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 thing.

There were unending ripplings crossing and recrossing through the convolutions. To Thurston there was suddenly a sickening likeness: the thing was a brain from a gigantic skull--it was naked--was suffering....

The thing poured itself across the sand. Before the staring gaze of the speechless men an excrescence appeared--a thick bulb on the ma.s.s--that protruded itself into a tentacle. At the end there grew instantly a hooked hand. It reached for the black opening in the great sh.e.l.l, found it, and the whole loathsome shapelessness poured itself up and through the hole.

Only at the last was it still. In the dark opening the last slippery ma.s.s held quiet for endless seconds. It formed, as they watched, to a head--frightful--menacing. Eyes appeared in the head; eyes flat and round and black save for a cross slit in each; eyes that stared horribly and unchangingly into theirs. Below them a gaping mouth opened and closed.... The head melted--was gone....

And with its going came a rushing roar of sound.

From under the metallic ma.s.s shrieked a vaporous cloud. It drove at them, a swirling blast of snow and sand. Some buried memory of gas attacks woke Riley from his stupor. He slammed shut the windows an instant before the cloud struck, but not before they had seen, in the moonlight, a gleaming, gigantic, elongated bulb rise swiftly--screamingly--into the upper air.

The blast tore at their plane. And the cold in their tight compartment was like the cold of outer s.p.a.ce. The men stared, speechless, panting.

Their breath froze in that frigid room into steam clouds.

"It--it...." Thurston gasped--and slumped helpless upon the floor.

It was an hour before they dared open the door of their cabin. An hour of biting, numbing cold. Zero--on a warm summer night on the desert!

Snow in the hurricane that had struck them!

"'Twas the blast from the thing," guessed the pilot; "though never did I see an engine with an exhaust like that." He was pounding himself with his arms to force up the chilled circulation.

"But the beast--the--the _thing_!" exclaimed Thurston. "It's monstrous; indecent! It thought--no question of that--but no body! Horrible! Just a raw, naked, thinking protoplasm!"

It was here that he flung open the door. They sniffed cautiously of the air. It was warm again--clean--save for a hint of some nauseous odor.

They walked forward; Riley carried a flash.

The odor grew to a stench as they came where the great ma.s.s had lain. On the ground was a fleshy mound. There were bones showing, and horns on a skull. Riley held the light close to show the body of a steer. A body of raw bleeding meat. Half of it had been absorbed....

"The d.a.m.ned thing," said Riley, and paused vainly for adequate words.

"The d.a.m.ned thing was eating.... Like a jelly-fish, it was!"

"Exactly," Thurston agreed. He pointed about. There were other heaps scattered among the low sage.

"Smothered," guessed Thurston, "with that frozen exhaust. Then the filthy thing landed and came out to eat."

"Hold the light for me," the pilot commanded. "I'm goin' to fix that busted oil line. And I'm goin' to do it right now. Maybe the creature's still hungry."

They sat in their room. About them was the luxury of a modern hotel.

Cyrus Thurston stared vacantly at the breakfast he was forgetting to eat. He wiped his hands mechanically on a snowy napkin. He looked from the window. There were palm trees in the park, and autos in a ceaseless stream. And people! Sane, sober people, living in a sane world. Newsboys were shouting; the life of the city was flowing.

"Riley!" Thurston turned to the man across the table. His voice was curiously toneless, and his face haggard. "Riley, I haven't slept for three nights. Neither have you. We've got to get this thing straight. We didn't both become absolute maniacs at the same instant, but--it was _not_ there, it was _never_ there--not _that_...." He was lost in unpleasant recollections. "There are other records of hallucinations."

"Hallucinations--h.e.l.l!" said Slim Riley. He was looking at a Los Angeles newspaper. He pa.s.sed one hand wearily across his eyes, but his face was happier than it had been in days.

"We didn't imagine it, we aren't crazy--it's real! Would you read that now!" He pa.s.sed the paper across to Thurston. The headlines were startling.

"Pilot Killed by Mysterious Airship. Silvery Bubble Hangs Over New York.

Downs Army Plane in Burst of Flame. Vanishes at Terrific Speed."

"It's our little friend," said Thurston. And on his face, too, the lines were vanishing; to find this horror a reality was positive relief.

"Here's the same cloud of vapor--drifted slowly across the city, the accounts says, blowing this stuff like steam from underneath.

Airplanes investigated--an army plane drove into the vapor--terrific explosion--plane down in flames--others wrecked. The machine ascended with meteor speed, trailing blue flame. Come on, boy, where's that old bus? Thought I never wanted to fly a plane again. Now I don't want to do anything but."

"Where to?" Slim inquired.

"Headquarters," Thurston told him. "Washington--let's go!"

From Los Angeles to Washington is not far, as the plane flies. There was a stop or two for gasoline, but it was only a day later that they were seated in the War Office. Thurston's card had gained immediate admittance. "Got the low-down," he had written on the back of his card, "on the mystery airship."

"What you have told me is incredible," the Secretary was saying, "or would be if General Lozier here had not reported personally on the occurrence at New York. But the monster, the thing you have described.... Cy, if I didn't know you as I do I would have you locked up."

"It's true," said Thurston, simply. "It's d.a.m.nable, but it's true. Now what does it mean?"

"Heaven knows," was the response. "That's where it came from--out of the heavens."

"Not what we saw," Slim Riley broke in. "That thing came straight out of h.e.l.l." And in his voice was no suggestion of levity.

"You left Los Angeles early yesterday; have you seen the papers?"

Thurston shook his head.

"They are back," said the Secretary. "Reported over London--Paris--the West Coast. Even China has seen them. Shanghai cabled an hour ago."

"Them? How many are there?"

"n.o.body knows. There were five seen at one time. There are more--unless the same ones go around the world in a matter of minutes."

Thurston remembered that whirlwind of vapor and a vanishing speck in the Arizona sky. "They could," he a.s.serted. "They're faster than anything on earth. Though what drives them ... that gas--steam--whatever it is...."

"Hydrogen," stated General Lozier. "I saw the New York show when poor Davis got his. He flew into the exhaust; it went off like a million bombs. Characteristic hydrogen flame trailed the d.a.m.n thing up out of sight--a tail of blue fire."

"And cold," stated Thurston.

"Hot as a Bunsen burner," the General contradicted. "Davis' plane almost melted."

"Before it ignited," said the other. He told of the cold in their plane.