ged ray which knifed up
with uncanny accuracy from the slit in the roof of the hut. He was
conscious of a flash of unearthly light, of terrible heat which came
with it. Only the force of his jump saved him. He pulled the ripcord
of the 'chute strapped to him and jerked to a pause; then he was
swinging beneath a mushroom of white, trembling as he stared at the
fate he had missed by a hair's breadth.

A web of spectral blue light had enveloped the abandoned scout. The
plane appeared to shudder, hanging almost motionless in the
wraith-like mist. Then, with a crackle, the wings and tail shivered
into countless fragments; the stripped fuselage nosed over and plunged
earthward, a roaring mass of flames. A fiery comet, it screamed past
the man who swayed beneath his 'chute, coming within a few hundred
feet of him and searing him with its hot breath. Then it drove into
the dense flanks of the jungle growth.

Soon only a charred skeleton marked the last landing field of a scout
of the dirigible ZX-1.

"And now, I guess," Chris whispered, "they'll turn that ray on me...."

But he had only been a thousand feet up when he jumped. Already he was
close to the top of the jungle. The clearing and its huts disappeared
from view; he was out of range of the swift-striking ray. And, he
reflected, though the scout was gone, he was still free--and could get
to the Canal....

But tropical growth is difficult to land in.

A moment later his swinging body crashed through the branches of a
tree, and he pitched forward, unable to control the impetus. A sudden
shock of pain stabbed through his head and everything spun dizzily
before him. He knew he was falling, jerking down as the parachute
ripped on the boughs. There was another impact which drove all
remaining consciousness from him.

Darkness washed over Chris Travers, lying limp beneath the shreds of a
silky white shroud....

* * * * *

Electric light. A strong glare of it somewhere. A dull throbbing in
his head. Then, a voice, with queer, hissing s's, speaking very close
to him.

"Ah, yess. Look you, Kashtanov. He will be conscious soon, I think."

"You're a damned fool, Istafiev, to let him wake up," said another
voice, cool and of easy correctness. "He'll see the machines. And
these Americans are tricky--one can never tell."

"Tricky? Bah! This fellow is a service man; there are things I can
learn from him. Come, now, wake yourself properly, yo