As Roger Sanders plunged downward from the sky, the fragments of Ted’s
shattered Blettendorf dropping around him, the three strange globes that
had wrought such swift destruction with their green rays in so short a
time, disappeared from view in a blinding whirl of cloud and snow. His
parachute was whipped about by the force of the wind until he feared the
lashings would be torn loose, but they held, and he presently landed,
waist deep, in a snow drift.
He was floundering about, endeavoring to extricate himself from the
clutches of the wet, sticky mess, when suddenly he heard his name
called:
“Mr. Sanders.”
He answered, and a moment later a figure shuffled toward him and helped
him from the drift. It was Bevans.
“Didn’t fall in as deeply as you, sir,” he said. “Landed in the middle
of the road, while you went in the ditch. I’ve been walking along,
calling your name in the hope of locating you.”
“Did you notice where the professor fell?”
“Yes, sir. He leaped before I did, and I saw him fall on the bridge of
that strange globe. He tried to jump off again, but one of those
diamond-shaped port holes opened, and he was dragged inside. I suppose
they slaughtered him. A horrible ending for one of the greatest minds of
the century.”
“Awful,” replied Roger. “Ted will be broken up when he hears it—that is
if he lives to hear it. But we can’t help things any by crying about
them. Any idea where we are?”
“I should say we’re somewhere in Indiana, sir, and not far from a flying
field. Have you noticed the flashes of light and dark in the snow above
us at regular intervals? Must be from a beacon.”
“Well, let’s see if we can find out.”
Guided by the dimly seen flashes, the two at length found themselves at
the airdrome of the South Bend Flying Field—a government training
station for student aviators since the advent of planes equipped to rise
or descend vertically, and the consequent ability of experienced pilots
to land “on a dime”.
Ridding themselves of a considerable weight of sticky snow by brushing
each other, they entered the building, where a watchman, with a huge,
foul-smelling cob pipe in his mouth, was playing a game of solitaire.
Spying a radiovisiphone, Roger was hurrying toward it to make his report
while Bevans explained things to the watchman, when the figure of a man
in military uniform suddenly appeared in the disc. He read from a sheet
of paper held in his hand: