cer--they'd never get out of this mess! A swift
uppercut interrupted the proceedings. Bart's leg was numb and stiff,
but his good right arm was working smoothly and with all its old time
precision. His second punch was a haymaker. With his full weight
behind it, it drove straight to the chin and stretched the officer on
the concrete. Thoughtfully, Bart removed his pistol from its holster
before scrambling in at Van's side.

"Boy, now we're in for it!" he gasped.

"And we might as well make a good job while we're at it." Van let in
his clutch with a jerk, and again they were breaking all traffic
regulations.

* * * * *

It was dusk when they roared in through the gate at the Rockland
County Airport and pulled up at the hangar office. Van rushed in,
shouting for Bill Petersen, and Bart followed. A slender, fair-haired
youth in rumpled flying togs greeted them.

"Bill, my friend, Bart Madison," Van blurted without pausing for
breath. "Listen, we've got to have a plane right away. Got one with a
radio?"

"Yes, but what's all the rush? Where you going?"

"Albany. Right away. Make it snappy, will you?"

"Sure, but what's it all about?" Young Petersen was leading them to
the field where a sleek mono-plane was in waiting as if they had
ordered it. "Warm her up, Joe," he called to the mechanic.

"Listen, Bill--I never lied to you, did I?" Van asked, when they were
seated in the plane's cabin.

"Not that I know of. But sometimes I've thought you were lying, until
I saw with my own eyes the things you had told me about. What is it
this time?"

"Death and destruction. Coming down out of the Ramapos. We've got to
warn the country. Plants, Bill--squirmy red plants with long feelers
that can twist around a man and devour him. Half animal, they are, and
the feelers break loose and crawl by themselves. Multiplying like
nothing you ever saw. Millions of them in an hour."

"What?" Petersen stared incredulously as his motor roared into life.
Then he gave his attention to the business of taking off. He jerked
the thumb of his free hand toward the radio.

* * * * *

Van's expert fingers manipulated the switches and dials of the
portable apparatus, and its vacuum tubes glowed into life. "2BXX
calling 2TIM," he droned into the microphone.

"Who's that?" Bart asked. The drone of the motor was barely audible in
the closed cabin and did not interfere.

"The _Times