ed for their victims who refused to listen
and could be convinced only by force.

And as he talked on there passed before my eyes the vision of an
aerial torpedo and a blood-red ship above, where these "kindly" men
who were Paul's allies turned the instrument of death upon huddled,
screaming folk--and laughed, no doubt, at such good sport.

* * * * *

I thought of many things. I was tensed one moment to throw myself upon
the man; and an instant later I was searching my mind for some
argument, some gleam of reason, with which I could tear aside the
illusions that held him. I saw him cross the room where a radio stood,
and he switched on the instrument for the news-broadcast service. The
shouting of an excited voice burst into the room.

"The Reds have advanced," said the voice. "Their armies have crossed
the Connecticut line. They are within ten miles of the American
forces. The twenty-four hours of grace promised by the tyrant 'Paul'
was a lie. The battle is already on."

I saw the tall figure of Paul sink to its former stoop; the lameness
that had vanished in the moment of his exaltation had returned. He
limped a pace or two toward me.

"They said they would wait!" His voice was a hoarse whisper. "General
Vornikoff himself gave me his promise!"

I was on my feet, then. "What matter?" I shouted. "What difference
does it make--a few hours or a day? Your damned patriots, your dear
brothers in arms--they are destroying us this instant! And not one of
our men but is worth more than the whole beastly mob!"

I was wild with the picture that came so clear and plain before my
eyes. I had my pistol in my hand; I was tempted to fire. It was his
whisper that stopped me.

"They have crossed Massachusetts! And Maida is there in Melford!"

* * * * *

There was no resisting his strength that tore my weapon from me. His
tritonite pistol was pressed into my side, and his hand upon my collar
threw me ahead of him toward a rear room, then out into a huge shed. I
had only a quick glimpse of the airplane that was housed there. It was
a white cylinder, and the stern that was toward me showed a
funnel-shaped port.

I was thrown by that same furious strength through a door of the ship;
I saw Paul Stravoinski seat himself before some curious controls. The
ship that held me rose; moved slowly through an opened door; and with
a screech from the stern it tore off and up i