res who had spewed
forth from the inner world, had the fiery crystal called!... It seemed
to Harkness that Schwartzmann was hours in reaching the switch.... A
voice came shouting into the room:

"By order of the Stratosphere Control Board," it commanded, "all
traffic is forbidden above the forty level. Liners take warning.
Descend at once."

Over and over it repeated the command--an order whose authority could
not be disregarded. In his inner vision Harkness saw the tumult in the
skies, the swift dropping of huge liners and great carriers of fast
freight, the scurrying of other craft to give clearance to these
monsters whose terrific speed must be slowly checked. But why? What
had happened? What could warrant such disruption of the traffic of the
world? His tensed muscles were aching unheeded; his sense of feeling
seemed lost, so intently was he waiting for some further word.

"Emergency news report," said another voice, and Harkness strained
every faculty to hear. "Highline ships attacked by unknown foe. Three
passenger carriers of the Northpolar Short Line reported crashed.
Incomplete warnings from their commanders indicate they were attacked.
Patrol ship has spotted one crash. They have landed beside it and are
reporting....

"The report is in; it is almost beyond belief. They say the liner is
empty, that no human body, alive or dead, is in the ship. She was
stripped of crew and passengers in the air.

"We await confirmation. Danger apparently centered over arctic
regions, but traffic has been ordered from all upper levels--"

The voice that had been held rigidly to the usual calm clarity of an
official announcer became suddenly high-pitched and vibrant. "Stand
by!" it shouted. "An S. O. S. is coming in. We will put it through our
amplifiers; give it to you direct!"

* * * * *

The newscaster crackled and hissed: they were waiving all technical
niceties at R. N. Headquarters, Harkness knew. The next voice came
clearly, though a trifle faint.

"Air Patrol! Help! Position eighty-two--fourteen north,
ninety-three--twenty east--Superliner Number 87-G, flying at R. A. plus
seven. We are attacked!--Air Patrol!--Air Patrol!--Eighty-two--fourteen
north, ninety-three--twenty--"

The voice that was repeating the position was lost in a pandemonium of
cries. Then--

"Monsters!" the voice was shouting. "They have seized the ship! They
are tearing at our ports--" A hissing crash ended