d stretched itself in a writhing, tortured line across the
land as the white ship passed.

No man who saw that and lived has found words to describe the progress
of that monstrous serpent; the valley itself is there for men to see.
The roar was beyond the limit of men's strained nerves. I found myself
cowering upon the ground when the white ship came back; I followed it
fearfully with my eyes until I saw it swoop falteringly down. Such
power seemed not for men but for gods; I could not have met Paul
Stravoinski then but in a posture of supplication. But I leaped to my
feet and raced madly across the torn earth as I saw the white ship
touch the ground--rise--fall again--and end its flight where it
ploughed a furrow across a brown field....

* * * * *

I raised Paul Stravoinski's head in my arms where I found him in the
ship. An enemy shell had entered that cabin; it must have come early
in the fight, but he had fought gamely on. And the eyes that looked up
into mine had none of the wild light I had seen. They were the eyes of
Paul Straki, the comrade of those few long years before, and he smiled
as he said: "_Voila_, friend Bob: _c'est fini!_ And now I go for a
long, long walk. We will talk of poetry, Maida and I...."

But his dreams were still with him. He opened his eyes to stare
intently at me. "You will see that it is not in vain?" he questioned;
then smiled as one who is at peace, as he whispered: "Yes, I know you
will--my friend, Bob--"

And his fixed gaze went through and beyond me, while he tried, in
broken sentences, to give the vision that had been his. So plain it
was to him now.

"The wild work--of a mistaken people. America will undo it.... A world
at peace.... The vast commerce--of the skies--I see it--so clearly....
It will break down--all barriers.... A beautiful, happy world...."

His lips moved feebly at the last. I could not speak; could not even
call him by name; I could only lean my head closer to hear.

One whispered word; then another: a fragment of poetry! I had heard
him quote it often. But the whispered words were not for me. Paul was
speaking to someone beside him--someone my blind, human eyes could not
see....

* * * * *

I am writing these words at my desk in the great Transportation
Building in New York. It stands upon the site of the Chrysler Building
that towered here--until one of the flying torpedoes came over to h