the whole world was
waiting while it helped, waiting for the next blow to fall.

Telegraph service was improvised, and radio receivers rushed in. The
news of the world was theirs once more. And it told of a terrified,
waiting world. There would be no temporizing now on the part of the
invaders. They had seen the airplanes swarming from the ground--they
would know an airdrome next time from the air. Thurston had noted the
windows in the great shell, windows of dull-colored glass which would
protect the darkness of the interior, essential to life for the horrible
occupant, but through which it could see. It could watch all directions
at once.

* * * * *

The great shell had vanished from the shore. Pounding waves and the
shifting sands of high tide had obliterated all trace. More than once
had Thurston uttered devout thanks for the chance shell from an
anti-aircraft gun that had entered the funnel beneath the machine, had
bent and twisted the arrangement of mirrors that he and MacGregor had
seen, and, exploding, had cracked and broken the domed roof of the
bulb. They had learned little, but MacGregor was up north within reach
of Los Angeles laboratories. And he had with him the slim cylinder of
death. He was studying, thinking.

Telephone service had been established for official business. The whole
nation-wide system, for that matter, was under military control. The
Secretary of War had flown back to Washington. The whole world was on a
war basis. War! And none knew where they should defend themselves, nor
how.

An orderly rushed Thurston to the telephone. "You are wanted at once;
Los Angeles calling."

The voice of MacGregor was cool and unhurried as Thurston listened.
"Grab a plane, old man," he was saying, "and come up here on the jump."

The phrase brought a grim smile to Thurston's tired lips. "Hell's
popping!" the Secretary of War had added on that evening those long ages
before. Did MacGregor have something? Was a different kind of hell
preparing to pop? The thoughts flashed through the listener's mind.

"I need a good deputy," MacGregor said. "You may be the whole works--may
have to carry on--but I'll tell you it all later. Meet me at the
Biltmore."

"In less than two hours," Thurston assured him.

* * * * *

A plane was at his disposal. Riley's legs were functioning again, after
a fashion. They kept the appointment with minutes to spare.