"Of course," he went on, "it was unfortunate about that New Zealand chap going West. He looked like a right good fellow. But, well--_c'est la guerre!_ And I know he wouldn't have chosen a finer grave than the bottom of the Atlantic, where he's sleeping now.

"By the way, how did Alden come out? Much hurt, was he? I know, of course, he didn't go back to the sick-bay. So he couldn't have been badly wounded, or he would be--"

"The Arabs have a saying, my dear fellow," dryly answered the Master, "that one ear is worth ten thousand tongues. Ponder it well!"

The major's look of astonishment annoyed the Master, even while it hurt him. He took scant pleasure in rebuffing this old friend; but certainly "Captain Alden" would not bear discussing. Feeling himself in a kind of _impa.s.se_ regarding Alden, and fearing some telltale expression in his eyes, the Master swung up his binoculars and once more swept the cloud-horizons from northeast to southeast.

"We ought to be sighting some of the attackers, before long," judged he. "I'm rather curious to see them--to see flies attacking an eagle.

I haven't had a real chance of testing out the neutralizers. Their operation, in actual practice, ought to be interesting."

He tried to speak coldly, impersonally; but he well realized a certain strained quality in his voice. Even now, in the hour of impending attack, his thoughts could not remain wholly fixed on the enemy which--so the wireless informed him--lay only a little beyond the haze-enshrouded, burning rim of cloudland.

Despite every effort of the will, he kept mentally reverting to the midships port stateroom containing the woman. He could not keep himself from wondering how she was getting on. Her wound, he hoped--he felt confident--could not be serious.

Had it been, of course, the woman would have asked some further aid.

And since the moment when he had left her, no word had come to him.

More than once, temptation had whispered: "Go to her! She has deceived you, and you are master here. But, above all, you are a man!"

Twice he had all but yielded to this inner voice. But he had not yielded. Another and a sterner voice had said: "She is an interloper.

She has no rights. Why give her another thought?"

This voice had prevailed. The Master had told himself only a few hours more remained, at all events, before the woman should be cast off and abandoned in whatever strange land might befall--probably Morocco, or it might be the Spanish colony of Rio de Oro on the western fringes of the Sahara. After that, what responsibility for her safety or her welfare would be his? Why, he had none, even now!

"But, man," the small voice insinuated, "she came to you on an errand of mercy, to nurse and care for such as might fall ill or be wounded.

It was not wholly the desire for adventure that led her to deceive you. Her motive was high and fine!"

"A curse on all women!" retorted the other voice. "Away with her!" And this sterner voice again prevailed. Still, at thought that sometime during the day now close at hand he was to see the last of this woman who had stood there before him in his cabin, with dark eyes looking into his, with eager, oval face upturned to his, with all that glory of l.u.s.trous hair a flood about her shoulders, something unknown, unwonted, fingered at the latchets of his heart.

He realized that he felt strange, uneasy, uprooted from his sober aplomb. Unknown irritations possessed him. Under his breath he muttered an Arabic cynicism about woman, from the fourth chapter of the Koran: "Men shall have the preeminence above women, because Allah hath caused the one of them to excel the other!"

Then came the philosophical reflection:

"Man, you were seeking new sensations, new experiences, to stir your pulses. This woman has given you many. She has served her purpose. Now let her go!"

Thus, seeming to have reached a certain finality of decision, he dismissed her again from his mind--for perhaps the twentieth time--and with new care once more began studying the gold-edged, shining clouds where now a dull, broad arc of molten metal had burned its way out of the mists.

The Master slid colored ray-filters over his binoculars, to shield his eyes from the direct dazzle of the rising sun, and swept that incandescent arc. Suddenly he drew a sharp intake of breath.

"Sighted something, eh?" demanded the major, already recovered from the snub administered.

"See for yourself, Major, what you make of it! Right in the sun's eye, and off to southward--all along that fantastic, crimson cloud-castle."

Bohannan's gaze narrowed through his own gla.s.ses. Bracing his powerful legs against the quivering jar of the aileron, he brushed the horizon into his eager vision. The gla.s.ses steadied. There, of a truth, black midges had appeared, coming up over the world's rim like a startled covey of quail.

CHAPTER XV

THE BATTLE OF VIBRATIONS

Two, five, a dozen, now a score of tiny specks dotted the mist, some moving right across the broadening face of the sun itself. As _Nissr's_ flight stormed eastward, and these gnats drove to the west, their total rate of approach must have been tremendous; for even as the men watched, they seemed to find the attackers growing in bulk.

And now more and ever more appeared, transpiring from the bleeding vapors of dawn.

"Looks like business, sir!" exclaimed the Celt, his jaw hard.

"Business, yes."

"Bad business for us, eh?"

"It might be, if we had only the usual means of defense. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, our only game would be to turn tail and run for it, or cut away far to the south--or else break out a white flag and surrender. But--"

"That must be the Azores air-fleet," judged Bohannan. "The others couldn't have made so much westing, in this time. Faith, what a buzzing swarm of mosquitoes! I had no idea there were that many planes on the Azores International Air Board station!"

"There are many things you have no idea of, Major," replied the Master, sharply. "That, however, is immaterial. Yes, here come the fringes of attack, all right enough. I estimate forty or fifty in sight, already; and there must be a few hundred back of those, between here and land, north and south. Technically, we're pirates, you know."

"Pirates?" demanded the major, lowering his gla.s.s.

The Master nodded.

"Yes," he answered. "That's what the wireless tells us. We'll get short shrift if--my apparatus fails."

"How do they make us out pirates?" Bohannan e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. It was not fear that looked from his blue eyes, but a vast astonishment. His ruddy face, amazed under the now strengthening light of day, brought a smile to the Master's lips.

"What else are we, my dear fellow?" the Master queried. "To seize a ship--a water-ship or one of the air matters nothing--and to overpower the crew, kill or wound a few, throw them outboard and sail away, comes pretty near const.i.tuting piracy. Of course the air-rules and laws aren't wholly settled yet; but we're in a fair way of giving the big-wigs a whacking precedent to govern the future. I fancy a good many cases will be judged as _per_ the outcome of this expedition.

"We're pirates all right--if they catch us. And they _will_ catch us if they get within gunshot. The next few minutes will settle that question of whether they're going to, or not!"

"Nice, comforting prospect!" muttered the Celt. "What do they do with pirates, anyhow, these days? They can't hang us at the yard-arm, because airships don't have 'em. Of course they might stage a hanging-bee with this Legion dangling from the wings, but that would be pretty hard to manage. It'll be shooting, eh?"

"Probably, if my neutralizer fails."

"You're cheerful about it! The neutralizer may be all right, in its way, but personally I'm rather strong for these!" He laid a hand on the breech of the Lewis machine-gun mounted in the gallery, its grim muzzle pointed out through a slit in the colloid screen. "The six guns we've got aboard, in strategic positions, look like good medicine to _me_! Wouldn't it be the correct thing to call the gun-crews and limber up a little? These chaps aren't going to be all day in getting here, and when they do--"

"I admire your spirit, Major," interrupted the other, with undertones of mockery, "but it's of the quality that, after all, can't accomplish anything. It's the kind that goes against artillery with rifles.

Six guns against perhaps six hundred--and we're not built for rapid maneuvering. That swarm could sting us a thousand times while we were giving them the first round. No, no, there's nothing for it now, but the neutralizer!"

"My will is made, anyhow," growled Bohannan. "Faith, I'm glad it is!"

The Master gave no reply, but took from the rail the little phone that hung there, and pressed a b.u.t.ton, four times. He cupped the receiver at his ear.

"You, Enemark?" asked he, of the man at the neutralizer far down in the penetralia of the giant air-liner. "Throw in the first control.

Half-voltage, for three minutes. Then three-quarters, for two; and then full, with all controls. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" came the crisp voice of Enemark. "Perfectly!"

The Master hung up the receiver, and for a moment stood brooding.

An intruding thought had once more forced itself into his brain--a thought of "Captain Alden." In case of capture or destruction, what of the woman? Something very like a pang of human emotion pierced his heart. Impatiently he thrust the thought aside, and turned with a quiet smile to Bohannan.