wing.

* * * * *

For a second Carlos Kane glanced at the tiny map to the right of the
dash, and set his course. It was a matter of moments only, but while
Kane worked, Prester Kleig studied the instruments on the dash, for it
had been months since he had flown, save for his recent half-dreamlike
experience. There was a button which released the mechanism of the
deadly guns, fired by compressed air, all operated from the noiseless
motor, whose muzzles exactly cleared the tips of Mayther's wings, two
guns to each wing, one on the entering edge, one on the trailing edge,
fitted snugly into the adamant rigging.

Four guns which could fire to right or left, twin streams of lead, the
number of rounds governed only by the carrying power of the Mayther.
Prester Kleig knew them all: the guns in the wings, the guns which fired
through the three propellers, and the guns set two and two in the
fuselage, to right and left of the pits, which could be fixed either up
or down--all by the mere pressing of buttons. It was marvelous,
miraculous, yet even as Kleig told himself that this was so, he felt,
deep in the heart of him, that Moyen knew all about ships like these,
and regarded them as the toys of children.

Kane touched Kleig on the shoulder, signaling, indicating that the
atmosphere in the pits had been regulated to their new height, and that
they could remove their helmets and oxygen tanks without danger.

* * * * *

With a sigh Prester Kleig sat back, and the two friends turned to face
each other.

"You certainly look done in, Kleig," said Kane sympathetically. "You
must have been through hell, and then some. Tell me about this Moyen;
that is, if you think you care to talk about him."

"Talk about him!" repeated Kleig. "Talk about him? It will be a relief!
There has been nothing, and nobody, on my mind save Moyen for weary
months on end. If I don't talk to someone about him, I'll go mad, if I'm
not mad already. Moyen? A monster with the face of an angel! What else
can one say about him? A devil and a saint, a brute whose followers
would go with him into hell's fire, and sing him hosannas as they were
consumed in agony! The greatest mob psychologist the world has ever
seen. He's a genius, Kane, and unless something is done, the Western
world, all the world, is doomed to sit at the feet, listen to the
commands, of Moyen!

"He isn't an Oriental; he isn't a E