dest, strangest war this earth had ever seen--well, it is
still probable that the Stoughton company would not have lost the sale.

They were roaring through the starlit, calm night, three thousand feet
above a sage sprinkled desert, when the trip ended. Slim Riley had the
stick when the first blast of hot oil ripped slashingly across the
pilot's window. "There goes your old trip!" he yelled. "Why don't they
try putting engines in these ships?"

[Illustration]

He jammed over the throttle and, with motor idling, swept down toward
the endless miles of moonlit waste. Wind? They had been boring into it.
Through the opened window he spotted a likely stretch of ground. Setting
down the ship on a nice piece of Arizona desert was a mere detail for
Slim.

"Let off a flare," he ordered, "when I give the word."

* * * * *

The white glare of it faded the stars as he sideslipped, then
straightened out on his hand-picked field. The plane rolled down a clear
space and stopped. The bright glare persisted while he stared curiously
from the quiet cabin. Cutting the motor he opened both windows, then
grabbed Thurston by the shoulder.

"'Tis a curious thing, that," he said unsteadily. His hand pointed
straight ahead. The flare died, but the bright stars of the desert
country still shone on a glistening, shining bulb.

It was some two hundred feet away. The lower part was lost in shadow,
but its upper surfaces shone rounded and silvery like a giant bubble. It
towered in the air, scores of feet above the chapparal beside it. There
was a round spot of black on its side, which looked absurdly like a
door....

"I saw something moving," said Thurston slowly. "On the ground I saw....
Oh, good Lord, Slim, it isn't real!"

Slim Riley made no reply. His eyes were riveted to an undulating,
ghastly something that oozed and crawled in the pale light not far from
the bulb. His hand was reaching, reaching.... It found what he sought;
he leaned toward the window. In his hand was the Very pistol for
discharging the flares. He aimed forward and up.

The second flare hung close before it settled on the sandy floor. Its
blinding whiteness made the more loathsome the sickening yellow of the
flabby flowing thing that writhed frantically in the glare. It was
formless, shapeless, a heaving mound of nauseous matter. Yet even in its
agonized writhing distortions they sensed the beating pulsations that
marked it a living