less; then, as the
bewildered eye became more sane, one could count them and see that
there were, in reality, about thirty. Their prows were stubby; in the
port side of each a tiny trap-door yawned, and standing by every
trap-door was the overall-clad figure of a mechanic, waiting for the
signal.

The Commander of the American Air Force looked up from his
wrist-watch. At his side was a peculiar gnomelike figure, a figure
with hunched, twisted back and huge, over-heavy head. This was
Professor Singe, and from that ridiculous head had come the germ which
had finally expanded into the torpedoes arrayed before him.

His eyes were nervous; his crooked face twitched ceaselessly. "Time?"
he kept asking. "Time? Is it yet time?" And finally the tall figure of
the Commanding Officer turned and rapped: "Time!"

* * * * *

An aide-de-camp raised a hand. As if working by some mechanical
device, the figure which stood by each torpedo climbed through the
trap-doors, jumped out a second later, and came running to the head of
the field.

"About thirty seconds," muttered Singe nervously, eyes alight. "Thirty
seconds for their motors to catch the stream. Thirty--ah!"

For the squadron of man-made horrors had stirred.

"God pity San Francisco!" murmured the Commanding Officer, and stepped
back involuntarily as the whole fleet lifted their glyco-scarzite
crammed bellies from the field and, as if moved by some magical,
unseen, unheard force, shot up into the darkness with ever gathering
speed.

"God pity it, indeed!" chuckled Singe exultantly. "It'll need it!"

The C. O. sighed and shook his head slowly. "War!" he mused. "And yet,
it's our only chance." For a moment he paused, seemingly unconscious
of the macabre little form next to him, still gazing aloft at the now
invisible torpedoes, and then muttered:

"And God pity Basil Hay, who's giving his life to America--a glorious,
unselfish hero. God pity Basil Hay!"

* * * * *

American flyers never knew of Basil Hay's last fight. Had they, it
would have become legendary.

For Hay fought a grim battle against two foes. One, he could face and
conquer, as he had conquered often before. But the other lurked next
to his dauntless heart, and it Hay could not subdue.

It was death.

Truly, Hay's fight there in the wet clouds above Sola Ranch was an
inspired one. He fought almost by instinct alone, instinct twenty
years