h a grip of steel; his
other pointed. "Down there--they're hiding back of that hill, picking
off our ships from the side." And then, like a guiding beacon, a point
of green showed once more.

The plane banked sharply while one of the pilots spoke crisp, clearly
enunciated words into his phone. He listened; then: "Right!" he
snapped. "Power dive for bow-gun firing. Level off for bombing from
five hundred feet."

Off into the night they were headed. Then a left bank and turn brought
the place of blazing flares and falling planes swinging smoothly into
view; they were flying toward it.

* * * * *

Against the white glare in the valley of death was a hill, roundly
outlined. Then the ship's nose sank heavily down; and, from each broad
wing, in straight, forward-stabbing lines, was the steady lightning of
the Rickert batteries in action.

The pilot's room was a place of unbearable sound. The crash of
gunfire, it seemed, must crush the glass wall like an eggshell by the
sheer impact of its own thunder. In that pandemonium Smithy never knew
when they flattened out. He knew only that the hill ahead twinkled
brilliantly, and that each flashing light was an exploding shell. He
knew when the hill passed beneath them.

Then, in the night, close beside them and just outside the pilot-room
glass, was a quick glow of red. The plane lurched and staggered.
Smithy clung desperately to the seat ahead. The pilot was fighting
madly with the wheel. The roar of bombs from astern, where the bombers
had launched their missiles at the approaching hill, was unheard. In a
world suddenly gone chaotic he could hear nothing. He knew only that
the valley dead ahead was whirling dizzily--that it sank suddenly from
sight.

They were crashing. That red glow--they had been hit. Then something
hard and firm was pressing against him, pressing irresistibly. It was
the last conscious impression upon Smithy's mind.

CHAPTER XIX

_The Voice of the Mountain_

In a strange new world surrounded by a group of kneeling figures of
whom one, who called himself Gor, had spoken in Rawson's own tongue,
Dean Rawson stood silent. It was all too overwhelming. He could not
bring words together to formulate a reply. He only stood and stared
with wondering eyes at the exquisite beauty of the world about him, a
world flooded with a golden light, faintly tinged with green. Then he
looked above him to see the source of that ligh