* * * * * They sat in their room. About them was the luxury of a modern hotel. Cyrus Thurston stared vacantly at the breakfast he was forgetting to eat. He wiped his hands mechanically on a snowy napkin. He looked from the window. There were palm trees in the park, and autos in a ceaseless stream. And people! Sane, sober people, living in a sane world. Newsboys were shouting; the life of the city was flowing. "Riley!" Thurston turned to the man across the table. His voice was curiously toneless, and his face haggard. "Riley, I haven't slept for three nights. Neither have you. We've got to get this thing straight. We didn't both become absolute maniacs at the same instant, but--it was _not_ there, it was _never_ there--not _that_...." He was lost in unpleasant recollections. "There are other records of hallucinations." "Hallucinations--hell!" said Slim Riley. He was looking at a Los Angeles newspaper. He passed one hand wearily across his eyes, but his face was happier than it had been in days. "We didn't imagine it, we aren't crazy--it's real! Would you read that now!" He passed the paper across to Thurston. The headlines were startling. "Pilot Killed by Mysterious Airship. Silvery Bubble Hangs Over New York. Downs Army Plane in Burst of Flame. Vanishes at Terrific Speed." "It's our little friend," said Thurston. And on his face, too, the lines were vanishing; to find this horror a reality was positive relief. "Here's the same cloud of vapor--drifted slowly across the city, the accounts says, blowing this stuff like steam from underneath. Airplanes investigated--an army plane drove into the vapor--terrific explosion--plane down in flames--others wrecked. The machine ascended with meteor speed, trailing blue flame. Come on, boy, where's that old bus? Thought I never wanted to fly a plane again. Now I don't want to do anything but." "Where to?" Slim inquired. "Headquarters," Thurston told him. "Washington--let's go!" * * * * * From Los Angeles to Washington is not far, as the plane flies. There was a stop or two for gasoline, but it was only a day later that they were seated in the War Office. Thurston's card had gained immediate admittance. "Got the low-down," he had written on the back of his card, "on the mystery airship." "What you have told me is incredible," the Secretary was saying, "or would be if General Lozier here had not reported personally on the occurrence at New York. But the monster, the thing you have described.... Cy, if I didn't know you as I do I would have you locked up." "It's true," said Thurston, simply. "It's damnable, but it's true. Now what does it mean?" "Heaven knows," was the response. "That's where it came from--out of the heavens." "Not what we saw," Slim Riley broke in. "That thing came straight out of Hell." And in his voice was no suggestion of levity. "You left Los Angeles early yesterday; have you seen the papers?"