upon an insulated platform, and his long hands
manipulated keys and levers on a table before him. McGuire and Sykes
stared amazedly at this broadcasting station whose air was filled with a
pandemonium of crashing sound from some distant room, but McGuire was
concerned mainly with the motion of a lean, blood-red hand that swung
an object like a pointer in free-running sweeps above a dial on the
table. And he detected a variation in the din from beyond as the pointer
moved swiftly.

Here was the control board for those messages he had heard; this was the
instrument that varied the sending mechanism to produce the wailing
wireless cries that made words in some far-distant ears. McGuire, as he
slipped into the room and crept within leaping distance of the grotesque
thing so like yet unlike a man, was as silent as the nameless, writhing
horror that had seized them in the dark. He sprang, and the two came
crashing to the floor.

Lean arms came quickly about him to clutch and tear at his face, but the
flyer had an arm free, and one blow ended the battle. The man of Venus
relaxed to a huddle of purple and yellow cloth from which a ghastly face
protruded. McGuire leaped to his feet and sprang to the place where the
other had been.

"Hold them off as long as you can!" he shouted to Sykes, and his hand
closed upon the pointer.

Did this station send where he was hoping? Was this the station that had
communicated with the ship that had hovered above their flying field in
that far-off land? He did not know, but it was a powerful station, and
there was a chance--

* * * * *

He moved the pointer frantically here and there, swung it to one side
and another; then found at last a point on the outside of the strange
design beneath his hand where the pointer could rest while the crashing
crackle of sound was stilled.

And now he swung the pointer--upon the plate--anywhere!--and the noise
from beyond told instantly of the current's passage. He held it an
instant, then pushed it back to the silent spot--a dash! A quick return
that flashed back again to bring silence--a dot! More dashes and dots
... and McGuire thanked a kindly heaven that had permitted him to learn
the language of the air, while he cursed his slowness in sending.

Would it reach? Would there be anyone to hear? No certainty; he could
only flash the wild Morse symbols out into the night. He must try to get
word to them--warn them! And