he swells around
a crumbled, charred egg-shell that but minutes before had been an
omnipotent giant of the sky.

Chris Travers, aloft in sunlight suddenly bereft of its beauty, jammed
the stick of the scout full over. He could do nothing, he knew. He
could only return to the ZX-1 and tell the story of its sister as he
had seen it.

But why, he wondered as he flew almost blindly, had the ZX-2 so
quickly flamed to oblivion? The helium of its inner bags bad been
uninflammable, as had the heavy oil of its fuel tanks; the ten engines
were Diesels, and hence without the ordinary ignition system and
gasoline. Safety devices by the score bad been installed on board;
nothing had been overlooked. And the weather, perfect.

It was uncanny. It seemed totally unexplainable.

Swarms of planes droned between sea and sky, all speeding in the one
direction, west, to where the crumpled remnants of a dirigible were
slipping quickly beneath the billows, beyond the sight of man. Planes
of war game umpires, of officials, of newspaper correspondents and
photographers. And soon a spectral, gleaming wisp of silver nosed out
of the east, and the lone scout flying east dropped in altitude to
meet its mother.

Mechanically, his mind elsewhere, Chris shoved the button which reared
the automatic clamp behind the cockpit in preparation for affixing the
scout to the plane rack beneath the ZX-1. The dirigible, far in
advance of the Blue Fleet, was roaring along at its full one hundred
and fifty to hover over the grave of its sister. Chris eyed its course
and changed his. To jockey into the rack, he had to pass the dirigible
and come up underneath from its rear.

* * * * *

The air giant roared closer. As the distance between then loosened,
Chris's brow wrinkled and he swore softly in puzzlement.

"Now, just what's wrong with them?" he exclaimed, "The darned zep
isn't flying straight! She's wobbling in her course!"

It was hardly apparent, but true. Ever so slightly, the snub nose of
the ZX-1 was swaying from side to side as it sped through the air;
ever so slightly, her massive stern directional-rudders were wavering.

She was less than a mile away now. At that time, there were no other
planes in sight; none flying in that vicinity save Chris's. He glued
his eyes to the telescopic sight. A moment later, sheer horror swept
his face.

"_Good God!_"

The scout leaped as its throttle rammed down. The gleaming,