n fact. Two experts from
Washington arrived with that batch of new recruits this afternoon. A
tiny sliding door was cut in the fuselage of the scout and a sort of
folding ladder put inside. It was motivated by some rather complex
spring-work; but the really ingenious thing about it was the powerful
electro-magnet at its base.

"It's rather over my head," he smiled. "I'm a plain fighting man, and
sometimes it seems that scientists and not fighting men are going to
win this war.... But, at any rate, it worked like this:

"Hay lures, or maneuvers, a Slav plane away from its fellows, and
while you're down below entertaining the others, flies wing to wing
with it. He touches the spring of his ladder and it shoots out,
powerfully magnetized, and clamps onto the steel fuselage of the Slav.
The automatic control keeps Hay's scout steady, and the ladder is so
highly attractive that the Slav simply can't get away. Hay crosses the
gulf, taking with him the cord which controls the electro-magnet. He
forces his way into the Slav, shoots down its pilot, releases the pull
of the magnet, and--there you are! Our best pilot in possession of a
Slav plane, and clad in a Slav officer's uniform! Do you get the idea
now?"

Lance strove for appropriate words. "Gee!" he spluttered. "It's--it's
wonderful! And to think I tried to start a fight with Hay! I wish I'd
known before. But I suppose," he added, "it was best to let not even
me in on it, to keep it absolutely secret."

"Exactly!"

"And now what's Hay's mission?" Lance asked eagerly.

* * * * *

Colonel Douglas' face became sober. "A damnably dangerous one, and a
mighty desperate one. As I said, the Torpedo Plan, which Hay is
striving to carry out, seems to be America's last chance. We're
holding the United Slavs, but only just. We simply can't break their
line or make any headway against them; and when they do unleash their
big push, there's nothing to stop them! So we're gambling everything
on this slim hope.

"American science," he continued, "has perfected a weapon which is
called the 'flying torpedo.' It's a ghastly thing, too. Damn it, I
actually feel sorry for the poor devils it bursts on! It's a sort of
riposte to their disintegrating flame.

"Picture a huge tanklike affair of steel, one hundred feet long.
Picture a few dozen of them! Picture them crammed to overflowing with
tons of glyco-scarzite, the most destructive explosive the mind of