“Hardly. It’s a good two hundred and fifty miles back and we couldn’t possibly rise high enough to bring it to our horizon line.” “Then what do you expect to see?” “Some sign of the explosion, possibly. Take a look for yourself.” While Roger trained his own binoculars rearward, Ted called up to Bevans: “Start the smoke trail at 2:35,” he ordered, “and watch for aerial waves. We may be in for a good shaking up.” “Very well, sir.” At 2:32, Ted and Roger sat with bated breath, their binoculars directed toward the archipelago, listening intently while the chronometer ticked off the seconds. The zero hour arrived and for two seconds thereafter the anxious watchers saw nothing. Then, with amazing suddenness, a gray, mushroom-shaped cloud spread skyward above the horizon. Just above it, a thin pencil of smoke was barely discernible through the glasses, pointing straight toward the zenith. “Hurray! She’s off!” shouted Roger. Ted did not answer. His face grew suddenly grave. “Why, what’s the matter?” asked Roger. “Isn’t everything all right?” “I’m afraid we’ve started something we didn’t consider in our calculations,” he replied. “Do you see that black cloud forcing its way upward through the gray one?” “Yes.” “And the band of yellow immediately beneath it?” “Yes. What is it?” “A volcanic eruption,” replied Ted. “Daphne Major, you will remember, was the crater of an extinct volcano. We’ve blown off the top, and outraged Mother Earth is doing the rest. Appears like a terrific eruption from here, too. And look: There’s a reply from the heavens. See those flashes in the clouds? A thunder storm has formed in the upper regions.” At this moment thick, black smoke began belching from the rear of the electroplane, and their view to the rear was obscured. “Full speed ahead, Bevans,” shouted Ted. “Give her all you’ve got. We’re due for a heavy squall in less than five minutes.” Shortly thereafter, signs of terrific agitation in the atmosphere were registered in the rear of the smoke trail. “Ascend at an angle of 45°,” ordered Ted. “We’ll ride with the gale.” Scarcely had he spoken ere the plane received such a shock that both Ted and Roger were thrown to the floor. It was accompanied by a continuous roar as of a thousand thunder-claps let loose at once, echoing and reechoing with seemingly undiminished intensity for several minutes. Rising with difficulty, for the ship careened frightfully, Ted dragged himself to the rear window and looked out. Their smoke trail had been completely dissipated, and once more he had a clear view toward the rear. Two things he noted, almost simultaneously—a mountainous, white-crested wall of water swiftly overtaking them on the surface of the Pacific, and just above it a swirling, tumbling mass of clouds, black beneath and silvery white above, with vivid flashes of forked lightning playing between them. He shouted up the speaking tube: “Higher, Bevans. Use your helicopters, man, or we’re lost!”