He faced it squarely, as was his custom. He did not brood over the

treachery of his assistant, or of how unfairly and suddenly it had

plunged him into peril and robbed him of his normal body. He accepted

his position and searched for possible angles of escape. There were

not many hours left in which to make a decisive move. The island was

small, and, as Hagendorff had said, discovery would be inevitable in

daytime.

Garth thought of the machine, and of the giant sleeping. A desperate

plan came to him, and his jaws set decisively. "I'll do it!" he

exclaimed aloud.

The lever which controlled both increase and decrease could be worked

from inside the chamber if he rigged up a system of turning it with a

wire or rope. If he pulled it to the increase only part way, he would,

he knew, have sufficient power over his muscles to pull it back off,

or slide again from the chamber, as he had done before. Whether or not

he could do this depended on Hagendorff's being asleep. Possibly he

could be locked in the living room, if he were there. Or tied. The

increase, even at half speed, would only take about forty seconds.

Once back to his size there would be a fight without odds, Garth

thought grimly.

* * * * *

It was a big risk, and there was probably only a small chance of

succeeding, but it meant getting back to six feet, back to a normal

world, back to equal terms. That was the magnet which drew him

presently toward the cabin laboratory.

He went slowly, to allow Hagendorff plenty of time to fall soundly

asleep. The giant, as he had said, needed sleep--needed it badly--for,

like Garth Howard, he had done without it for forty-eight hours under

the excitement of imminent success in their work. Garth considered

that his move would be totally unexpected, being made right into the

other's territory. There was a chance.

And so, cold and weariness banished by thoughts of the goal ahead, he

prowled back along the trail like any small creature of the forest.

It was half an hour later when he came in sight of the cabin. His

heart drummed excitedly as he stood in the shadows surveying it. He

wondered if Hagendorff was still awake; if he was, perhaps, waiting

for him. Certainly he did not seem to be: the cabin was dark and

silent, and the only door was tightly closed. Still--it might be

wiser to retreat while still free....

"No, by heaven!" Garth Howard exclaimed in his thoughts. "I'm going

through with it!" Stooping slightly, he left the shadows and ran

boldly into the starlight.

He half expected to hear a scuffle of feet and see the giant come

leaping out at him; but nothing broke the silence. He made his careful

way along the side of the cabin to the place where a trough for waste

liquids led through a small hole at the level of the floor, and with

great care wormed through.

* * * * *

As he started to cautiously reconnoiter, he was suddenly arrested in

his tracks. He had caught the sound of deep, rhythmic breathing.

Hagendorff was asleep, not in the adjoining living room--but in the

laboratory!

For a moment, Garth did not know what to do. Caution urged him to

retreat; but that would not get him back to his size. On tip-toe, he

explored around. The boards squeaked beneath his great weight, but the

nearby breathing beyond continued in regular rhythm.

His eyes were toned to the darkness of the laboratory; he saw the

chamber of his atom-compacting machine, its outer sides ghostly in the

faint, reflected starlight, and stared at it with a pang of fierce

longing. So near, it was--so very near! Holding the stolen size of his

body; holding all that was vital to him; holding life itself--it

rested there silently, within reach of a few steps and a quick climb

up one of the table legs. So he thought, his brain whirling with

mingled emotions, his tiny body shivering and aching with cold and its

many hurts. The machine was near--but a barrier blocked the way.

Hagendorff's bulk lay outstretched on a side table, black in the

shadows, and from him came the level breathing of a sound sleeper,

climaxed now and again by a rumbling snore. He was taking no chances;

his presence there seemed to destroy any hope of the midget's

regaining normal size. But Garth was desperate, and for a minute or so

he considered.

* * * * *

Forty seconds, the increase would take, at half speed. It might be

that long before the giant would waken thoroughly and see what was

happening. He, Garth, might start the process, and, when he saw the

huge figure stirring and waking from the noise of the dynamo, switch

off the ray and get out. No matter how short a time it took Hagendorff

to throw off the fogginess of his sleep, he would be somewhat

increased in size, and the odds of combat would not be so great.

It was a terrible risk. Did he dare take it? He thought of the forest,

of the raw night, of what was threatened in the morning.... Yes!

Silently, the manikin clasped the nearest table leg, shinnied up and

hauled himself over the top. As he got there his heart leaped. A sharp

thumping had come from behind. He dropped to his knees and glanced

round; but he immediately rose again, reassured. It was only the

rabbits in their cage, disturbed by the strange figure on the table.

He thanked God that they--and his tarantulas and other insects--could

make no alarming noises.

Garth found a long strand of wire. The panel's control lever, swung to

the left, controlled increase; to the right, decrease. Garth's plan

was to wind the middle of the wire around it, relay each end around

the two supporting posts of the switchboard, and thus have both ends

of the wire in his hands when he stood inside the chamber. One end of

the wire would enable him to pull the lever over for increase, and

the other to pull it back to neutral when the increase was completed,

or when Hagendorff arose.

Quickly he started to arrange the wire. Then suddenly his hands

dropped and he stared dismayed at the control panel.

The power switch had been removed!

* * * * *

It was Hagendorff's work, of course. He had guarded every angle.

Without that switch, the mechanism was lifeless and literally

powerless. It worked on a delicately adjusted and enclosed rheostat;

there was nothing that could be substituted for it. It would take

hours to improvise one in the heart of the apparatus.

The switch, Garth reflected bitterly, was probably concealed somewhere

about the giant's body.

He considered the possibility of tying him. He knew where there was a

coil of light, pliable wire on the floor; he might be able to loop it

over the giant's hands and legs while he slept, tie him securely, and

then go through his pockets for the switch. Another hazard! But there

was nothing else to do.

Garth lowered himself over the table's edge and slid quietly down the

leg. He glanced at the sleeping man, then over across the room to

where, beneath another table, the wire was--and his nerves jumped at

what he saw there.

From the darkness under the table two spots of greenish fire, close to

the floor, held steadily on him.

As he stared, they vanished, to reappear more to the right. With the

movement, he glimpsed the outline of a lithe, crouching animal, and

knew it to be the cat he and Hagendorff had experimented on earlier

that night. It was stalking him in the deliberate manner of its kind!

* * * * *

It came edging around, so as to leap on him from the side. He knew

that he represented fair prey to it; that if he tried to run, it would

pounce on him from behind. Wearily he tensed his miniature body,

standing poised on the balls of his feet and never dropping his eyes

for a moment. He could not repress a grim smile at the ludicrousness

of being attacked by an ordinary house-cat, even though it was

tiger-sized to him. Though his victory over the weasel, a far deadlier

fighter, made him confident he could dispatch it, there was another

aspect to the approaching struggle. It would have to be fought in

silence. Not four feet away, Hagendorff slept. There lay the

overwhelming danger.

Even as these things flashed through his brain, the cat steadily

inched nearer on its padded paws. Ghostly starlight framed it now;

Garth could see the eager, quivering muscles, the long tail, flat

behind, twitching slightly, the rigid, unstirring head and the slowly

contracting paws. The terrible suspense of its stalking scraped his

nerves. There would be a long pause, then an almost imperceptible

hunching forward, with the tail ever twitching; then the same thing

again, and over again. It became unbearable. Garth deliberately

invited the attack.

He pretended to turn and run, his back towards it. At once he sensed

its tensing body, its bunching muscles--then knew that it had sprung.

Whirling, he had a fleeting impression of a supple body in midair, of

bristling claws and bared, needlepoint fangs. But he was ready. The

weasel had taught him his best weapon, the great weight of his body.

He streaked in beneath the wide-spread paws, shot his hands into the

fur of the throat and threw himself against the shock of the animal's

suddenly arrested leap.

There was no standing his weight. Over the cat went, its back thudding

into the floor, its claws held powerless by the hundred and eighty

pounds of hard flesh that straddled it.

* * * * *

The fall had made little noise; but, as Garth tightened the grip of

his fingers and bored inward, a dull, steady thumping began to sound.

It was the cat's tail, pounding on the floor!

Desperately he tried to hook a leg over it, but could not reach far

enough. It beat like a tom-tom. From above, there came the sound of a

huge frame stirring, and the rumble of a sleepy grunt.

In a moment, the titan would be thoroughly awake.

By the drumming tail alone, Garth realized, his chance of regaining

full size was sent glimmering. There was nothing but retreat, now, and

a hasty one, if he valued life. Another noise came from the waking

Hagendorff. He was sitting up, staring around. Garth jumped to his

feet, threw the cat's twitching body beneath the table, and dodged at

full speed for the hole whereby he had entered.

Like a mouse he wriggled through, leaped to the ground, scrambled up

and made for the forest. He ran with all the speed at his command, and

was almost surprised when he reached the black fringe of the forest in

safety. In the protecting gloom, he dared to pause and look back.

Hagendorff was not pursuing him. From the sound, he was merely

boarding shut the drain hole, to prevent another entrance in that way;

then, afterwards, the windows.

Garth was puzzled. "I don't understand it," he said aloud. "Why is he

so sure he can get me in the morning? Isn't he afraid I'll leave the

island? Why I've _got_ to try to get away, now. It would be death to

be here after the dawn!"

He stood there making his plans. They had a rowboat below, powered

with an outboard motor. Even in his present size, he might possibly

run it, if he could get it started. He would strike down-river for

Detroit, and when the gas gave out, the current would carry him on.

Some river boat might pick him up and carry him to friends in the

city. His grotesquely dwarfed body would prove his story, and they

would bring him back and end Hagendorff's mad dream of fame, and help

him to regain his normal size. He could superintend the construction

of another machine if the present one was wrecked.

When he started down the trail to the river, he seemed to be walking

through a haze. He felt curiously light-headed, and his body was

completely numb. The long exposure was telling on him, and there was

much more of it to come. He wondered if he could hold out until he

reached the mainland.

But his mind cleared of the daze the cold and near-exhaustion had

brought it to when at last he came to the beach and realized that

again Hagendorff had anticipated him. The rowboat was gone! No wonder

the giant could afford to wait until daylight.

* * * * *

Garth floundered down to the beach and ran to where the craft usually

lay. There was only a groove in the rough, pebbly surface, a groove

left by the boat's keel. He followed it up the bank, and twenty yards

in found the dinghy chained and locked firmly to a large tree.

The midget's face grew suddenly very haggard as he stood there,

staring at what looked like his death sentence. He should have known

Hagendorff would secure the boat, he told himself bitterly. It was a

cruel blow, and sheer misery of mind and body gripped him as he turned

and peered through the darkness of wind-whipped water and sky toward a

horizon that was already lightening. Down-river lay Detroit, a

friendly, everyday world. It was not far in miles, but it seemed lost

to him forever....

Garth took his eyes from that prospect with a wry twist to his mouth.

It chanced that they fell on the painter of the rowboat.

It was a stout Manila cord, some twenty feet in length, and tied

tightly to a ring in the bow of the boat. He looked at it dully for a

full minute before the idea came to him. Then suddenly the lethargy

bred of hopelessness left him. Garth remembered a pocket knife he had

left in the boat the day before. He climbed over the side and began to

fumble about in the darkness. First he came upon a torn handkerchief

which he hastily tied about his loins. Further probing disclosed the

knife wedged under a seat in the boat. When he had finally extricated

it, he threw the knife over the side and climbed out.

After some minutes of frantic cutting and hacking he severed the rope,

and, quickly taking up one of the ends, ran with it further along the

bank.

There was still a way of getting off the island. A cold and risky way,

but better than waiting miserably for capture. On the bank was a pile

of sawn logs, intended for firewood; and a strong rope was in his

hands. Much indeed could be done now.

* * * * *

The making of his raft proved a herculean task, a racking and almost

impossible one for a man limited by doll-sized hands and a foot-high

body. First the logs had to be rolled to the water's edge, six of

them. Each was as thick as he was tall, and this first part of his

task took him a precious half hour, every minute of which brought

nearer the dawn. Ripples like ordinary waves washed up the struggling

manikin and left him gasping as he stood braced in the cold water and

tugged one log after another out and wound the rope under and over it.

The raft had to be built in water; he would never have been able to

drag the whole thing off the beach.

When at last he wearily tied the rope end to the last log, and stuck

his knife handy in it, the clouds on the horizon were flushed by the

coming sun. But his means of escape was completed; and hanging on the

end, he shoved the raft out into the river. Right then he almost lost

his life. For when his feet left the sloping bottom, his great weight,

out of all proportion to the size of his body, pulled him under, and

it was only by virtue of a desperate clutch on the raft that he

escaped drowning. Thrashing furiously, he struggled up from the water,

and lay, totally blown, on the logs. It was then he first realized

that his chance of life was no stronger than the rope which held them

together. For swimming was out of the question, and one or two logs

would never support his hundred and eighty pounds.

The end which he lay on was well under water, and the waves splashed

up between the bobbing logs. The current he was headed for swept down

fifty yards offshore, which was a sixth of a mile to the little legs

now thrust out behind and making a rhythmic flutter.

He was off the island! Freedom and life were near! Though his teeth

were chattering, his fingers crushed by the jarring logs, and his body

utterly wretched, he grinned with joy as the stretch between him and

the gloomy mass of the island slowly widened.

* * * * *

Then came the sun. The skies faded from gray into a delicate,

cloud-flecked blue; slowly the air warmed, and the surface of the

water seemed to calm under it. Though the sun was good on his body,

Garth realized night was more friendly to him, for in the growing

light his craft was all too conspicuous to the giant who would

presently be following his tracks down to the beach. He chided himself

for not having thought of camouflaging the raft with leafy branches.

Doggedly, he forced it out.

When at last he felt the pull of the current, he ceased his weary

kicking and glanced up into the swiftly advancing dawn. There was a

bird soaring through the keen air up there, gliding in easy circles

with almost motionless wings. Garth gazed at it somewhat wistfully,

envying its freedom and power of flight. And then he shut his eyes. He

was very tired....

He must have dozed off for a moment, for he awoke to find himself

slipping off. With a sudden jerk he regained his position--and that

was what saved his life at that moment. For without warning, while he

was nodding, plumed death struck from the skies.

It dropped like a plummet, as was its manner. It had been circling

above and judging its swoop, and by rights its curved talons should

have arched deep into the unguarded back of the naked figure on the

raft. But at the last second the figure moved aside--too late for the

hawk to alter its swoop.

The raft rocked under the impact; for a moment Garth Howard, dazed by

the sudden attack, did not know what had happened. Huge scratching

wings were thrashing about him; his left arm stung from where a claw

had raked it; and he wrenched around to stare into two wicked slits of

eyes behind a fierce, rounded beak that jabbed at him.

* * * * *

Evidently he represented easy prey to the hawk, for it did not soar

away, but instead came at him again in a flurry of beating wings and

stabbing beak, a vicious, feathered fighter from above. Caught off

guard by the suddenness and savagery of the onslaught, Garth retreated

stumblingly, forgetting his weight and the size of the raft and

defending himself with his arms as best he could against the rushes of

the hawk. The raft tilted perilously; water washed around his legs and

he slipped and went under.

He felt his fingers slipping inexorably over the edge of the log he

had gripped; his legs threshed up a welter of foam, but he kept going

down. Panic clutched him; his weight would sink him like a stone. But

suddenly his clutching hand was gripped by steel-like talons, and

through the water he caught a glimpse of the hawk straining backwards

with mighty sweeps of its wings in an effort to lift him bodily into

the air.

His size had deceived it. It could not hoist him, but did manage to

drag his head and chest out of the water. That was enough. With an

effort, Garth scrambled onto the raft.

The hawk, probably greatly surprised by its failure to soar away with

such tiny prey, tore into him again, raking his body painfully. Hardly

knowing what he did, Garth grabbed out as it hovered over him and

succeeded in wrapping his fingers around one of its legs. Then,

bracing himself as best he could, and ignoring the scratching wings

and piercing beak, he gave the leg a sharp twist and heard the crack

of breaking bone.

He was only half-conscious of the hawk's shrill scream of pain, of

its swift retreat into the blue, with the broken leg dangling

grotesquely. For only a moment he was aware that he had driven it off;

then the pain of his wounds and his utter exhaustion swept up over

him, and he flopped down on the raft in a dead faint....

* * * * *

For a long time Garth was dimly aware of familiar noises. At first

they were faint and scarcely perceptible; but, as his senses slowly

began to return, disturbing thoughts came to him. He felt that he was

on his back, and confined, and when he twisted, to turn over, he found

he could not. He opened his eyes and blinked.

He was back in the laboratory--lying bound, hand and foot, on the long

table.

The giant Hagendorff appeared over him, and his deep voice rumbled:

"Badly scarred and bruised, my little friend! Cats you have fought,

and birds, and each has left its mark. It was useless to run away last

night--not?"

Garth was suddenly too full of a weary resignation to even think of

speaking. Remonstrance, he knew, would avail him nothing. The long

struggle for freedom and life was over, and he had lost.

The assistant was apparently in good humor. He went on:

"Really, it is too bad, after that magnificent fight of yours! A

hawk--was it not? I was following your tracks, and had just reached

the beach when I see a great fuss on the water. A raft, I see! A bird,

attacking something on it! A little white figure, struggling! Well, it

is that easy. I unlock the boat and go to the raft and find my elusive

friend there, unconscious. So I bring him back here. He has forgotten:

we have an experiment to complete."

There was a fire of exultation in the man's eyes as they glared down

at the midget who lay on the laboratory table, just a few feet away

from the chamber of the machine. He reached out and ran a thick finger

over his victim's body.

"You do not deserve this," he said. "I should kill you outright--but,

graciously, I give you death in the machine. Yours will be the first

human body to be reduced to an inch; maybe less. This is your

martyrdom; for this, your name will live, along with mine, for having

perfected the process."

* * * * *

Garth Howard saw that the window was boarded tightly shut. Then

Hagendorff caught his eyes as, with a grin, he plunged a hand into a

pocket and drew forth the missing panel switch. He dangled it in front

of Garth.

"What you would have given for this last night, eh? With your wire to

pull the lever so carefully arranged! _Ach_, it was too bad!" He

shrugged, then picked up a screwdriver and turned to fix the switch on

the control panel.

The moment his back was turned, Garth gazed frantically around. The

fantastic fate he had striven so desperately to stave off was very

close now. What could he do?

Some tools lay on the table, just out of his reach, among them a pair

of cutting pliers. He stared at the pliers--an overgrown tool, half as

long as his own body. The twist of Hagendorff's wrist driving home the

first screw brought a cold chill over him. The pliers! It was a

chance!

He twisted a little, and keeping his eyes on the giant's back, he

inched toward them. His hands, tied at the wrists behind him, clutched

for them; found them. The jaws were open, and there were two sharp

cutting edges. He could not hope to manipulate the whole implement

with his bound hands, but he located one edge, painfully brought the

rope to it and sawed rapidly.

The steel sliced his flesh, and he felt the warm stickiness of blood.

But he disregarded this and kept on. Hagendorff was still working, all

unconscious--but the last screw was going in. And then some strands of

the rope snapped, and it loosened.

The next second, Garth had wrenched his hands free.

Then, throwing caution to the winds, he sat up, grabbed the great tool

and sliced the rope at his feet.

At that moment, Hagendorff finished his job and turned around.

* * * * *

Their eyes met. For a breathless instant nothing happened, save that

the smile on the titan's face changed to surprise and then fury. Garth

scrambled to his feet. The movement brought a bellow of rage, and the

manikin saw two enormous hands converging on him in a sweep that bade

fair to crush every bone in his dwarfed body.

Leaping backwards instinctively, he hurled the pliers at the giant's

head.

They were well aimed, and he saw them strike the temple, stopping the

man in his tracks. He thundered, more from anger than pain. His heart

pounding wildly, Garth ran back to a position behind a rack of test

tubes. It was from there that he saw Hagendorff, cursing crazily, grab

up a machinist's hammer and advance upon him.

All sanity had apparently left the giant. His great face was flushed

and distorted, and a growing welt showed where the pliers had clipped

him. Garth suddenly knew that if he were captured again, death would

not come in the chamber, but from those powerful hands, or the weapon

they clutched.

The hammer swung back for a crushing blow. But in the instant it hung

poised, Garth lifted a half-filled test tube from the rack before him

and swished its contents forward.

The tube held sulphuric acid, and it sprayed over Hagendorff's face.

The hammer pitched from his hand; he clutched at his eyes and stumbled

back, shrieking in agony.

Garth at once ran to the edge of the table, swung himself over and

slid down the leg to the floor. The laboratory door was open and he

dashed for it. But, whether or not Hagendorff could see his frantic

retreat, he anticipated it, and with a reeling plunge he got there

first. Fumbling, he found the key in the hole and turned it. The room

was sealed.

* * * * *

Beginning then, the blind Hagendorff was a man berserk. With a sobbing

roar of pain and fury, he lashed round for the foot-high figure that

dodged and wheeled and zig-zagged to keep from his threshing arms and

his hands. A table crashed over, and a flood of chemicals mixed and

boiled on the floor; then another, as the giant blundered blindly into

it. The cages of animals split open, and guinea pigs, rabbits and

insects scuttled from their prisons, fleeing to the corners from the

wild plunges of the raging German.

Garth went reeling from a glancing blow, and fell against an

over-turned stool under a far table where he could hardly breathe for

the mixed odors of spilt chemicals. By some sixth sense, Hagendorff

seemed to locate him, for his huge body turned and came directly for

him.

But Garth did not wait. Seizing the stool he whirled it so that it

slid smash into the giant's legs. The man pitched over with a grunt,

striking the floor so hard that the planks shivered.

He did not rise. He lay there, in a wreckage of glass and splintered

wood and stinking chemicals, moaning slightly.

Garth wasted no time, but gripped a leg of the laboratory table,

shinned to the top and with frantic speed fixed his strand of wire

onto the control lever and round the supporting posts of the

instrument panel. Then he jumped for the dynamo switch, caught the

handle and jerked it down.

The drone of a generator surged through the room. Then the midget was

standing in the chamber, both ends of the wire in his hands; and his

heart was thudding madly as he pulled one of them.

It held. Over came the lever, halfway. The brilliant stream of the ray

poured down. Dimly the manikin glimpsed the chamber's walls sinking

down, the wreckage-strewn room outside diminishing to normal size.

Fiery pain throbbed through him, but it was lost in the exultation

that filled his mind as the seconds went by. He grew to two feet, two

and a half--three.

* * * * *

But beyond that he was not to go. The swaying shape of Hagendorff

loomed outside the cube. Aroused by the drone of the generator and

what it signified, the giant had floundered up from the floor and now

came clutching blindly for him.

Garth knew he would have to leave the chamber at once; so, struggling

for command of his muscles through the paralysis that numbed them, he

tensed his hold on the other wire and pulled it a little. The control

lever swung back to neutral; the ray faded and Garth jumped out. He

was only a few feet away from the huge convulsed face as the German

roared:

"By God, you'll never get back on _this_ machine!"

His purpose was plain; his groping hand had already found the control

lever. To prevent his ripping it out, Garth plunged head first into

Hagendorff's stomach, and they both went down in a flurry of arms and

legs. Garth, scrambling to get loose, was conscious of the ray pouring

down again in the chamber above. The lever had not been wrenched out,

but jerked over, setting the process of increase on.

The next few minutes were a chaos. Now that Howard was three feet tall

he was without some of the advantages of his former smallness and

compactness, and his utmost efforts failed to free him from the death

clutch of the pain-maddened giant. Over and over they rolled on the

floor. Garth trying only to break free, and the other relentlessly

holding on and dragging him over to the chamber again.

It was a losing fight for the diminutive one, weakened as he was by

his exposure and the fierce fights he had had. Little by little,

squirming and resisting with all his remaining strength, he was

brought near--to see the German, at last, pull half the reducing

apparatus with a crash to the floor.

The ray in the chamber faded off. The machine was silenced forever, so

that Garth could never hope to regain his full size in this one....

* * * * *

With the realization of this, most of his spirit went, while the

savage giant, successful in smashing the machinery, now turned and

devoted himself exclusively to his victim.

"Now for you!" he roared in frightening triumph, clutching the smaller

man's neck with his great hands and bearing him to the floor.

Against those fingers gouged into his wind-pipe like a vise of steel,

Garth could do nothing. Feebly he gagged, and feebly he clawed at the

pitiless hands--and futilely.

It was the end, he told himself. He had come close, but closeness did

not count. His eyes bulged, and a shroud of black began to obscure his

vision.

And then, suddenly, over the giant's flexed arms, he glimpsed, coming

from the chamber on the table, something that chilled the blood in his

veins with horror.

It was huge and utterly loathsome. Long, hairy legs folded out, and

following them came a furry, bloated body at least five feet thick.

Many-faceted eyes fixed themselves coldly on the men on the floor. In

one hideous leap the monster soared from the table all the way to the

room's ceiling, seeming almost to float as it came down. For a moment

it teetered on the floor, not five feet from the giant who, blind and

all unconscious of it, was throttling his diminutive victim beneath

him.

Garth for a second forgot the grip on his throat in the horror of the

monster. He knew at once what it was--a tarantula. It had crawled

inside the chamber when its cage was broken, had been there even while

he had been there, and had been swollen to its present blood-curdling

size while they were fighting and the ray was on. With the smashing of

the apparatus, it was free to come out.

* * * * *

It gathered for the final spring, its terrible legs tensing

perceptibly--a creature out of a nightmare. Garth Howard tried to

shriek out a warning, but Hagendorff was holding his throat too well.

He could only struggle weakly and nod toward the horror beyond; but

the message did not get across to the giant.

Then the tarantula sprang again.

For a moment it seemed to hover on Hagendorff's upturned back. When it

floated down, its ragged legs cradled over him, and the egg-shaped

body squatted on his back....

Garth felt his frayed nerves and senses going. A hairy leg was

touching him, chilling his flesh. Above him, the giant was thrashing

impotently, and he found his neck free of the awful grip.

He wormed free. He was hardly conscious of reaching up and unlocking

the door, and closing it tightly again as he stumbled forth. Later, it

seemed that it was in a dream that he ran wildly into the splendid

sunlight outside and down the winding trail. It was only by a

tremendous effort that he kept his senses long enough to shove the

rowboat out from the beach and hop in.

He never started the motor. All that he had seen and suffered on the

island of horror overcame him too soon, and he pitched down in a limp,

unconscious heap....

* * * * *

And so it was, that, the next morning, the two harbor policemen found

a rowboat with mysterious cargo floating silently down the Detroit

River. So it was that some time later a launch with three local

officers churned up to the solitary island, and that gunshots echoed

in the gloom of a hushed laboratory room, and a man's white-faced body

was carried from the cabin where he had made his one great treacherous

effort to steal another's fame.

"JAZZING UP THE UNIVERSE"

Centuries of celestial history wheeled across the plaster sky of the

new Adler planetarium at Chicago, recently, at the dedication of the

astronomical institution, the first of its kind in the Western

Hemisphere.

A modern Joshua, working the levers and switches of a complicated

instrument, commanded a miniature sun to stand still in the

heavens--and it did. He bettered the feat of the Biblical prophet by

stopping the sun at any given point on its orbit across the skies, and

then ran it backward, its attendant planets, planetoids and stars

scampering contrary to all rules of the universe.

The Joshua in the person of Professor Philip Fox, director of the

planetarium on a "made" island in Lake Michigan described the

instrument with which he made the heavenly bodies cut capers, as a

projector, made in Germany at a cost of almost $100,000. As nearly as

it can be described by a layman it looks like three immense diving

helmets capping the ends of a tube about six feet long. Each "helmet"

is studded with lenses and inside are complicated and strange lights

and projectors which throw the images of the celestial bodies on the

white plaster dome above that represents the skies. The wheeling

motion of the universe toward the west is obtained by revolving the

"helmets" in eccentric circles on an axis. The whole effect makes a

spectator feel as if the solar system was revolving around him at a

greatly accentuated speed.

As a beginning lesson for the layman who attended the opening,

Professor Fox set the machine to represent the latitude of Chicago on

May 10, 1930. Every one turned his eyes to the east, where a

silhouette of Lake Michigan, with its lighthouses and ore ships, is

painted on the plaster horizon. The dome was lighted to represent a

clear night, and, incidentally, all nights are clear in a planetarium.

The machine was started and up from the center of the Lake jumped

Mars, red against the darkness.

Professor Fox, with a flashlight that throws the image of an arrow,

pointed out the stars as they appeared over the dome. The coming of

Mars forecast the dawn of May 10 and in a few moments the sun emerged

from the proper latitudinal position out of the lake and blazed its

way across the heavens and set behind the silhouette of the Standard

Oil Building on the west wall of the dome in less than a minute,

denoting that the day had passed in review. At 3:43 P. M. central

standard time, the midget moon arose and sailed its course and then

set behind the darkened picture of the Straus Tower.

Then Professor Fox ran off Sunday, Monday and Tuesday for good

measure, each time with Mars heralding the dawn and the sun changing

position as it does in reality. Fifty centuries of astronomical

history can be run off in an hour by the machine. The planets are

visible during the day in the planetarium as well as night.

The Moon Weed

_By Harl Vincent_

[Illustration: _Bart hacked and hacked at the rubbery growth._]

[Sidenote: Unwittingly the traitor of the Earth, Van pits himself

against the inexorably tightening web of plant-beasts he has released

from the moon.]

Hobart Madison pursed his lips in a whistle of incredulous surprise as

he regarded the object that lay in the palm of his hand. An ordinary

pebble, it seemed to be, but a pebble in which a strange fire

smouldered and showed itself here and there through the dull surface.

"Would you mind repeating what you just said, Van?" he asked.

"You heard me the first time. I say that that's a diamond and that it

came from the moon." Carl Vanderventer glared at his friend in

resentment of his doubting tone.

"Mean to tell me you've been there? To the moon?"

"Certainly not. I'm not a Jules Verne adventurer. But I'm telling you

that stone is a diamond of the first water and that it came from the

moon. Weighs over a hundred carats, too. You can have it appraised

yourself if you think I'm kidding you."

Bart Madison laughed. "Don't get sore, Van," he said. "I'm not

doubting your word. But Lord, man--the thing's so incredible! It takes

a little time to soak in. And you say there are more?"

"Sure. This one's the largest of five I've found so far. And there's

other stuff, too. Wait till you see. Fossils, beetles and things. I

tell you, Bart, the moon was inhabited at one time. I've the evidence

and I want you to be the first to see it." The eyes of the young

scientist shone with excitement as he saw that his friend was roused

to intense interest.

"So that's what all your experimenting has been aimed at. No wonder it

cost so much."

"Yes, and you've been a brick for financing me. Never asked a

question, either. But Bart, it'll all come back to you now. Know how

much that stone's worth?"

"Plenty, I guess. But, forget about the financing and all that.

Where's this laboratory of yours?" Madison had pushed his chair back

from his desk and was reaching for his hat.

"Over in the Ramapo Mountains, not far from Tuxedo. I'll have you

there in two hours. Sure you can spare the time to go out there now?"

Vanderventer was enthusiastically eager.

"Spare the time? You just try and keep me from going!"

Neither of them noticed the sinister figure that lurked outside the

door which led into the adjoining office. They chattered excitedly as

they passed into the outer hall and made for the elevator.

* * * * *

Vanderventer's laboratory was a small domed structure set in a

clearing atop the mountain and well hidden from the winding road which

was the only means of approach. Though Bart Madison, who had inherited

his father's prosperous brokerage business, had financed his friend's

research work ever since the two left college, this was his first

visit to the secluded workshop, and its wealth of equipment was

revealed to him as a complete surprise. He had always thought of Van's

experiments as something beyond his ken; something uncanny and

mysterious. Now he was convinced.

The most prominent single piece of apparatus in the laboratory was a

twelve-inch reflecting telescope which reared its latticed framework

to a slit in the dome overhead. Paralleling its axis and secured to

the same equatorial mounting was a shining tube of copper which

bristled with handwheels and levers and was connected by heavy

insulated cables to an amazing array of electrical machinery that

occupied an entire side of the single room.

"Regular young observatory you've got here, Van," Bart commented when

he had taken all this in in one sweeping glance of appraisal.

"Yeah, and then some. Not another like it in the world." Van was

busying himself with the controls of his electrical equipment, and a

powerful motor-generator started up with a click and a whirr as he

closed a starting switch.

Madison watched in silence as the swift-fingered scientist fussed with

the complicated adjustments of the apparatus and then turned to the

massive concrete pedestal on which his telescope was mounted. At his

touch of a button the instrument swung over on its polar axis to a new

position. The slit in the dome was opened to the afternoon sky,

revealing the lunar disc in its daytime faintness.

"You can see it just as well in daylight?" Bart asked as his friend

peered through the eyepiece of the telescope and continued his

adjustments.

"Sure, the surface is just as bright as at night. Doesn't seem so to

your eye, but it's different through the telescope. Here, take a

look."

* * * * *

Bart squinted through the eyepiece and saw a huge crater with a

shadowed spire in its center. Like a shell hole in soft earth it

appeared--a great splash that had congealed immediately it was made.

The cross-hairs of the eyepiece were centered on a small circular

shadow near its inner rim.

"That," Van was saying, "is a prominent crater near the Mare Nubium.

The spot under the cross-hairs is that from which I have obtained the

diamonds--and other things. Watch this now, Bart."

The young broker straightened up and saw that his friend was removing

the cover from a crystal bowl that was attached to the lower end of

the copper tube that pointed to the heavens at the same ascension and

declination as the telescope. The air of the room vibrated to a

strange energy when he closed a switch that lighted a dozen vacuum

tubes in the apparatus that lined the wall.

"You say you bring the stuff here with a light ray?" he asked.

"No, I said with the speed of light. This tube projects a ray of

vibrations--like directional radio, you know--and this ray has a

component that disintegrates the object it strikes and brings it back

to us as dissociated protons and electrons which are reassembled in

the original form and structure in this crystal bowl. Watch."

A misty brilliance filled the bowl's interior. Intangible shadowy

forms seemed to be taking shape within a swirling maze of ethereal

light that hummed and crackled with astounding vigor. Then, abruptly,

the apparatus was silent and the light gone, revealing an odd object

that had taken form in the bowl.

"A starfish!" Bart gasped.

"Yeah, and fossilized." Van handed it to him and he took it in his

fingers gingerly as if expecting it to burn them.

* * * * *

The thing was undoubtedly a starfish, and of light, spongy stone. Its

color was a pale blue and the ambulacral suckers were clearly

discernible on all five rays.

"Lord! You're sure this is from the moon?" Bart turned the starfish

over in his hand and gazed stupidly at his friend.

"Certainly, you nut. Think I had it up my sleeve? But here, watch

again, there's something else."

The crackling, misty light again filled the bowl.

"Suppose," Bart ventured, "you bring in something large--big as a

house, let's say. What would it do to your machine?"

"Can't. The ray'll only pick up stuff that'll enter the bowl.

Look--here's the next arrival."

The mysterious light died down and the scientist picked up the second

object with trembling fingers. It was a knife of beautiful

workmanship, fashioned from obsidian and obviously the work of human

hands.

"There! Didn't I tell you?" Van gloated. "Guess that shows there were

living beings on the moon."

He made minute changes in the adjustment of his marvelous instrument

and Bart watched in dazed astonishment as object after object

materialized before their eyes. There were fragments of strange

minerals; more fossils, marine life, mostly; a roughly beaten silver

plate; three diamonds, none of which was as large as what Van had

taken to New York, but all of considerable value.

"This'll be something for the papers, Van!" Bart Madison was visioning

the fame that was to come to his friend.

"Yeah, all but the diamonds."

* * * * *

"All but the diamonds is right!"

These words were spoken by a sarcastic voice, chill as an icicle, that

came from the open door. They wheeled to look into the muzzles of two

automatic pistols that were trained on them by a stocky individual who

faced them with a twisted, knowing grin.

"Danny Kelly!" Bart gasped, raising his hands slowly to the level of

his shoulders. He knew the ex-army captain was a dead shot with the

service pistol, and a desperate man since his disgrace and forced

resignation. "What's the big idea?" he demanded.

"You don't need to ask. Refused me a loan this morning, didn't you?

Now I'm getting it this way." Kelly turned savagely on Van, prodding

his ribs with a pistol. "Get 'em up, you!" he snapped.

Van had been slow in raising his hands, gaping in stupefied amazement

at the intruder. Now he reached for the ceiling without delay.

"You'll serve time for this, Danny!" Bart shouted.

"Shut up! I know what I'm doing. And back up, too--where--no, the

other door." Kelly was forcing him toward the door of the cellar at

the point of one pistol as he kept Van covered with the other.

Bart clenched his fist and brought it down in a sudden sweeping blow

that raked Kelly's cheek and ear with stunning force. But the gunman

recovered in a flash, dropped the muzzle of his pistol and pulled the

trigger. Drilled through the thigh, Bart staggered through the open

door and fell the length of the stairs into the darkness of the

cellar. Kelly laughed evilly as he slammed the door and turned the

key.

"Hold it, you!" he snarled as he swung on Van who had dropped his

hands and crouched for a spring. "If I drill you, it won't be through

the leg. I'll take those diamonds now."

* * * * *

He pocketed one of his pistols, and, keeping the other pressed to the

pit of Van's stomach, went through his pockets. Then he added those on

the tray by the crystal bowl to the collection, and transferred the

entire lot to his own pocket.

"Now, you clever engineer," he grinned, "we'll just operate this trick

machine of yours for a while and collect some more. Hop to it!" He

watched narrowly as Van stretched his fingers to the controls. "No

monkey business, either," he grated; "you'll not change a single

adjustment. I've been listening to you and I know the clock of the

telescope is keeping the ray trained on the same spot. You just

operate the ray and nothing else. Get me?"

Van did not think it expedient to tell him of the drift caused by

inaccuracies in the clock and perturbations of the moon's motion. He

was playing for time, trying to plan a course of action.

"There may not be any more diamonds," he offered as he tripped the

release of the ray.

"Oh, there'll be more. Don't try to kid me."

An irregular block of quartz materialized in the bowl and Kelly tossed

it to the floor in savage disgust. Then a small diamond, very small;

but he pocketed it nevertheless. The next object was a strange one--a

dried seed pod about six inches in length and of brilliant red color.

The ray had shifted to a new position on the lunar surface. Another

and another of the strange legumes followed, one of them bursting open

and scattering its contents, bright red like the enclosing pod to

rattle over the floor like tiny glass beads. Kelly snorted his

disgust.

"Still some sort of vegetation out there," Van muttered. The eternal

scientist in the man could not be downed by a mere hold-up.

"Can the chatter!" Kelly snarled as the crystal bowl gave up another

of the useless pods and still another. He gathered up the evidence of

lunar vegetation, a half dozen of the pods, and threw them through the

open doorway with a savage gesture. "You trying to put one over on

me?" he bellowed.

"How can I?" Van retorted mildly. "I haven't touched a handwheel." He

was wondering vaguely whether this lunar seed would grow in earthly

soil; what sort of a plant it would produce under the new environment.

Kelly was becoming nervous now. It seemed that little was to be gained

by hanging around this crazy man's laboratory. He had a sizable

fortune in rough stones already. That big one alone, when properly cut

into smaller stones, would make him independent. Maybe there weren't

any more, anyway. And the longer he stayed the greater chance there

was of getting caught.

The advent of another of the pods decided him. A quick blow with the

butt of his pistol stretched Van on the floor and Kelly fled the

scene.

* * * * *

Bart was pounding furiously on the cellar door when Van first took

hazy note of his surroundings. Several uncertain minutes passed before

he was able to stagger across the room and release his friend.

"Where is he?" Bart demanded, swaying on his feet and blinking in the

sudden light.

"Gone. Socked me and beat it with the diamonds." Van was mopping the

blood from his eyes with a handkerchief. "Are you hit bad?" he

inquired.

"No, just a flesh wound. Hurts like the devil, though. How about

yourself?" Bart limped to his side and sighed with relief when he

examined his bleeding scalp. "Not so bad yourself, old man. Where's

your first aid kit?"

Van was still somewhat dazed and merely pointed to the cabinet. "Fine

pair we turned out to be!" he grumbled after his head had cleared a

bit under Bart's vigorous cleansing of the cut on his temple. "Here we

stood, meek as a couple of lambs, and let that guy get away with

murder."

"Yeah, but those forty-fives made the difference. Ouch!" Bart winced

as his friend poured fresh iodine over the wound in his leg. "Have a

heart, will you?"

They were startled into silence by a hoarse, strangled scream that

came from outside the laboratory. "Help! Help!" someone repeated in a

panicky voice--a voice which at once ended on a gurgled note of

despair.

"It's Kelly!" Bart whispered. "He's come back. Something's happened to

him." He started for the open door.

"Wait a minute. It may be a trick to get us outside where he can pop

us off."

"No, it isn't. For God's sake, look!" Bart had reached the door and

was pointing at the ground with shaking forefinger.

* * * * *

The entire clearing seemed to be alive with wriggling things--long

rubbery tentacles that crawled along the ground, reaching curling ends

high in the air and had even started climbing the trees at the edge of

the clearing. Blood red they were, and partially transparent in the

light of the setting sun; growing things, attached by their thick ends

to swelling mounds of red that seemed anchored to the ground.

Translucent stalks rose from the mounds and sprouted huge buds that

burst and blossomed into flaming flowers a foot in diameter, then

withered and went to seed in a moment of time. But always the weaving

tendrils shot forth with lightning speed, reaching and feeling their

uncanny way along the ground and over tree stumps into the woods. One

of them emerged from a hollow stump with its slender end coiled around

the tiny body of a chattering gray squirrel.

"The moon flowers!" Van cried.

"What do you mean--moon flowers?"

"Dried seed pods. They came over into the bowl, and Kelly threw them

out. Now look at the damned things. They're alive!"

Kelly's voice came to them once more from behind the barrier of

rapidly growing vegetation. "Help!" he screeched. "I'll give back the

diamonds--anything! Only get me away from the things!"

"Ought to let 'em get him," Van growled.

Bart shivered. "Too horrible, Van. Got an ax or anything?"

"There's a hatchet around back. Maybe we can--"

* * * * *

But the young broker had scuttled around the corner of the building

and Van looked after him anxiously. The vile red tendrils were

reaching for the east wall of the laboratory, and he saw that their

inner surfaces were covered with tiny suckers like those on the arms

of a devil-fish. Carnivorous plants, undoubtedly, these awful

half-animal, half-vegetable things whose seed had been transported

across a quarter million miles of space. Man eaters! Deadly, and

growing with incredible speed. Even the short-lived flowers were

fearsome, as they opened their scarlet pansy-like faces and stared a

moment before they folded up and shriveled into the seed cases like

those that had materialized in the crystal bowl.

Then he noticed that the pods were opening and spreading more of the

terrible seed. Nothing could stop this weird growth, now. It would

cover the country like a sea of flaming horror, overcoming and

devouring every living thing. Cold fear clutched at Van as he realized

the enormity of the calamity that had come to the earth.

Bart was skirting the edge of the clearing with the hatchet in his

hand, and Van tried to call out to him, to warn him. But his voice

caught in his throat, and instead he ran to his assistance, circling

the spreading menace to get around behind where Kelly was still

shouting. Damn Kelly anyway! This never would have happened if he

hadn't come on the scene!

Kelly was in the woods, wedged into the crotch of a tree and striking

wildly at the clutching tendrils with his clubbed pistol. They mashed

easily and dripping red, but were not to be deterred from their

ghastly purpose. Kelly's time would have indeed been short had not his

erstwhile victims come to the rescue. One of the thickest of the

twining things encircled his body and had him pinned to the tree. His

breath was coming in gasps as its tightening coils increased their

pressure. His coarse features were livid and his eyes bulged from

their sockets.

Bart hacked and hacked at the rubbery growth until he had him free;

jerked him from his perch, blubbering and whining like a schoolboy.

His shirt had been torn from his breast and they saw a great red welt

where the blood had been drawn through the pores by those terrible

suckers.

"Look out, Bart!" Van shouted.

* * * * *

Another of the creeping things had come through the underbrush and was

wrapping its coils around Bart's ankle. Another and another wriggled

through, and soon they were battling for their own freedom. Kelly

staggered off into the woods and went crashing down the hill, leaving

them to take care of themselves as best they might.

The stench of the viscous liquid that oozed from the injured tendrils

was nauseous; it had something of a soporific effect; and the two

friends found themselves fighting the terror in a growing mist of red

that blinded and confused them. Then, miraculously, they were free and

Van assisted Bart as they ran through the forest. When they reached

the road, weak and out of breath, they were just in time to see

Kelly's roadster vanish around the bend.

"Yeah, he'd give back the diamonds--the swine!" Van muttered

vindictively. Then, shrugging his shoulders, "Well, they won't be much

good to him, anyway. Wouldn't be any good to us either, as far as that

goes."

"What do you mean? Aren't they real?" Bart was raising himself

painfully into the seat of Van's car, his wounded leg suddenly very

much in the way.

"Sure they're real. But don't you realize what this thing means--this

ungodly growth that's started?"

"Why--why, no. You mean it'll keep on growing?"

"And how! Those inner stalks drop a new batch of seeds every five

minutes or so. Presto!--a flock of new plants spring up ten feet from

the first; dozens of them for every pod that drops. You know how

geometrical progression works out. They'll cover the whole

country--the whole world. Lord!"

"Man alive, this is terrible! I hadn't thought of that before. What'll

we do?"

"Yeah, that's the question: what can we do?" Van started his motor and

jerked the car to the road. "First off, we're going to get away from

here--fast!"

Bart gripped his arm as he shifted into second gear. "Look, Van!" he

babbled. "They're out of the woods already. Loose! The red snakes are

loose from their stalks. They're alive, I tell you!"

It was true. Several of the slimy red things were wriggling their way

over the macadam like great earthworms, but moving with the speed of

hurrying pedestrians. Free, and untrammeled by the roots and stems of

the mother plants, they had set forth on their own in the search for

beings of flesh and blood to destroy. Millions of their kind would

follow; billions!

In sudden panic Van stepped on the gas.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, with shrieking siren, a motorcycle drew

alongside and forced them to the curb. "Where's the fire?" the

sarcastic voice of a stern-visaged officer demanded, when Van had

brought his car to a screeching stop. Seventy-five, the speedometer

had read but a moment before.

"It's life and death, officer," Van started to explain. "We must get

to the proper officials to warn the--"

"Aw, tell it to the judge! Come on now, follow me."

"But officer, there's death on its way from the hills, I tell you.

Red, creeping things that'll be here in a couple of hours--"

"Get away, from that wheel. I'll drive you in meself. You're fulla

applejack."

Bart had opened the door on his side and was limping his way around

the back of the car. This was serious. They had to get away; had to

spread the word in a way that would be believed before it was too

late. The officer was tugging at Van's arm, astonishment and black

rage showing in his weather-beaten countenance. Speeding, drunk,

resisting an officer--they'd never get out of this mess! A swift

uppercut interrupted the proceedings. Bart's leg was numb and stiff,

but his good right arm was working smoothly and with all its old time

precision. His second punch was a haymaker. With his full weight

behind it, it drove straight to the chin and stretched the officer on

the concrete. Thoughtfully, Bart removed his pistol from its holster

before scrambling in at Van's side.

"Boy, now we're in for it!" he gasped.

"And we might as well make a good job while we're at it." Van let in

his clutch with a jerk, and again they were breaking all traffic

regulations.

* * * * *

It was dusk when they roared in through the gate at the Rockland

County Airport and pulled up at the hangar office. Van rushed in,

shouting for Bill Petersen, and Bart followed. A slender, fair-haired

youth in rumpled flying togs greeted them.

"Bill, my friend, Bart Madison," Van blurted without pausing for

breath. "Listen, we've got to have a plane right away. Got one with a

radio?"

"Yes, but what's all the rush? Where you going?"

"Albany. Right away. Make it snappy, will you?"

"Sure, but what's it all about?" Young Petersen was leading them to

the field where a sleek mono-plane was in waiting as if they had

ordered it. "Warm her up, Joe," he called to the mechanic.

"Listen, Bill--I never lied to you, did I?" Van asked, when they were

seated in the plane's cabin.

"Not that I know of. But sometimes I've thought you were lying, until

I saw with my own eyes the things you had told me about. What is it

this time?"

"Death and destruction. Coming down out of the Ramapos. We've got to

warn the country. Plants, Bill--squirmy red plants with long feelers

that can twist around a man and devour him. Half animal, they are, and

the feelers break loose and crawl by themselves. Multiplying like

nothing you ever saw. Millions of them in an hour."

"What?" Petersen stared incredulously as his motor roared into life.

Then he gave his attention to the business of taking off. He jerked

the thumb of his free hand toward the radio.

* * * * *

Van's expert fingers manipulated the switches and dials of the

portable apparatus, and its vacuum tubes glowed into life. "2BXX

calling 2TIM," he droned into the microphone.

"Who's that?" Bart asked. The drone of the motor was barely audible in

the closed cabin and did not interfere.

"The _Times_. Trying to get Johnny Forbes. If anyone can get this

thing across, he can. Wait a minute, here they are." He closed his

eyes as he listened to the murmuring voice in the headphones.

Then he was talking rapidly, forcefully, and the young flyer gazed

with owlish solemnity at Bart as they listened to his conversation. It

was plain that Bill was but half inclined to believe, though impressed

by the earnestness and evident apprehension displayed by his two

passengers.

"Yes, 2BXX," Van was saying. "Connect me with Johnny Forbes,

please--in a hurry. Yes.... Hello, Johnny, it's Van--Carl

Vanderventer, you know. Yes; got a scoop for you, but first I want you

to get it in the broadcasts. Get me? It's about a man-eating plant

that's starting to overrun the country. No--listen now, I'm not

dreaming--listen--"

The frantic scientist rambled on and on about the seed from the moon,

the red death that was creeping down from the mountains, the horror of

the calamity as he and Bart had visioned it. Then, with a sudden note

of despair, his voice trailed off into nothingness and he turned a

drawn white face to his two friends.

"Laughed at me. Hung up on me," he groaned. "Good God! We've got to do

something--quick!"

"Be in Albany in an hour," the pilot suggested. "What you going to do

there?" He believed, now. His expression of horror showed it.

"See the governor. But, man, it's an hour wasted! We must stir up the

country--get the word to Washington--everywhere. It might be possible

to fight the things some way if we can mobilize State and National

resources quickly enough. Bill, Bart, what can we do?"

* * * * *

The plane sped on through the night under control of her gyro-pilot as

the three men racked their brains for a solution of the problem. If a

hard-boiled newspaper man would not believe the story, who could?

"I've got it!" Bart shouted suddenly. "Can either of you pound a

key--code, I mean?"

"Sure, I can. Then what?" Petersen returned.

"Fake an S. O. S. Don't you see? All broadcasting has to stop, and

every ship at sea, every air liner in this part of the country'll be

listening--standing by. Give 'em the story in code. Let 'em think

we're in a ship from the moon--captured by Lunarians who are here to

destroy the world with this weed of theirs--anything. Make it as weird

as possible. Most everyone'll think it's a hoax, but there are ten

thousand kids--amateurs--who'll be listening in. Somebody'll believe

it, and, believe me, there'll be some investigating in the

neighborhood of the growth in no time."

"By George, I believe that'll do it!" Van exclaimed. "And the

broadcasters listen in for an S. O. S. themselves. Got to, you know,

so they know when to start up again. Some smart announcer will tell

the story--maybe even believe it. The trick will work, sure as

shooting!"

* * * * *

The pilot glanced at his instruments and saw that the automatic

gyro-apparatus was functioning properly. Then he moved over to the

radio and threw the switch that put the key in circuit instead of the

microphone. Rapidly he ticked off the three dots, three dashes, and

again three dots that spelled the dread danger signal of the air. Over

and over he repeated the signal, and then he listened for results.

"It worked!" he gloated, after a moment. "They're all signing off--the

broadcasters. The Navy Yard in Brooklyn gives me the go-ahead."

He pounded out the absurd message with swift fingers, pausing

occasionally to ask a pertinent question of Van or Bart. At Van's

request he added a warning to all residents of New York State west of

the Hudson River and of northern New Jersey to flee their homes

without delay. He even asked that the message be relayed to the

governors of the two states, and that Governor Perkins of New York be

advised that they were on their way to Albany to discuss the

situation. But he balked at the story of the Lunarians, telling

instead the equally strange truth regarding the origin of the deadly

growth, and adding the names of Van and Bart to lend authenticity to

the tale.

Then he signed off and switched the radio receiver to the loud speaker

before returning to the pilot's seat.

Bart tuned in on the various broadcasters as they resumed their

programs, finally settling on WOR, Newark, whose announcer was

reading the strange message to his radio public with appropriate

comment. A crime and an outrage he called it, an affront to the

industry and to the public. An insult to the government of the United

States. But wait! A telephone call had just been received at the

station from the village of Sloatesburg. A reputable citizen of that

town had reported the red growth at the edge of the State road--huge

red earthworms wriggling across the concrete. Another call, and

another! The announcer's voice was rising hysterically.

"It _did_ work, Bart," Van exulted. "Now the hell starts popping."

* * * * *

Governor Perkins met them in person when they arrived at the Municipal

Airport in Albany. A great crowd had gathered in the shadows outside

the brilliance of the flood lights, and a police escort rushed them to

the governor's private car.

"Here's where you go to the Bastille for socking that cop," Van

observed. His spirits had risen appreciably since that successful S.

O. S. call.

But the governor was in a serious mood, as they made their way toward

the executive mansion through the milling crowds that lined the hilly

streets of the capital city of New York State. Proofs had not been

lacking of the truth of Bill Petersen's radio warning. Already the

spreading red death had covered a circle some eight miles in diameter,

covering farm lands and destroying the crops, blocking the roads and

trapping many on the streets and in their homes in nearby towns. More

than a hundred had lost their lives, and thousands were fleeing the

threatened area. The country was in an uproar.

"Gentlemen," the governor said, when they had reached the privacy of

his chambers, "this is a serious matter, and no time must be lost in

dealing with it. Nevertheless, I want you, Mr. Vanderventer, to tell

your story of the thing to me and to the radio system of the United

States Secret Service. The President himself will be listening, as

will the chief executives of most of the states. Hold nothing back, as

the fate of our people is at stake."

* * * * *

So Van faced the microphone and related the history of his work in the

little laboratory in the Ramapo Mountains. He told of his interest in

the earth's satellite, and of his first unsuccessful experiments with

ultra-telescopes in the endeavor to explore its surface close at hand;

of the failure of a space-ship he had built; of the final discovery of

the ray, by means of which it was possible to transport solid objects

from the one body to the other. He told of the discovery of man-made

relics and of fossils; he told of the diamonds, and of the attack by

Dan Kelly which had resulted in the spreading of the seed of the

deadly moon weed. He even related the incident of the traffic

policeman, at which the governor smiled.

"That has been reported," he said, "and you need have no fear on that

score.--The charges will be dropped. I now ask that you give us your

opinion as to the best method of combatting this new enemy. Have you

any ideas?"

"I have not, sir," Van replied gloomily, "though I believe it can be

done only from the air. Possibly bombing, or a gas of some sort--I

don't know. It will take time, Mr. Governor."

"Yes, and meanwhile the thing is overwhelming us at what rate?"

"As nearly as I can estimate it, the growth is moving with a speed of

four or five miles an hour."

"By morning you expect it will have traveled forty or fifty miles in

all directions?"

"I'm afraid so."

A sharp buzz from the instrument on the governor's desk interrupted

them. "The President," he whispered.

"That is enough, Governor," came the husky tones of President Alford's

voice. "I shall communicate with Secretary Makely at once. All

available army bombing-planes will be rushed to the scene. You, sir,

will mobilize the militia, as will the governors of the other states.

Meanwhile, this young scientist is to report to the Bureau of

Scientific Research in Washington--to-night. Have him bring a supply

of these seeds with him."

That was all. Governor Perkins offered no comment, but merely rose

from his seat to indicate that the discussion was ended. A solemn

silence reigned in the room.

"Let's go!" exclaimed Bill Petersen suddenly, unawed by the presence

of the governor. "My ship's waiting, and we can stop off for a couple

of those pods and still make Washington in two hours. Come on!"

Governor Perkins smiled. "Good luck, boys," he said, as they were

ushered from the room. "My car will return you to the airport. And

remember, the country will be watching you now, and expecting much

from you. Good-by."

They were to recall his words in the dark days ahead.

* * * * *

Before they had reached Newburgh, they saw a dull red glow in the

skies that told them the news broadcast to which they had been

listening had not exaggerated. The red growth was luminous in

darkness. Off there to the south-west, it was as if a vast forest fire

were lighting the heavens. No wonder the panics and rioting were

getting out of control of the police!

Coming up over Bear Mountain, they caught their first glimpse of the

sea of fire that was the red death by night. Like a vast bed of

glowing embers it covered the countryside, extending eastward to

Haverstraw where it was temporarily halted by the broad Hudson. It was

a shimmering, undulating mass of living, luminous things, eating their

horrible way through all organic matter that stood in their path.

Writhing, squirming, all-absorbing monsters that sent out an advance

guard of independent snake-like tendrils to capture and hold for the

lagging mother-plants whatever of live stock and humanity they were

able to find.

"Think they'll get over the river, Van?" Bart asked.

"Sure they will. Every fugitive who had a narrow escape after being in

contact with the things is a potential carrier of the seed. I found

several of them sticking to my clothing after we got away. I picked a

couple off your coat, but didn't tell you."

"Lord! What did you do with them?"

"Put them in the ash receiver in my car--like a fool. Wouldn't have to

go down for more if I'd kept them."

"Well, it can't be helped now. We'll have a job getting some down

there now, too."

"I'll say so." Van lapsed into gloomy silence.

* * * * *

They were over the landing field above Tomkins Cove, and Bill turned

on the siren whose raucous shriek operated the mechanism of the

floodlight switches by sound vibrations. The field sprang into instant

illumination, and they circled it once before swooping to a landing.

They were but a mile from the advancing terror.

The field was deserted, and the three men started off immediately in

the direction of the oncoming weed.

"We'll have to make it snappy," Van grunted. "We've got about twelve

minutes to get the pods and get back to the ship. The damn things'll

be here by that time."

They scrambled over fences and pushed through thickets. The lighted

windows of a deserted farmhouse were directly ahead, and they ran

through the open gate and across the fields. Ever, the glow of the

weed grew brighter. A terrified horse galloped wildly past them and

crashed into the fence, whinnying piteously as it went down with a

broken leg. They could see the red rim of the advancing horror just

beyond the road.

One of the detached tendrils slithered past, each glowing coil

distinctly visible.

"Lucky the things can't see!" Bart shuddered.

"Yeah," said Van. "Have to dodge 'em to get in close enough to one of

the plants. Keep your eyes peeled now, you fellows, in case one of us

gets caught."

A terrific explosion rocked the ground. They had paid no heed to the

roaring of motors overhead. The bombers were on the job! Shooting

skyward, a column of flame not a hundred yards from them showed where

the high explosive had landed in the red mass. Then, slimy wriggling

things rained all about them, fragments of the red weed that still

squirmed and crawled and clung. Bill Petersen yelled and clutched at

his neck where one of the things had taken hold.

Another warning whistle of a falling bomb. Crash! More of the horror

raining down and splattering as it fell. Whistle--crash! A huge blob

of quivering, luminous jelly fell before them--a portion of one of the

mother-plants. Crash! Crash!

"Run!" Van shouted. "Run for the plane. We'll never make it now. Damn

those bombers, anyway!"

All along the advancing front, the bombs were bursting, shattering the

air with their detonations and scattering the glowing red stems and

tendrils in all directions. The din was appalling, and the increasing

brightness of the crimson glow added to the horror of the situation.

Stumbling and cursing, they ran for the plane.

"Fools! Fools!" Bill was shouting. "Can't they see the field and the

plane? Why in the devil are they dropping them so near?"

* * * * *

Then Bart was down, clawing at a three-foot length of red tendril that

had fallen on him and borne him to the earth.

"Bart! Bart!" Van turned back and was tearing at the thing with

fingers that were slippery with the sap that oozed from its torn skin.

Monstrous earthworms! Cut them apart and each portion lived on, took

on new vigor. And these vile things could sting like a jellyfish!

Where each sucker touched the skin a burning sore remained.

Bill helped them break away from the thing, and all three fought on

toward the lights of the landing field. Only a short way off now; it

seemed they would never reach it. The bombers were dropping their

missiles with unceasing regularity, and the red death only spread the

faster.

When they scrambled into the cabin of the plane, the red wall of

creeping horror was almost upon them. Advancing speedily out from the

red-lit darkness, it seemed to halt momentarily, when it emerged into

the brilliance of the great arc-lights which illuminated the field.

Then, more slowly and with seemingly purposeful deliberation, the

wriggling feelers reached out from the mass and bore down upon them.

Bill slammed the door and latched it, then fumbled frantically with

the starter switch. A most welcome sound was the answering roar of

the motor.

The pilot yanked his ship into the air, taking off with the wind

rather than running the risk of remaining on the ground long enough to

taxi around and head into it. The plane acted like a frightened bird

as Bill struggled with the controls, darting this way and that, and

once missing a crash by inches as the tail was lifted by the

treacherous ground wind. Then they were clear, and slowly gained

altitude in a steep climb.

"Whew!" Van exclaimed, mopping his red-splattered forehead with his

handkerchief. "That was a narrow squeak, boys. And we haven't got the

seeds yet--unless we can find a few on our clothing."

"Who said so?" Bart gloated. "Look at this."

He opened his clenched fist and disclosed one of the pods, unbroken

and gleaming horribly scarlet in the dim light of the cabin. Bill

heaved a sigh of relief as he banked the ship and swung around toward

the south. He had dreaded another landing near the sea of moon weed.

Van chortled over their good fortune as he examined the mysterious

pod. One good thing the bombers had done, anyway! Blew one of the

things into his friend's hands.

* * * * *

Bart and the young pilot found themselves very much out of the picture

when they reported with Van at the Research Building in Washington.

The Government had no use for them in this emergency: it was the

scientist they wanted, and he was immediately rushed into conference

with the heads of the Bureau. His two friends were left to shift for

themselves, and they joined the crowds in the street.

The name of Carl Vanderventer was on everyone's tongue. Cursing and

reviling him, they were, for the hare-brained experiment which had

been the cause of the terrible disaster. Fools! Bart seethed with rage

and nearly came to blows with a number of vociferous agitators who

were advocating a necktie-party. Why hadn't the officials published

the entire story as Van told it over the Secret Service radio? There

was no mention of Dan Kelly in the broadcast news, nor of the fact

that the police were searching for him in every city and town in the

country. Another instance of the results of secrecy in governmental

activities!

"We'd better find ourselves a room and turn in," Bart growled. "Let's

get out of this mob before I slam somebody."

Bill Petersen was only too willing. He was suddenly very tired.

In the Willard Hotel they were assigned to an excellent room, and Bart

insisted on switching on the broadcasts and listening to the news. Far

into the night he sat by the loud-speaker, or paced the floor as an

exceptionally calamitous happening was reported. But Bill slept

through it all.

The army bombers had been recalled. Their efforts had worked more harm

than good. The invincible moon weed now had crossed the Hudson River

at Nyack and Piermont. Tarrytown was overrun, and many of the

inhabitants had lost their lives either in the maws of the insatiable

monsters or in the panics and rioting that accompanied the evacuation

of the town.

* * * * *

New Jersey was covered as far south as New Brunswick, and west to

Phillipsburg and Belvidere. At Mauch Chunk the contents of twenty oil

tanks had been diverted to the Delaware River, and the floating oil

film was proving at least a temporary protection to a considerable

portion of the state of Pennsylvania. In New York State the growth

had buried hill and valley, town and village, as far as Monticello,

and, along the Hudson, extended as far north as Kingston. At

Poughkeepsie, on the opposite side of the river, frantic householders

had armed themselves with rifles and shotguns, and were killing off

all refugees who attempted to land from boats at that point. But the

militia was on guard at the bridges, assuring safe crossing to the

thousands who fled the red death over these routes. There was no

keeping the seed of the moon weed from finding its way east.

At some points fire had been used with considerable success as a

barrier, hundreds of acres of forest lands being destroyed in the

endeavor to stem the crimson tide. But, after the ashes were cool,

germination would recur, and the weed would continue on its triumphant

way. Acid sprays and poison-gas of various kinds had been tried

without appreciable effect. The casualty estimates already ran into

the tens of thousands; rumor had it that nearly one hundred thousand

had lost their lives in the city of Newark alone. There was no way in

which the figures could be checked while everything was in a state of

confusion.

Communication lines were broken, roads blocked, gas and electric

supply systems paralyzed and the railroads helpless. Trains could not

be driven through the glutinous, wriggling mass that piled high on the

tracks. Only the radio and the air lines were operative in the

stricken area, and even these were of little value to the unfortunates

who, in many cases, were surrounded and cut off from all hope of

succor.

At four in the morning, with aching heart and reeling brain, Bart

threw himself on the bed without undressing and fell into the troubled

sleep of exhaustion and despair.

* * * * *

The next day brought no encouragement, though it was reported that the

growth developed with less rapidity after sunrise than it had during

the night. Bart endeavored to get Van on the telephone, but was curtly

informed by the operator at the Research Building that no incoming

calls could be transferred to the laboratory where he was working.

Knowing his friend, he pictured him as working feverishly with the

Government engineers and giving no thought to sleep or food. He'd kill

himself, sure! But such a death, even, was preferable to the red one

of the moon weed.

The Canadians and Mexicans had been quick to protect their borders and

forbid the landing of any American aircraft or the passage of trains

and automobiles. But the seed had reached Europe, one of the

twelve-hour night air-liners having carried a thousand refugees who

had sufficient foresight and the means to engage passage. It was a

world catastrophe they faced!

By mid-afternoon the streets of Washington were almost deserted. It

was less than twenty-four hours since the first moon seed took root,

and already the crimson growth had progressed nearly a hundred miles

southward from the point of origin! Another twenty or thirty hours and

it would reach the capital city--unless Van and those engineers over

in the Research Building discovered something; a miracle.

Bart tried the telephone once more and was overjoyed when the

operator, all apologies now, informed him that Van had been trying to

reach him for several hours.

"Listen, old man," his friend's voice came over the wire: "I've been

worried as the devil not knowing where you were. I want you and Bill

to stick around where I can get you at any time. I may need you. Where

are you staying?"

"The Willard. Have you doped out something?" Bart answered in quick

excitement.

"Maybe. Can't let anything out yet--not till we've tested it

thoroughly. But I can tell you that a hundred factories are already

working on machines we've devised. By good luck it only means minor

changes to an apparatus that is on the market in large quantity."

"Great stuff. The city's nearly emptied itself, you know, and, boy,

how they've been razzing you over the radio and in the papers--howling

for your hide, the whole country."

"I know." Van's voice was calm, but Bart sensed in it something of a

cold fury that was new to him in his friend. The young scientist was

bitterly resentful of the attitude of the public.

"Can we see you, Van?"

"No, nor call me either. Better hang around the hotel and wait for a

call from me. So long now, Bart. I've got to get busy."

"So long."

Bart gazed solemnly at Bill Petersen, who had been listening

abstractedly to the one-sided conversation. Bill had given up hope and

was resigned to the inevitable.

"Says he may need us, Bill," said Bart.

"Yeah? Well, we'll be ready for anything he wants us to do. It's no

use though--anything."

"What do you mean--no use? You never saw Van licked yet, did you?"

"Sure I did. By his super-telescopes and the rocket ship."

"But this is different." Bart was a staunch defender of his friend. He

glared at Bill for a moment and then switched on the news broadcast

which he knew he detested.

* * * * *

The progress of the moon weed continued unabated. In the city of New

York a million souls were reported as having lost their lives, and

this in spite of the difficulty experienced by the uncanny moon weed

in obtaining a foothold in Manhattan. It had been thought that the

asphalt and concrete would prove an effective barrier, and so they did

for a time. But, with the seed active in the parks and along the water

fronts, it was not long before the powerful roots of the greedy plants

worked their way underneath, ripping up pavements and wriggling into

cellars as they progressed. The city was a mass of wreckage and a

maelstrom of fighting, dying humanity.

Whole regiments of the National Guard were wiped out as they fought

off the weed with ax and bayonet, in the effort to provide time for

the refugees to clear from their homes in certain localities. All

transportation facilities to the south and west were taxed to the

utmost. There was fighting and killing for the possession of

automobiles and planes and for room in trains and buses. Air-line

terminals and railroad stations were the scenes of dreadful massacres

as the police and military guards fought off the crazed and desperate

creatures who attacked them en masse. And still the news announcers

prated of the responsibility of one Carl Vanderventer.

The telephone bell rang, and Bart answered it in relief. At last they

were to see some action! But no, it was merely the desk clerk,

notifying him that all employees were leaving the hotel and that they

would be left to shift for themselves. Yes, there was plenty of food

in the kitchens; they were welcome to it. And a permanent telephone

connection would be made to their room. The frightened clerk wished

them luck.

* * * * *

In endless monotone, the voice of the news announcer droned on.

Binghamton and Elmira, Albany and Schenectady, New Haven,

Philadelphia, Allentown--all had succumbed. The casualty estimates now

ran into the millions. The mist, the red mist that rose from the

steaming weed, was drifting westward and spreading the seed with ever

increasing rapidity. For now the monstrous growth from out the sky was

adapting itself to its environment; providing the seed with feathery

tufts that permitted the winds to carry them far and wide like the

seed of a dandelion.

"Turn off that damn thing!" Bill shouted. And he jumped to his feet,

his eyes glinting strangely in the twilight gloom of the room. Bill

was close to the breaking point.

"Guess you're right," Bart mumbled. "Not good for either of us to

listen to that stuff." He switched off the receiver, and they sat in

silence as darkness fell over the city.

Bill shivered and felt for the button of the electric light which he

pressed with a trembling finger. They blinked in the sudden

illumination, but it cheered them somewhat. It was not good to sit in

the darkness and think. Besides, they knew that the turbine generators

of Potomac Edison were still running. Some brave souls were sticking

to their jobs--for a time, at least.

"God!" Bill suddenly groaned, after an endless time of dead silence.

"My sister! Lives in Pittsburgh, you know. Wonder if she and the kids

got away. It won't be long before the damn stuff gets there."

Bart thanked his lucky stars that he had no family ties. "Oh, they've

had plenty of warning," he tried to console Bill. "Hours, you know;

and the westbound lines are in good shape from there. I wouldn't worry

about them if I were you."

There was utter silence once more. Even the customary street noises

was lacking. Both men jumped nervously when the shrill siren of a

police motorcycle sounded in the distance. Bart thought grimly of his

fracas with the officer who had tried to arrest Van. How long ago that

seemed, and how inconsequential an incident!

Their windows faced north, and by midnight they could make out the red

glow of the moon weed, that awful band of flickering crimson that

painted the horizon the color of blood. The telephone clamored for

attention and Bill stifled a hysterical sob as the terrifying sound

broke the eery stillness.

Van was on the way to get them! He had a Government car and they were

to go to Arlington for Bill's plane. Then what? He refused to commit

himself: they must follow him blindly. Anything was better than this

inactivity, though. Bart shouted with glee.

* * * * *

"We're going north," Van replied shortly, in answer to Bart's question

when they entered the official car in front of the hotel, "after Dan

Kelly."

"After Dan Kelly? Got a line on him?"

"Yes. Secret Service reports him in Toronto. The Canucks are after him

now, but, by God, I'm going to get him myself!"

Van was haggard and wan, his eyes gleaming with a fanatical light. The

strain had done something to him--something Bart didn't like at all.

This was a different Van from the man who had entered his office two

days previously. Unshaven and unkempt, he looked and talked like a

drunken man on the verge of delirium tremens.

"What's the idea, Van?" he asked gently.

"I'm going to get him. I tell you. The scum! It's his fault the whole

world's against me. I'll get him, Bart; I'll kill him with my bare

hands!"

So that was it! The combination of gruelling labor in the effort to

save mankind from the dread moon weed, and bitter censure from the

very people he was trying to save, had been too much for Van. He had

developed a fixation, unreasoning and murderous; he'd get even with

the man who had caused the trouble. And nothing could deter him from

his purpose: Bart could see that. Might as well humor him and help

him. It made little difference, anyway, with the red doom spreading at

its present rate. They'd all be victims in a few days.

They were speeding through the streets of Washington at a break-neck

rate. Van bent over the wheel, and like a demented man glued his

wildly staring eyes to the road.

"What about your work?" Bart asked, after a while. "Has anything been

accomplished?"

"Yes and no. They'll be ready to shoot in a few hours. Don't know

whether it'll be a complete success or not. But I sneaked away anyhow.

This other thing's more important to me right now."

"What's the dope? Can you tell us now?"

"Sure. I've got one of the machines in the car and I'll explain when

we're on our way to Canada."

This wasn't like Van. Never secretive and always in good humor, he was

treating his friends like annoying strangers.

"You can't land in Canada," Bill ventured, as they pulled up at the

gate of the airport.

"Like hell I can't! You watch my smoke, and let any bloody Canuck up

there try and stop me!"

He was lifting a small black case from the luggage carrier of the car

as he replied. Bart silenced the airman with a look.

* * * * *

When they had taken off and were well under way, Van opened his black

case and set a vacuum-tube apparatus in operation. They were nearing

the fringe of the glowing sea of red that was the vast blanket of moon

weed. It now extended to within a few miles of Baltimore and stretched

northward as far as the eye could see.

"It was a cinch," Van was explaining. "When I first saw that the

growth slowed up under the arc-lights at Tomkins Cove it gave me the

glimmering of an idea. Then, on the following day, when we learned

that the weed spread more slowly in sunlight, I was convinced. The

stuff is dormant on the moon, you know."

"Why?" Bart asked breathlessly.

"Because there is no atmosphere surrounding the moon, and the sun's

rays are not filtered before they reach its surface as they are here.

The invisible rays, ultra-violet and such, are present in full

proportion. And the moon weed can not flourish when subjected to light

of the higher frequencies. It died out when the moon lost its

atmosphere, and only revived on being brought to earth--probably a

million times more prolific in our dense and damp atmosphere and rich

soil. The thing's a cinch to dope out."

"Yeah!" Bart commented drily. Van was now talking and he could have

bitten off his tongue for interrupting him.

This machine of Van's was a generator of invisible light in the

ultra-indigo range, Van explained. You couldn't see its powerful beam,

but they had proved in the laboratory that it was certain doom to the

moon weed. They had grown the stuff from seed in steel cages, and

played with it until they were all satisfied. Now would come the final

test. Ten thousand planes were being equipped with the new generator,

which was merely an adaptation of standard directional television

transmitters, and to-night these would start out to fight the weed. It

was a cinch!

* * * * *

Beneath them the red cauldron seethed and tossed as they sped

northward; the crimson blanket of death that was steadily covering the

country.

"Drop to a thousand feet, Bill," the scientist called, "and then watch

below. But, don't slow down. We've got to get to Toronto!"

The ship nosed down and soon leveled off at the prescribed altitude.

Van's vacuum tubes lighted to full brilliancy, and a black spot

appeared on the glowing surface just beneath them, a black spot that

extended into a streak as the plane continued on its way. They were

cutting a swath of blackness fifty feet wide through the heart of the

growth!

"See that!" Van gloated. "It's killing them by millions! And the best

of it is the effect it leaves behind. The soil is permeated to a depth

of several inches and the stuff will not germinate in the spots where

the ray has contracted. Oh, it works to perfection!"

Bill was exuberant; his hopes revived miraculously. He gave his motor

the gun and got out of it every last revolution that it could turn up.

He must get Van to Canada! Not such a bad idea, this going after

Kelly, at that!

Bart was voluble in his praise, then caught himself short as he

remembered that he had doubted Van but a half hour previously: doubted

him and despaired. Now Van, lapsing into gloomy silence after his

triumph, was again thinking of nothing but revenge. The getting of Dan

Kelly meant more to him now than the extinction of the moon weed.

* * * * *

When they landed at the Toronto Airport they were welcomed with open

arms instead of with rifle fire as Bill had anticipated. The news had

gone forth. Already a thousand planes flying over the United States

were driving back the sea of destruction. The invisible ray was a

success, and the name of Carl Vanderventer was now a thing with which

to conjure, rather than one on which to heap imprecation and insult.

Van grimaced wryly at this last bit of news.

Danny Kelly? No one at the airport had ever heard of him. Van

telephoned in to the city; to Police Headquarters. Yes, they had

apprehended the fugitive American at the request of Washington, but he

was a slippery customer. He had escaped. Van raged and fumed.

Of what use were the congratulations of the night flyers who still

loitered in the hangar; of what consolation the radio reports of the

success of the ultra-indigo ray in the States and in Europe? He had

come after his man and he'd failed. Defeat was a bitter pill.

The news broadcasts from the States were jubilant and became

increasingly so during the night. The moon weed was being driven back

on a wide front and by morning would be entirely surrounded. There

would be no further loss of life and little more destruction of

property. Carl Vanderventer had saved the day! Van grunted his disgust

whenever an announcer mentioned his name.

When daylight came they prepared to return. Little use there was of

searching the highways and byways of Canada for the fugitive. He'd

simply have to wait until the Canadians were able to get a line on Dan

Kelly again.--It was maddening! But Bart was glad. The light of reason

was returning to his friend's eyes in the reaction.

Then there was a telephone call from the city for Van. Police

Headquarters wanted him. The fanatical glint returned to his eyes when

he ran for the hangar to answer the call. Perhaps they had already

captured Kelly! And he had an order in his pocket for the man's

return to the States. He'd been made a deputy, and with Kelly released

to him anything might happen. Something would happen.

* * * * *

But the police were reporting the unexplainable reappearance of the

moon weed just outside the city limits at a point near Cookesville.

Would Mr. Vanderventer be so kind as to fly over there and destroy it

before any lives were lost? He would.

The growth had covered an acre of ground by the time they reached the

spot designated. But it was the work of only a minute to blast it out

of existence with the ultra-indigo ray. Van surveyed the blackened and

shriveled mass with satisfaction.

"Let's land and take a look at it," he said.

Bart thought he saw a look of exultation flash over his careworn

features.

Soon they were wading deep in the blackened remains of the moon weed.

The stems and tendrils snapped and crumbled into powder as they passed

through. The stuff was done for, no question of that.

Bill Petersen yelled and pointed a shaking forefinger at an object

that lay in the blackened ruin. It was a human skeleton, the bones

bare of flesh and gleaming white in the light of the early morning

sun. Van was on his knees, quick as a flash, feeling around the

grewsome thing: pawing at the shreds of clothing that remained.

Then he was on his feet, his face shining with unholy glee. In his

hands were a half dozen small, smooth objects which looked like

pebbles. The diamonds!

"I thought so!" he exclaimed. "It's Kelly. Only way the seed could

have gotten up here. He had some on his clothes and didn't know it. I

couldn't get him myself--but anyway I'm satisfied."

* * * * *

He staggered and would have fallen, had not Bart caught him in his

arms. Poor old Van! Nearly killed him, this thing had, but he'd be

himself again, after it was all over. No wonder he'd gone out of his

head with the horror of it, and the blame that had been so cruelly

laid on him! No wonder he'd become obsessed with this idea of getting

square with Dan Kelly! But now he was content: sleeping like a babe in

Bart's arms.

Tenderly they carried him to the plane and laid him out on the

cushions in back. They'd let him sleep as long as he could; return him

to Washington where he'd receive his just dues in recognition for his

services. Then would follow the work of reconstruction and

rehabilitation. Van would glory in that.

Bart regarded his sleeping friend thoughtfully as they winged their

swift way toward the American border. The harsh lines that had showed

in his face during the past few hours were smoothed away and in their

place was an expression of deep contentment. He was at peace with the

world once more. Good old Van.

What a difference there would be when he awakened to full realization

of the changed order of things! What satisfaction and relief!

[Illustration: Advertisement]

The Port of Missing Planes

_By Captain S. P. Meek_

[Illustration: _"That portion of the wall has gone back in time

exactly three seconds," he announced._]

[Sidenote: In the underground caverns of the Selom, Dr. Bird once

again locks wills with the subversive genius, Saranoff.]

So that's the "Port of Missing Planes," mused Dick Purdy as he looked

down over the side of his cockpit. "It looks wild and desolate all

right, but at that I can't fancy a bus cracking up here and not being

found pronto. Gosh, Wilder cracked in the wildest part of Arizona and

he was found in a week."

The mail plane droned monotonously on through perfect flying weather.

Purdy continued to study the ground. Recently transferred from a

western run, he was getting his first glimpse of that section of ill

repute. Below him stretched a desolate, almost uninhabited stretch of

country. By looking back he could see Bellefonte a few miles behind

him, but Philipsburg, the next spot marked on his map, was not yet

visible. Twelve hundred feet below him ran a silver line of water

which his map told him was Little Moshannon Run. As he watched he

suddenly realized that the ground was not slipping by under him as

rapidly as it should. He glanced at his air-speed meter.

"What the dickens?" he cried in surprise. For an hour his speed had

remained almost constant at one hundred miles an hour. Without

apparent cause it had dropped to forty, less than flying speed. He

realized that he was falling. A glance at his altimeter confirmed the

impression. The needle had dropped four hundred feet and was slowly

moving toward sea-level.

* * * * *

With an exclamation of alarm, Purdy advanced his throttle until the

three motors of his plane roared at full capacity. For a moment his

air-speed picked up, but the gain was only momentary. As he watched,

the meter dropped to zero, although the propellers still whirled at

top speed. His altimeter showed that he was gradually losing

elevation.

He stood up and looked over the side of his plane. The ground below

him was stationary as far as forward progress was concerned, but it

was slowly rising to meet him. He fumbled at the release ring of his

parachute but another glance at the ground made him hesitate. It was

not more than three hundred feet below him.

"I must be dreaming!" he cried. The ground was no longer stationary.

For some unexplained reason he was going backward. The motors were

still roaring at top speed. Purdy dropped back into his seat in the

cockpit. With his ailerons set for maximum lift he coaxed every

possible revolution from his laboring motors. For several minutes he

strained at the controls before he cast a quick glance over the side.

His backward speed had accelerated and the ground was less than fifty

feet below him. It was too close for a parachute jump.

"As slow as I'm falling, I won't crack much, anyway," he consoled

himself. He reached for his switch and the roar of the motors died

away in silence. The plane gave a sickening lurch backwards and down

for an instant. Purdy again leaned over the side. He was no longer

going either forward or back but was sinking slowly down. He looked at

the ground directly under him. A cry of horror came from his lips. He

sat back mopping his brow. Another glance over the side brought an

expression of terror to his white face and he reached for the heavy

automatic pistol which hung by the side of the control seat.

* * * * *

"He cleared Bellefonte at nine in the morning, Dr. Bird" said

Inspector Dolan of the Post Office Department, "and headed toward

Philipsburg. He never arrived. By ten we were alarmed and by eleven we

had planes out searching for him. They reported nothing. He must have

come to grief within a rather restricted area, so we sent search

parties out at once. That was two weeks ago yesterday. No trace of

either him or his plane has been found."

"The flying conditions were good?"

"Perfect. Also, Purdy is above suspicion. He has been flying the mail

on the western runs for three years. This is his first accident. He

was carrying nothing of unusual value."

"Are there any local conditions unfavorable to flying?"

"None at all. It is much uninhabited country, but there is no reason

why it shouldn't be safe country to fly over."

"There are some damnably unfavorable local conditions, Doctor,

although I can't tell you what they are," broke in Operative Carnes of

the United States Secret Service. "Dick Purdy was rather more than an

acquaintance of mine. After he was lost I looked into the record of

that section a little. It is known among aviators as 'The Port of

Missing Planes.'"

"How did it get a name like that?"

"From the number of unexplained and unexplainable accidents that

happen right there. Dugan of the air mail, was lost there last May.

They found the mailbags where he had dropped them before he crashed,

but they never found a trace of him or his plane."

"They didn't?"

"Not a trace. The same thing happened when Mayfield cracked in August.

He made a jump and broke his neck in landing. He was found all right,

but his ship wasn't. Trierson of the army, dropped there and _his_

plane was never found. Neither was he. He was seen to go down in a

forced landing. He was flying last in a formation. As soon as he went

down the other ships turned back and circled over the ground where he

should have fallen. They saw nothing. Search parties found no trace of

either him or his ship. Those are the best known cases, but I have

heard rumors of several private ships which have gone down in that

district and have never been seen or heard of since."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird sat forward with a glitter in his piercing black eyes. Carnes

gave a grunt of satisfaction. He knew the meaning of that glitter. The

Doctor's interest had been fully aroused.

"Inspector Dolan," said Dr. Bird sharply, "why didn't you tell me

those things?"

"Well, Doctor, we don't like to talk about mail wrecks any more than

we have to. Of course, the loss of so many planes in one area is

merely a coincidence. Probably the wrecked planes were stolen as

souvenirs. Such things happen, you know."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Dr. Bird sharply. He raised one long slender hand

with beautifully modeled tapering fingers and threw back his unruly

mop of black hair. His square, almost rugged jaw, protruded and the

glitter in his eyes grew in intensity. "No souvenir hunting vandals

could cart away whole planes without leaving a trace. In that case,

what became of the bodies? No, Inspector, this has gone beyond the

range of coincidence. There is some mystery here and it needs looking

into. Fortunately, my work at the Bureau of Standards is in such shape

that I can safely leave it. I intend to devote my entire time to

clearing this matter up. The ramifications may run deeper than either

you or I suspect. Please have all of your records dealing with plane

disappearances or wrecks in that locality sent to my office at once."

The Post Office inspector stiffened.

"Of course, Dr. Bird," he said formally, "we are very glad to hear any

suggestion that you may care to offer. When it comes, however, to a

matter of surrendering control of a Post Office matter to the

Department of Commerce or to the Treasury Department, I doubt the

propriety. Our records are confidential ones and are not open to

everyone who is curious. I will inform the proper authorities of your

desire to help, but I doubt seriously if they will avail themselves of

your offer."

* * * * *

Dr. Bird's black eyes shot fire. "Idiot!" he said. "If you're a

specimen of the Post Office Department, I'll have the entire case

taken out of your hands. Do you mean to cooperate with me or not?"

"I fail to see what interest the Bureau of Standards can have in the

affair."

"The Bureau isn't mixed up in it; Dr. Bird is. If necessary, I will go

direct to the President. Oh, thunder! What's the use of talking to

you? Who's your chief?"

"Chief Inspector Watkins is in charge of all investigations."

"Carnes, get him on the telephone. Tell him we are taking charge of

the investigation. If he balks, have Bolton go over his head. Then get

the chief of the Air Corps on the wire and arrange for an army plane

to-morrow. There is something more than a mail robbery back of this or

I'm badly fooled."

"Do you suspect--"

"I suspect nothing and no one, Carnes--yet! I'll get a few instruments

together to take with us to-morrow. We'll fly over that section until

something happens if it takes us until this time next year."

* * * * *

A three-seated scout plane rose from Langley Field at eight the next

morning. Captain Garland was at the controls. In the rear cockpit sat

Dr. Bird and Carnes. Inside his flying helmet, the doctor wore a pair

of headphones which were connected to a box on the floor before him.

Carnes carried no apparatus but his hand rested carelessly on the grip

of a machine-gun.

The plane cleared Bellefonte at nine-thirty and bore east toward

Philipsburg. Captain Garland kept his eyes on his instrument board and

on a map. Less than six hundred feet above the ground, he was

following the air-mail route as exactly as possible. Overhead a mail

plane winged its way east, three thousand feet above them.

Fifteen minutes brought them to Philipsburg. Captain Garland shot his

plane upward a few hundred feet.

"Turn back, Captain," said Dr. Bird into the speaking tube. "Retrace

your course a quarter of a mile farther north. At Bellefonte, turn

back and go over the same ground another quarter of a mile north. Keep

flying back and forth, working your way north, until I tell you to

stop."

The plane swung around and headed back toward Bellefonte.

"Of course, we can't tell exactly what route he followed," said the

doctor to Carnes, "but he was new on this run and it is safe to assume

that he didn't stray far. We'll quarter the whole area before we

stop."

Carnes watched the ground below them carefully. There was nothing

about it to distinguish it from any other wooded mountainous country

and his interest waned. He glanced aloft. The mail plane had

disappeared in the distance and the sky was clear of aircraft. He

turned again to the ground. It looked closer than it had before. He

turned and looked at the duplicate altimeter. The plane had lost

nearly a hundred feet elevation.

* * * * *