The Asiatic fleet was quite close now. In order to meet their onslaught
the Americans had arranged their ships into three vast rings, one above
the other.
Suddenly a light puff of smoke broke from the side of one of the
Mongolian aircraft. For a fraction of a second a high, plaintive
whine was heard above the roar of rocket-motors. Then, with a report
that sounded like the crack of doom, the forward end of an American
greyhound of the air was bent into a twisted mass of scrap. Upon the
wreckage was spattered a greenish slimy fluid that gave off a gas which
turned the shattered flesh of men black, the instant it touched them,
and ate into bright metal like a powerful acid, covering it with half
an inch of grayish compound.
The titanic struggle had begun--a thundering, hissing maelstrom of
destruction. Again and again the Asiatics rushed upon their intended
victims and, as often as they did so, they were beaten back by the
revolving rings of American aircraft that poured broadside after
broadside into their midst.
Losses to both contestants were awful, but among the invaders they were
greatest. Time and again a monster dreadnaught gaudily painted with
orange suns would crumple up under well-directed _terrorium_ shells and
take the ten-mile dive to earth, almost completely burying itself in
the soft soil. Gradually, however, the Asiatics were getting the upper
hand by force of numbers.
After night had fallen the scene of battle was brilliantly illuminated
with searchlights and magnesium flares.
In the purple sky the stars glittered as calmly as ever. Though the
fates of the human races of the world hung in the balance, nature's
serenity was unruffled.
And now the slow retreat of the Americans toward Chicago had begun.
Every mile of the way was contested with dogged courage. Time was what
the United States needed, and the commander of the fleet meant to gain
time if it were humanly possible. "Hang on, men--for God's sake--hang
on!" were his constant orders, "If we can delay long enough, victory is
ours!"
Set in the revolving turrets at the bow and stern of each American
dreadnaught were strange thick cylinders; at the end of each was a mass
of glassy crystalline substance, looking like a staring ray. What was
the purpose of these queer devices? Many Asiatics wondered. Why was it
that they did not flash forth some new kind of dreadful death? Their
silence was enigmatic.
Now the contending fleets were a hundred and fifty miles from Chicago,
now a hundred, and now only twenty-five. "How much longer must we hold
them?" the American commander queried anxiously by radio.
"Fifteen minutes," was the reply. "By then we think that we can be
ready. There has been some unforeseen delay of operations at Whitley
Park."
And so the Americans continued to fight for time with all the reckless
pluck they had to offer.
Chicago stood as dead and silent as though the Asiatics had already
dumped their poisonous vapors upon her. Her unlighted skyscrapers
loomed up wanly under the blinking stars and her streets were gorges
of Stygian shadow. Scarcely a speck of radiance was left to betray her
location to the enemy. The inhabitants had shut themselves indoors.
A few wept quietly, but otherwise there was no inordinate display of
emotion. These people had lost much of their terror of war by constant
contact with it.