, came a low whistle.
A car rolled swiftly along the road which
crossed the span, and paused. A rope flicked
down. Jimmy Christopher simulated
unconsciousness as it was looped under his
arms. Jerk by jerk he was raised to the railing of
the bridge above. There hands gripped him
again.
He was quickly shifted into the car. The door
clacked shut. Dark figures hovered close above
him as he heard the motor whir. Thin strands
were whipped about his ankles and wrists. A gag
was thrust into his mouth and bound in place. All
this Jimmy Christopher submitted to without a
struggle.
As the car rolled on through the park his gun
was taken from him. His heart stilled as hands
passed over his clothing in search of other
weapons. His belt was not touched; the secret
pockets were not found; and be began to breathe
more easily again.
Soon the car stopped. He glimpsed another
vehicle standing beside the sedan-an
ambulance with doors yawning. He was placed
on a litter and covered to the eyes with a sheet.
Next he was slid into the ambulance and the
doors clicked shut.
Again a motor hummed. The ambulance
swerved while Operator 5 lay in pitch darkness.
The car jolted over car-tracks, swerved again, and
continued along a street without turning. At last
its brakes creaked as it stopped.
Jimmy Christopher no longer pretended
unconsciousness; he stared widely as two men
slid the litter out of the ambulance. They gave him
scarcely a glance; he lay helpless beneath the
sheet. He was carried into a building and into an
elevator car. A motor whined as the cage lifted.
Far above street level, he was taken from
the elevator and carried through the door of an
apartment. The two men who had accompanied
him, and the two others, worked with silent
quickness. They snatched the sheet off Operator
5, lifted him off the litter, and carried him to an
open window outside which the iron framework of
a fire-escape could be seen.
No ladder rose upward; the apartment was
located on the top floor. In the darkness, Jimmy
Christopher saw a huge basket resting on the
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platform; he caught the faint glisten of two wires
fastened to bails on opposite sides of it. He was
hoisted into it.
One of the men raised a flashlight and
tapped its button. The flickering gleam passed
straight upward-a signal. Suddenly the basket
jerked; suddenly it lifted. Startled, Jimmy
Christopher saw the heads of the four men vanish
downward over its edge. Wind flowed past him.
With breathless swiftness the basket whisked
upward into the night sky. Cold wind whirred
around it. The city sank far below. On all sides
now there was only empty blackness-the
darkness of space. In the midst of it, alone in the
basket, Jimmy Christopher soared.
Singing wires were lifting him into the
zenith-toward the Yellow Emperor's Atlantis.
Huddled, Jimmy Christopher peered upward.
In the sky above dim gray masses of clouds were
floating, glowing vaguely with the light of the
obscured moon and the shine from the distant
ground. They loomed closer.
Abruptly Jimmy Christopher found himself
engulfed in the clammy mist. It surged past him,
downward, billowing fog that thickened and
thinned. The supporting wires were still singing,
but now the pitch of their sound had risen,
indicating that their shortened length was bringing
the basket near the underside of the hovering sky
fortress.
Jimmy Christopher sensed that the speed of
his upward travel was slowing. For a moment he
seemed to hang motionless in space. Then,
slowly, the climb resumed. And, peering upward
still, he saw vague lines emerge from the mist.
A flat surface loomed above. Presently
Jimmy Christopher found the basket enclosed by
four walls. Dark mist still flowed below. Again the
basket came to a pause, hanging directly beneath
the flat surface. Through circular holes in it the
supporting wires passed.
A grating noise turned Jimmy Christopher's
gaze downward. The faint lights of the earth were
disappearing as two great leaves of metal swung
on hinges, closing upward like a double door.
They swung shut and enclosed the dangling
basket in a great dark space, walled with metal
on all sides.
Then a grinding sounded again, and
overhead light appeared. Two more leaves
swung, opening the space above. Jimmy
Christopher looked up into a square, metal-walled
well. Ladders zigzagged on one side of it. Down
the ladders three men came.
Two of them wore uniforms of the Yellow
Army; and they were following a man garbed in
civilian clothing. His bearded face turned down
toward Jimmy Christopher.
Jimmy Christopher's eyes clouded as he
watched. A mechanism slid downward from the
lowest platform on which the men paused.
Another ladder. The two Empire men reached for
the wires supporting the cage, and swung it
close. It rose to their level. They seized it,
gripped Jimmy Christopher, and lifted him out.
Sharp knives pressed upon his bonds. His
ankles and wrists were freed, the gag removed
from his mouth. As he stood, looking up, the two
Empire officers took positions beside him, leveling
automatics. One of them commanded in English:
"Go up."
Jimmy Christopher was gazing at the face of
the man above him. That man spoke quietly; yet
his voice rang with a note of triumph.
"I bid you good evening, Operator 5."
"Good evening," Jimmy Christopher said
softly, "Major Benton Vetterick."
The bearded face blackened with a scowl.
The man who had been known as "Fowler
Molthrop" was no longer wearing spectacles; his
appearance had changed so that a resemblance
to his photograph, taken during his service with
the United States Army, was discernible.
He barked a command in an Oriental
language to the two Empire officers. They
repeated their order to Jimmy Christopher: "Go
up!" He obeyed without hesitation. As he
climbed the zigzagging flights of metal stairs,
Benton Vetterick preceded him to the top
platform.
A door opened above, and he stepped
through it. He found himself again in open air,
but the air difficult to breathe, and cold. The moon
was shining directly overhead. In the silver
luminescence the deck of the Atlantis spread
smoothly.
Vetterick was facing Jimmy Christopher.
Behind and around him loomed a strange scene.
The air was only slightly misty; the extent of the
Atlantis could be seen. Its deck broader and
longer than that of any battleship, ended at a
railing beyond which empty space opened.
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At intervals slender rods stood; and to the
tops of them huge gas-envelopes were affixed.
The very number of them startled Jimmy
Christopher. They swayed slightly in the wind,
tremendous drop-shaped spheres. Beneath them,
seeming small in comparison, were cubical
structures, through the windows of which lights
were shining, shafting upon the deck. The huge
doors of several stood open, disclosing them to
be hangars. Black-uniformed men even then
rolled into its shed an airplane of which the wings
were folded back. Beyond, scores of other planes
were visible, packed closely in the enclosed
space, machine-guns gleaming behind their
motionless propellers.
Guns in the hands of the two Empire officers
prodded his back. Benton Vetterick marched
ahead, toward one of the superstructures.
Jimmy Christopher saw now that the outer
surfaces were a dull black and knew that the color
was a means of heating the rooms inside by
absorbed rays of the sun while the Atlantis soared
into the sub-zero temperatures of the
stratosphere. He was directed toward a door.
Benton Vetterick opened the way; he strode
in. The room was brilliantly-lighted. Its inner walls
glistened like silver. On one of them black panels
were affixed, bearing electrical indicators. In front
of it sat a desk, also of metal. At Jimmy
Christopher's appearance a man, uniformed in
black, his decorations denoting high office in the
Empire Command, came to his feet and turned
glittering eyes.
Vetterick shut the door snugly. "This is the
commander of the Atlantis, Operator 5," he said
harshly. "You are, you know, his guest."
The commander smiled thinly. "I am indeed
honored, Operator 5."
He turned to a microphone on his desk
clicked a cam, and uttered a guttural command.
There was silence in the room a moment; then
came the sounds of a throaty hissing, a low
rushing; and a tremor passed through the metallic
flooring. The commander turned to peer at the
indicator board, and saw the needles of the
indicators shifting.
"I have just given the command," he
explained in accented English, "to ascend.
Within a short time the Atlantis will be hovering in
the stratosphere."
Benton Vetterick was smiling crookedly. "A
necessary preliminary before we offer you the
freedom of these rooms, Operator 5," he said.
And he snapped to the two Empire officers just
inside the door: "Search him."
Swift hands felt Jimmy Christopher's
clothing. He grew cold as the searching fingers
passed from his ankles to his neck. Presently the
Empire officers stepped back.
"Nothing of importance, sir," one of them
reported.
"Good. Inform your guards that this
gentleman is confined to the commander's
quarters. He will not be allowed upon deck
without permission from me. That is all."
The Empire officers withdrew. Vetterick kept
smiling. The eyes of the commander of the
Atlantis were fixed brightly on Jimmy
Christopher's face.
"The President of the United States has been
unwilling to attempt an attack upon the Atlantis
because his son is aboard, and he will be even
more unwilling to do so now that it would mean
your death as well, Operator 5."
"You may rest assured," Jimmy Christopher
declared, "that the question of life or death is of
no consequence whatever."
Vetterick stepped closer. "You heard me
order you confined to the commander's quarters.
You will find it quite unpleasant to attempt to
disobey. The Atlantis at this moment is rising in
the sky at a fast rate of speed. The air on deck is
becoming rarefied-soon it will be unbreathable,
insufficient to support human life. The
temperature is dropping swiftly, and shortly the
thermometer will stand at approximately seventy
degrees below zero. As long as you remain
within these walls, which are hermetically sealed
and air-conditioned, you will be quite comfortable,
but death by suffocation and freezing awaits you
over the sill."
"I am fully aware of that," Jimmy Christopher
said.
"Yes, I believe you are. I regret that I am
unable to take you on a tour of inspection of the
Atlantis, much as I would be proud to, since it is
my own creation. You will find it a scientific
marvel. I would explain to you the action of the
pumps and automatic valves which control the
flow of gas. I would display to you the sixty
powerful motors which drive the Atlantis through
the sky. I would point out to you the action of the
gyroscopic stabilizer which keeps the craft always
on an even keel. You would be interested, too,
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I'm sure in the cloud-generating machines which
are used to hide the craft in the sky. There is not
a detail which would not absorb you, especially
the metal which has been used in the construction
of the Atlantis. It is an alloy far lighter and
stronger than any other ever developed."
"I quite agree," Jimmy Christopher said
frankly, "that the Atlantis is all you claim for it."
"Perhaps later I will conduct you through it.
You will find that the gas-bags above the deck
supply only a part of the lifting force which keeps
the Atlantis in the air. Through them its upward
and downward motions are controlled; but its
dead weight is supported by an immense volume
of captive gas within the shell upon which you are
standing. To be sure, there are storage spaces,
barracks, mess halls and supplies of ammunition
below deck but most of the deck covers the gas
chambers. The Atlantis has not once gone to
earth since it rose into the air on the other side of
the Pacific more than a month ago. When it lands
for the first time, it will touch soil to rechristen it
the United States of the Yellow Empire."
"Very interesting," Jimmy Christopher
murmured.
Benton Vetterick opened a door and
gestured Jimmy Christopher into a narrow
corridor. He walked to another door, and Vetterick
opened it for him. He stepped into a room plainly
but comfortably furnished.
"Your living quarters-for the time being."
Then Vetterick's eyes narrowed. He stepped
closer. He said, tersely: "I imagine I slipped
away from you in the nick of time. I was ready to
board the Atlantis by that time anyway. I had
learned the most important fact I was after-that
the United States is utterly unprepared, even with
secret devices of armament, to combat the
Atlantis."
Jimmy Christopher said softly: "I hold you to
be a man of some distinction, Major Vetterick.
You are, unfortunately, the greatest traitor to his
country the United States has ever produced!"
Vetterick's eyes became slits.
"I am proud to hear you say that-proud! It
is my wish to see the United States crushed down
in defeat. It will be my pleasure to see the nation
reduced to chaos, as that same nation reduced
my own life to ruin!"
"You feel that your court-martial and
dismissal was unjust, Major?"
Vetterick laughed sharply. "I see you know
all? Very well! Unjust? An action like that taken
against a man who had devoted his life to loyal
service to his country? I declare from the depths
of my soul that it was unjust!
"I'd known Army service from the day I was
old enough to enlist. I've sweated in the tropics,
I've damned near died of fever, I've fought down
native uprisings in the Philippines, I've lain at the
point of death for weeks on end, all in loyal
service. All while being paid a contemptible
pittance! All-"
"You chose the lot of an Army man, Major.
You certainly suffered no less than hundreds of
others have suffered, if as much. They have
remained loyal-and they have not measured the
value of their service by the dollars paid them.
Those men are the glory of the Army. Men like
you are its plague."
Vetterick did not move. "What you say will
suffice. I will tell you one thing more. Since that
day when I was stripped of my decorations, with
my fellow officers looking on, I have planned
retribution. Now I am holding the whip hand,
destroying the nation that destroyed me. It was I
who evolved the plans for the construction of the
Atlantis-I! It was I who went to the Yellow
Emperor with those plans. It was I who created
this most powerful engine of war ever conceived!
"And now I hold the destiny of the United
States in my hands. I have chosen to destroy it.
Destroy it I will and I alone will reign supreme over
the new empire that springs out of its ruins!"
A mad light flared in Benton Vetterick's eyes.
Jimmy Christopher met his glassy stare levelly.
Suddenly Vetterick turned, and stepped out the
door, shutting it tightly.
Silence filled the room where Jimmy
Christopher stood. He smiled wryly as he moved
about. Though blank walls looked upon him, he
sensed that he was being watched. He peered
out the window and saw only empty, black space
beyond. He moved back when the click of a latch
sounded. A door on the opposite side of the room
opened. A young man stepped through. He
paused, smiling and abashed.
He was the son of the President of the
United States.
Jimmy Christopher smiled, stepped forward,
and gripped his hand. "I should have listened to
you, about not leading the parade. I apologize
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for being so cock-sure and for overriding your
objections."
"Let it go at that." Jimmy Christopher urged,
smiling. "I'm glad you're well and comfortable;
that's something. There have been worse
conditions under which one might be held
prisoner-"
He paused quickly, glancing about. He still
felt the uncanny sensation that he was being
watched, or listened to. He moved about the
room quickly, peering under the metal table, and
under the bed. He found no sign of a hidden
microphone; but he returned to the side of the
President's son with the conviction that some
such device must be operating.
He took pen and paper from a writing desk
and wrote rapidy: "Keep up a running fire of small
talk. Don't discuss any matter of importance
involving state affairs."
The son of the President read and nodded
understandingly. They began a conversation,
glancing about warily. Jimmy Christopher wrote
rapidly again, and handed the sheet to the
President's son:
Be ready to act quickly and follow my
directions to the letter at any time. It may involve
a grave risk, but there is no other way, and I
need your closest cooperation. We must rely
upon their feeling of confidence that we cannot
possibly escape. Play up to that idea-act
resigned to your situation, pretend that it is
hopeless, and say nothing that might arouse
suspicion. Everything depends upon the element
of surprise when the moment comes for action.
Still they talked, while the President's son
read. Jimmy Christopher tore the sheets to
flakes, and dropped them into his inside coat
pocket, quickly, as a sound came from the
corridor.
Footfalls approached. The door-latch rattled.
The almond-eyed face of a Empire officer looked
in.
"The compliments of the commander of the
Atlantis," he said in thick accents. "He wishes me
to inform you that we have now entered the
stratosphere and that the earth lies approximately
twelve miles below us.
The door closed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DEATH IN THE ZENITH
A military guard was posted about Mitchell
Field, Long Island. Lights were dimmed. In the
faint moonglow, a silver bag swayed in the wind.
It hovered loosely, held to earth by focusing
cables fastened to a spherical gondola; and
beside the gondola sat a wicker basket. Another
guard surrounded the aircraft.
Behind the curtained windows of the
operations office, Major Thomas stood reading a
radiogram in code. Beside him, erect and alert,
stood Lieutenant Commander Crawford, detailed
to navigate the stratospheric balloon constructed
upon the specifications of Operator 5. Their eyes
rose from the cipher to the two faces on the other
side of the desk-those of an elderly man and a
boy.
"Mr. Christopher," said Major Thomas, "the
President's orders will, of course, be honored.
You and young Donovan will accompany the
balloon."
John Christopher smiled slowly. Beside him
stood Tim Donovan. The Irish lad's face was
solemn and anxious. John Christopher said
softly: "I'm very grateful to the President."
John Christopher had acted quickly,
following Operator 5's departure. He had
communicated to the White House his urgent
request that he and Tim Donovan be allowed to
ascend in search of the Atlantis.
Major Thomas led the way from the office.
They strode across the field toward the gondola
and the bag swaying in the wind. Lieutenant
Commander Crawford went immediately to the
second basket and checked its contents against
the written orders of Operator 5, which he held in
his hand. Satisfied, he turned back.
"Gentlemen," he said, "please enter the
gondola."
John Christopher extended his hand to Z-7.
The Washington Chief gripped it tightly. Tim
Donovan's small hand pressed Z-7's moistly.
They turned, climbed the short ladder, and
entered the spherical gondola through the circular
opening. Lieutenant Commander Crawford
followed them in.
Major Thomas shouted orders. Men of the
ground crew of the field hurried forward, seizing
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the bags of ballast holding the balloon to the
ground. The big bag fluttered; suddenly and
swiftly it began to rise.
The bag shot upward; the gondola rose like
a silver bubble in the air; swinging, dangling,
trailing rose the basket below it. Connecting the
basket with the gondola were two lines of flexible
tubing; two heavily insulated conductors; a
telephone line. Within the space of a moment the
balloon whisked far above the field and became a
shadow floating against the moonlit heavens.
Major Thomas's eyes followed it anxiously.
His stern lips mumbled. "Gentlemen," he said
aloud, "Good luck!" Z-7 stood gravely silent.
Inside the gondola John Christopher's gaze
kept on the altimeter which was recording the
bag's swift climb. Tim Donovan perched
anxiously, watching Lieutenant Commander
Crawford. The officer was seated at a compact
radio receiver, earphones on his head. He
adjusted dials leaning close to a microphone.
"Can you hear us, KX?"
In the earphones the voice of the dispatcher
of Mitchell Field sounded. "I hear you clearly, G.
We will maintain constant communication."
"Any report from the sounder?"
"The sounder is still trained on the Atlantis.
The response is very faint, indicating that the
Atlantis has risen to the stratosphere. Its location,
approximately, is above Newport News. It
appears to be hovering almost motionless."
"I am setting the course."
Lieutenant Commander Crawford touched
switches and turned a wheel. In the air beneath
the gondola, within a protecting framework, a
propeller pivoted and began to spin. As the
gondola twisted, the officer turned the wheel and
compensated, keeping a direct course. The
indicators were still recording the ascent of the
balloon as well as its related horizontal
movement. "Calling KX. Our course is set. Any
further report from the sounders?"
"The response from the Atlantis has become
almost inaudible. The craft is evidently coming to
a standstill. Lacking further developments,
proceed along your course toward Newport
News."
"Height six thousand," Crawford radioed.
Then, "Height, eight thousand."
"Calling G. Your course still checks. You will
rise as far as possible."
Presently: "Height, fifteen thousand."
Lieutenant Commander Crawford turned a
valve. The closeness of the air began slowly to
disappear. Again he inspected the valves and
indicators of two gas-drums within the gondola,
and checked over the connections of a bank of
compact, powerful storage batteries. He returned
to the radio.
"Height, twenty thousand. Our position?"
"Nearing Delaware Bay, course held."
"Report from the Atlantis?"
"Sounding has ceased. There is no further
response. Continue as directed."
Another hour passed. Except for the droning
of the officers voice and the faint whirring of the
propeller below, there was no sound within the
gondola.
"Height, fifty-five thousand. We are rising
more slowly. Can you still hear us?"
"Perfectly. You are nearing Newport News.
Cast off ballast in order to ascend as far as
possible."
The officer labored. John Christopher and
Tim Donovan remained silent. The window near
the base of the gondola flooring showed them
nothing save darkness. "Height, sixty thousand."
They were still rising.
Another wait, while indicator needles
flickered, while readings were taken and
checked.
"Height, sixty-five thousand."
"You are floating twelve miles up. You have
already surpassed the altitude records of Settle
and the first and second Russian balloonists, as
well as Piccard."
"Sixty-eight thousand."
"You are now higher than the Syrians rose.
Your height is almost thirteen miles. Data?"
"Temperature outside the gondola,
approximately eighty below. Temperature inside,
fifty-six. We are ceasing to rise."
"You are to navigate in search of the
Atlantis. If you sight it, you are to keep watch
upon it without being seen, if possible.
Soundings on the Atlantis are still negative."
"We are now floating at a constant level,
navigating horizontally. We are keeping watch
out for the Atlantis."
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John Christopher was hunched at the
porthole which opened downward. Lieutenant
Commander Crawford snapped out lights until
only a dim glow shone in front of him. Through
powerful binoculars, John Christopher peered
downward, scanning the black space below. For
long minutes he searched the emptiness of the
stratosphere.
John Christopher remained at the port,
never for a moment taking his eyes from the
powerful binoculars. Tim Donovan perched beside
him, eyes anxious, silent.
Another report lightninged down from the
gondola to the distant earth. "The Atlantis has
not yet been sighted."
Then silence again, while the balloon drifted
in the wind of the stratosphere, while the grim
hunt went on.
Sunlight streamed upon the metal deck of
the Atlantis. A shaft shone into the room where
Jimmy Christopher stood alone. He had spent not
a moment in sleep; he had waited anxiously for
the coming of light. Now, through crystal clear
glass, he looked out upon empty space, at
breath-taking beauty.
The sky was a dome of color without
brilliance. In it the sky was shining, yet its light
was such that Jimmy Christopher could peer
directly at it without straining his eyes. The dome
of deep azure was edged by misty blue and white,
its base resting upon the horizon. Below lay a
lighter blue expanse and clouds.
To Jimmy Christopher it seemed that the
universe was upside down, for the direction of the
earth, far below, looked like the sky as he had
known it before.
He turned from the outer window to an inner
one, and peered over the deck of the Atlantis.
Across the metal surface men were moving,
weird creatures who seemed to have come from
another world. They were covered with heavy
uniforms to keep out the murderous cold; to their
faces gas-masks were attached, enabling them to
breathe oxygen from small tanks carried on their
backs; All around the deck of the Atlantis these
grotesque men of the stratosphere were busy.
Inside the room it was warm and comfortable
as any room on earth might be. Jimmy
Christopher moved to the door which connected
with the deck. When he tried to open it, the higher
air-pressure around him resisted his efforts. It
took all his strength to ease the door inward a
fraction of an inch.
As it yielded, a sharp sucking sound
resulted, and air gusted out through the crack. At
the same instant a bitter coldness penetrated into
the room. Jimmy Christopher allowed the door to
rest again in its socket and turned away. The son
of the President entered from the adjoining room.
He smiled wanly.
"Do you notice that there seems to be an
unusual bustle on deck? Those men out there are
preparing for something. Something is about to
happen-I'm sure of it."
"Yes, I've felt that. I-"
A knock sounded, and immediately the
opposite door opened. It was Benton Vetterick
who entered. His twisted smile was unfriendly,
his eyes triumphant.
"During the night wireless communications
were received from the Yellow Emperor. We
were informed that the Yellow Naval Fleet was
holding itself ready for a swift run toward the
shores of the United States. They are steaming
on their way even now. This morning the Atlantis
is to begin an attack upon the United States which
will open the way for the planned invasion of the
Yellow Army."
Jimmy Christopher said quietly: "Indeed?"
"We have been hovering above Newport
News all night. We are now proceeding out to
sea. Beneath us the Atlantic Fleet of the United
States Navy is stationed. We are now proceeding
to a point directly above the flagship. The
compensating telescopic sights of our bombcarriers
are training upon it at this moment."
"We will bomb it within a short while. One
after another we will send the ships of the Atlantic
Fleet to the bottom of the sea. It will be the work
of only a few minutes-an hour at the most.
Immediately after the Atlantic Fleet is destroyed,
we will proceed to the West Coast and annihilate
the Pacific Fleet. These two attacks will leave the
United States almost without naval defense."
Jimmy Christopher's face went white.
"Once the naval forces of the United States
are destroyed, the way will be open for an
invasion by our Yellow Army. The invasion will be
swift, and successful. That is inevitable. Within
two weeks at the most, the Yellow Emperor will
reign over the United States; the gold stores of
your nation will be in our hands; the war will have
ended."
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Vetterick was turning away when the door
opened again. The man who entered was partly
clad in one of the fleecy, cold-resisting uniforms of
the Atlantis' crew. He was carrying his gas-mask
and above his furry collar his face shone yellow.
His thin lips smiled in cruel triumph as he peered
at Jimmy Christopher.
"We meet again, my friend," Kwo Taska
said.
Jimmy Christopher's engaging smile came.
"It must annoy you, Kwo Taska," he answered,
"to find me still alive."
The Asiatic shrugged. "Your life and
presence aboard the Atlantis will remain an
advantage to us only a short while, my friend."
His manner became brisk and he turned to
Vetterick. "Let us waste no more time, Major. The
attack upon the Atlantic Fleet will begin shortly. I,
for one, consider it a sight not to miss." His eyes
gleamed at Jimmy Christopher again. "We shall
witness the destruction of the fleet from the rail."
He turned, and marched away along the
corridor. Vetterick's twisted smile came again.
Without speaking, he followed Kwo Taska from
the room. The door closed upon silence.
Jimmy Christopher's shadowed eyes sought
the President's son's. His fingers strayed
unconsciously to the gold ornament on his watchchain.
His thumb nail pressed lightly on the
hidden spring-so lightly that the cap did not flick
up to expose the silver ball of death. The
President's son came toward him anxiously.
"Can't-can't we do something?"
Jimmy Christopher turned to the inner
window. He peered upward through the pane,
scanning the vast dome of deep color above. For
a long moment he stood motionless, eyes
narrowed, gaze sweeping through space.
Suddenly, then, an exclamation passed his lips.
High against the blue dome, almost invisible
in the expanse of color, a tiny dot was floating.
The stratospheric balloon!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ON THE ATLANTIS
Sunlight beat upon the blackened shell of the
balloon hovering in the rarefied air of the
stratosphere. Through the port in its underside
widened eyes peered. John Christopher hunched
at the port. Tim Donovan crowded close beside
him. At the radio equipment Lieutenant
Commander Crawford was perched tensely,
speaking into the microphone. "The Atlantis is
directly below!"
Through the ether a strained voice
answered: "Stand by for signals!"
John Christopher pressed the binoculars
hard to his eyes. The lenses brought close to him
the deck of the Atlantis. He saw weird figures
moving, silver bags glistening in the sunlight, the
vast machine of destruction moving slowly
through space. With his heart pounding heavily,
scarcely breathing, scarcely daring to blink his
eyelids, he watched . . .
Jimmy Christopher peered upward through
the panes at the tiny dot floating against the dome
of blue. He stepped back alertly. He brought his
lips close to the ear of the son of the President
and spoke in a terse whisper.
"Do exactly as I tell you! Don't waste a
second when we begin moving! This is the
chance I've been waiting for our only chance!"
He turned again. Quickly he lifted one foot,
and twisted at the heel of his shoe. From a cavity
within the lifts he removed a small prismatic lens
which sparkled in the light like a huge diamond.
From the other heel he drew a circular mirror of
amazing brilliance, over which a shutter
arrangement was affixed. He clicked the two
together and held it snugly in his hand.
Again he stepped close to the Presidents
son. "Hold the door open for me-move fast, or
the cold will get us, but-we've got to do it!"
His hands gripped the knob of the door as he
peered out the adjacent window. The uniformed
crew of the Atlantis was clustered at the farther
end of the deck. None of them was near. Jimmy
Christopher pulled at the knob with all his
strength. Again the sharp sucking sound came as
the panel left its socket. He wrenched it back and
the son of the President braced against it, holding
it open, as air soughed out, as dazing cold
whipped in.
Jimmy Christopher's lungs began to beat as
he paused on the sill. It was as though every vital
thing in the room was being sucked out into the
emptiness of space. The terrific rush of air lasted
only a moment before the pressure inside and out
was equalized: and then breathing became a
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labor. Operator 5's heart fluttered; he gasped; he
felt himself choking.
At the same time the terrific cold of the
stratosphere struck him like a blow. Instantly the
hands became numb; his body shrank as the
awful chill struck it. The very quietness of the
cold was a terror-a silent force that enveloped
the body and held it inexorably.
Each breath a struggle, his body stiffening
with each second, Jimmy Christopher fluttered
the shutter of the heliograph. The sun's rays,
flashing from the mirror, scattered through the
diamond-like lens and back into the sky. Swiftly
the crystal eye blinked, spelling out a message.
Through empty space the flashes sped, while
Jimmy Christopher peered upward in agony at the
dot hovering above.
At the port of the stratospheric gondola John
Christopher still hunched with binoculars socketed
against his eyes. A gasp broke though his lips.
"Signals!"
Lieutenant Commander Crawford barked into
the microphone: "Signals flashing from the deck
of the Atlantis!"
In the lenses of John Christopher's
binoculars the spot of gleaming light flickered.
Then from the ground flashed an answer:
"Descend-at-once!"
Crawford barked into the microphone:
"Verifying the message: 'Descend at once!' "
From the ground: "Follow orders!"
John Christopher whispered, "It's coming
again. 'Descend at once!-Operator 5!' "
Tim Donovan gasped. "It's Jimmy! Gee, it's
Jimmy!" His eyes rounded as he peered down at
the sparkling spot. "Jimmy!"
Lieutenant Commander Crawford quickly
thrust at a valve. A resonant hissing followed.
The needles of the indicators flickered. At the
same time Crawford threw switches, and placed
his hand on the cock of a gas-drum, waiting
tensely. His eyes clung to the wavering
indicators.
"We are descending toward the deck of the
Atlantis!"
Jimmy Christopher tore himself backward.
The son of the President, gasping desperately,
pushed the door shut.
The room was bitterly cold, a cold more
intense, more penetrating than Jimmy Christopher
had ever known before. His face had taken on a
blue cast; his fingers were almost immovable.
He forced himself to stride stiffly back and forth
across the room, and he gestured anxiously to
the son of the President to follow him. Their
hearts were trip-hammering, their breath beating
in and out of their open mouths.
A sighing sound in the room was bringing
warmth and breathable air. The air-conditioning
apparatus was again building up pressure and
supplying oxygen to the metal cubicle. Gradually
the sharp, stinging sensation left their bodies;
they were able to breathe almost normally. Jimmy
Christopher returned to the window.
The dot hovering against the dome of blue
had grown larger. It was sinking rapidly. From an
oblique direction it was settling toward the far end
of the deck of the Atlantis. A propeller was
striking sparks from the sunlight; the fat silver
bag was glistening. Minute by minute the size of
the balloon increased in perspective, its gondola
bobbing, its lower basket swinging.
Jimmy Christopher brought his prickling lips
close to the President's son's ear. "Be ready to
run out across deck when I give the word. Move
as fast as you can! Get into the basket-and don't
wait for me."
"Not wait-?"
"I'll have to hang back a second. Get into
that basket first. Inside you'll find coveralls-get
into one pair of them. Put on an oxygen mask.
Don't waste a minute, or you'll suffocate and
freeze. As soon as I give the word-run!"
Again Jimmy Christopher peered into the
blue dome. The balloon was dropping rapidly,
drawing still closer to the deck of the Atlantis. At
the farther rail the crew was busy. Their officers
were directing their movements by manual
signals, peering downward into space. None of
them suspected an approach from above. None of
them dreamed that another craft was coursing
through the stratosphere. Lower the balloon
swung.
Jimmy Christopher whipped back.
"The basket'll touch in another minute!"
He stepped briskly to the center of the room.
He stood erect on the metal flooring, and plucked
at the knot of a thread near the seam of his
trousers, just below the pocket. He pulled it
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away, a short length of black. Immediately a
strange thing happened.
Black powder poured down from under the
cuff of Jimmy Christopher's trousers and collected
in a little mound. A minute passed before the last
of it dripped from the flexible tube concealed in
the seam. It looked like merely a handful of black
dust, but upon it Jimmy Christopher was relying
heavily.
He whipped off his neck-tie. From the band
in the rear of his collar he removed a short strip of
metal. It was a quarter of an inch wide and six
inches long, and dull-coated. One end of it was
tipped with a white, beaded substance.
From the cuff of his coat Jimmy Christopher
took a small, square piece of what appeared to
be emery paper. He struck the beaded end of the
metal strip across it. A sputtering sound resulted;
the strip began to curl and smoke. A brilliant white
flame sprang from it and white vapor writhed up.
"Magnesium," he explained swiftly.
He dropped the burning strip upon the pile of
black powder. Immediately the flame spread. The
little mound became a blinding furnace, with
fingers of molten fire reaching out from it. An
intense heat beat up from it. Jimmy Christopher
grasped up a metal chair and flung it swiftly
against the pane of the outer window.
At the second blow the thick glass panes
splintered. Air sucked out swiftly. Bitter cold
reached in. Jimmy Christopher turned back as
the glowing mass on the floor suddenly dropped
and disappeared. The terrific heat of the burning
thermite-sufficient to fuse almost any known
metal-had melted its way through the metal
flooring. As the hole appeared a terrific gust of
invisible gas, carrying sparks, spouted upward.
"One of the helium chambers is opened!" Jimmy
Christopher gasped.
He sped to the inner window. The glistening
bag of the balloon was hovering close overhead.
The gondola was swinging gently above the far
edge of the deck of the Atlantis. The lower
basket was almost touching.
"Now!"
Jimmy Christopher wrenched at the door.
Already the atmospheric pressure inside the room
had decreased so that it swung open with
comparative ease. Again his lungs were
beginning to beat, his heart to hammer hard.
Again the piercing cold was striking at him. He
signaled swiftly to the son of the President.
"Get in that basket!"
The Presidents son stumbled forward. He
raced out upon the deck toward the basket of the
stratospheric balloon, which now was dragging
across the metal flooring. His was a frantic run
which swiftly drained his strength.
Jimmy Christopher shot a swift glance
toward the crew at the opposite edge of the deck.
The balloon had not yet been glimpsed; its
presence was still unsuspected. He hurried
swiftly into the open, gasping with torture, numbed
by the merciless cold. He came to a standstill
abruptly.
Again he drew a thread from the cloth of his
trousers. Again black dust poured down. While
the seconds passed, while the incredible cold
clamped upon his body, while his lungs worked
like bellows and his heart sped, he peered with
misting eyes at the basket of the balloon.
The President's son was scrambling over the
edge. He stooped to fumble in the bottom; he
rose, dragging a heavy woolen suit over his body,
stiffly.
Jimmy Christopher's eyes rose to the port of
the gondola. Through it he saw two faces
peering-John Christopher's and Tim Donovan's.
"Oh, God!" he sobbed.
He could scarcely move his fingers as he
snatched another strip of magnesium from the
band of his collar. He ignited it fumblingly; he
dropped it onto the pile of thermite-and he
sprang away. He stumbled and reeled. The
invisible hands of the terrific cold were seizing
him, paralyzing his every muscle. Frantically he
propelled himself toward the basket.
He gripped its edge. The President's son
already in coveralls and mask grasped his
shoulders and dragged him in. Jimmy
Christopher peered up blearily, at a face to which
a gas-mask was affixed. He was aware that the
basket was beginning to lift as he brought himself
up stiffly.
Each movement was torture as he dragged a
pair of woolen coveralls upon his body. The
garment enclosed his feet and hands as he
zipped it tight. Within it was warmth-the lifesaving
warmth of heating coils energized by the
storage-batteries in the gondola above. He
fumbled a mask upon his face, and breathed
deep of oxygen which flowed through a flexible
pipe from the cage above.
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The basket was swinging off the deck of the
Atlantis. In the center of the expanse of metal the
blinding flame of the thermite was burning.
Suddenly sparks flew high as gas spewed upward
from an opened helium compartment. A terrific
roar sounded.
Now grotesque figures were running across
the deck of the Atlantis. The gleam of the burning
thermite, the roar of the escaping gas, had
flashed an alarm. The weirdly-garbed Empire
officer rushed, frantically signaling orders. A
squad sped across the deck carrying machineguns.
The guns were tripoded and swung toward
the rising stratospheric balloon swiftly. Two
Empire officers flung themselves flat on the metal
deck attempting to cover the gaping hole with
their bodies. They were tossed aside by the rush
of gas, and strove again to plug the vent. Half a
score of men piled upon them in a desperate
effort to retain the lifting power of the living
fortress.
But already it was beginning to tilt. The far
edge was sagging down. The gas escaping
through the room which had been Jimmy
Christopher's was bringing the deck to a sharper
and sharper tilt, even as the weird men rushed in
through the open door, in another desperate
attempt to block the flow.
Jimmy Christopher lifted from the bottom of
the basket the telescopic-sighted rifle which had
been constructed according to his specifications.
He clicked a charge into place, inserted a
projectile in the barrel, raised the sight to his
eyes, and aimed.
When he pulled the trigger, a powerful recoil
threw him backward.
Through the rarefied air the projectile sped.
It was an arrow with a head like a propeller; and
the propeller was of finest steel, sharpened to
razor-keenness. It darted toward one of the gasbags
swaying above the rail of the Atlantis. Its
curved, spinning blade slashed through the
envelope and vanished.
A rending report sounded as the bag ripped,
as gas burst out.
Machine-guns were rattling fire at the
climbing basket of the stratospheric balloon.
Bullets were swarming through the rarefied air
with terrific violence. The President's son was
sagged against the edge of the basket, gripping
the container in which more projectiles for the
slasher-rifle rested. And from the port of the
gondola the white faces of John Christopher and
Tim Donovan peered.
Swiftly the balloon lifted as Jimmy
Christopher levered another charge into the rifle
and plunged the shaft of the projectile home. A
sharp explosion, and another spinning, flashing,
screaming blade shot through the air. It sped
straight for the rod which connected with another
of the gas-bags.
A deafening click and the pole parted as the
projectile bit through. The gas-bag broke away. It
began to shoot swiftly upward, into the emptiness
of space.
Now the deck of the Atlantis was tilted at a
sharp angle. Men were sliding over the smooth
metal; squirting to find handholds, rolling to the
lower rail. The pile of humans over the ragged
hole in the gas compartment was tearing apart
under the pup of gravity. The machine-gunners
spilled away; their weapons rattled to the rail, and
tumbled into open space.
Swiftly, one after another, Jimmy Christopher
hurled the slasher-projectiles at the supporting
gas-bags of the Atlantis. One after another the
silver balls broke loose, flying up into the
emptiness between the worlds. The Atlantis was
hanging crookedly in space, its lower rail a
squirming mass of humans. It was falling-
sliding-with increasing speed.
As Jimmy Christopher sent the last of the
slasher projectiles crashing into an envelope, as
the stratospheric balloon sailed high, The Atlantis
spilled over, and men dropped from its deck into
the air. Swiftly, twisting, tearing to pieces under
its own unsupported weight it plunged . . .
Calm water off the Atlantic coast boiled in
turmoil when the giant structure struck. Metal
flashed through the surface and disappeared. For
a long time waves surged, carrying the crushed
bodies of the grotesquely-garbed crew. When the
swells quieted, they drifted with the current-all
that remained of the flying fortress.
Atlantis had returned to the bottom of the
sea.
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Operator 5TM THE INVISIBLE EMPIRE May, 1934
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A Vintage New Media(tm) Production
www.vintagelibrary.com
69
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE VOICE OF A NATION
WAR AVERTED! YELLOW
EMPEROR OVERTHROWN!
At the very moment when the dread
menace of the skies, the Atlantis, was
plunging to destruction, the people of the
Yellow Empire were rising in revolt
against their ruler.
A desperate nation has revolted against
the domination of its war-lords.
The uprising reveals to the world that the
people of the Yellow Empire have not
wanted a war with the United States, that
they were being driven into the conflict by
the military machine which has now been
broken by the revolution. Peace is
assured!
BODIES CAST UPON SHORES
THEY WERE TO ATTACK!
Among the bodies of the crew of the
Atlantis, washed ashore during the day
and early hours of the night, were those
of the men who were most instrumental
in fomenting war hysteria. They have
been identified as:
Benton Vetterick, Ex-U. S. Army officer.
Kwo Taska, Espionage Chief of the
Yellow Empire.
Commander of the Atlantis.
In the Senate Chamber in Washington, D.C.,
the Presiding Officer's gavel rapped. His voice
carried ringingly: The galleries will be cleared at
once! All newspaper correspondents and
reporters will retire! The Chamber will be locked
and only accredited members of this Congress
will remain!"
A flurry of excitement passed over the
historic Chamber as the orders were carried out.
The Congress of the United States re-assembled
in extraordinary joint session, waited expectantly
as a hush fell. Not until he was assured that all
doors were locked, that complete secrecy would
prevail, did the Presiding Officer rap for attention
again. Then he announced: "The President of the
United States!"
From an entrance behind the platform, the
President came slowly. There was silence as he
faced the Congress. He spoke quietly and simply.
"Gentlemen, I have called you here for a
high purpose, for the commission of a duty which
revolves inevitably upon us. I am here to present
before you again the young man known as
Operator 5 of the American Intelligence Service."
Through the door then came Operator 5, his
face masked, as before, in black velvet. He
paused on the platform beside the Chief
Executive. The President placed an arm
affectionately across his shoulders.
"This young man-" The President cleared
his throat-"has displayed unparalleled courage in
the service of his country. He has rid the air of
the menace of terrible war. He has returned to
me, safe and unharmed, my only son. There is no
reward we might offer him which would truly
compensate him for the incalculable value of his
services to his country.
"Because he works in secret we can award
him no medal, small as any such token would be.
There is only one action we can take. Gentlemen
of this Congress, I ask you to vote a resolution of
gratitude."
But the resolution of gratitude was not voted
until later. The formal declaration of appreciation
was too standardized a means of expressing the
emotions of the Congress. They sprang to their
feet. They cheered and shouted. They crowded
forward, and gripped the hand of the blackmasked
Operator 5. For minutes there was
turmoil in the Senate Chamber, until the rapping
of the gavel in the hand of the President brought
quiet.
"Gentlemen of this Congress, through you,
their representatives, the people of this nation
have voiced their undying esteem to one who can
be known to you only as-Intelligence Operator
5!"
Jimmy Christopher strode from the White
House smiling broadly. His right arm was linked
through his father's, his left through Nan's. Tim
Donovan walked ahead of him, looking back, his
freckled face grinning.
"Gee, Jimmy. They're swell, ain't they-the
President and his son? They sure like you,
Jimmy!"
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Operator 5TM THE INVISIBLE EMPIRE May, 1934
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A Vintage New Media(tm) Production
www.vintagelibrary.com
70
"You're right, Tim," Jimmy Christopher
answered. "They're swell."
"Sure! But gosh, Jimmy. Gosh, Jimmy-"
The tough little Irish lad's voice broke. His
eyes expressed the thought that words failed to
convey-the undying conviction of Tim Donovan
that Jimmy Christopher was the finest lad who
had ever walked the earth. Jimmy Christopher,
peering into Tim's alert, freckled face, felt his
throat tighten, and a suspicious brightness was in
his eyes as he smiled.
Into his apartment in the East Sixties strode,
next morning, Mr. Carleton Victor. The coolfaced
manservant sighed with relief as Carleton
Victor took his chair at the exquisitely appointed
table.
"Perhaps I haven't told you, Crowe," said
Victor, "that I am moving into a new studio very
shortly."
"A new studio, sir?"
"A much better studio, Crowe."
"I hadn't known, sir."
Victor's eyes sparkled. "You don't read the
newspapers, do you, Crowe?"
"Never, sir."
"Then you've never read any mention of a
young man known only as Operator 5?"
"Operator 5?" Crowe looked blank. "No, sir.
I'm quite sure, sir. I've never heard of him."
"Perhaps," said Carleton Victor with a smile,
"it's just as well."
THE END