RIVALS OF THE CLOUDS By Raoul Whitfield Author of "Cloud Raiders," "Clipped Wings," etc. [Illustration: Desperate, his plane afire, the German crashed into the rudder of Adams’ ship!] Zooming through a clinging, blinding fog, Lieutenant Adams flew straight into a death trap of flashing enemy planes and flaming, stuttering machine guns. This is an epic of the skies told by the ace of war writers. There was plenty of it, this gray, clinging fog. Drifting slowly down the slope just west of the tiny pursuit squadron field, clinging to the branches of the gaunt trees, then sweeping out over the field itself, the fog moved. It hung within ten or fifteen feet of the soft earth, and it was thick. Thick and cold. Twenty minutes ago there hadn’t been any sign of it; now the barracks could not be seen from the nearest camouflaged hangar. Lieutenant Ben Chapin came out of one end of the barracks and swore beneath his breath. It was almost eight o’clock and two ships were out on the dawn patrol. They had been out since a few minutes after six, and were due back any minute now. A figure, short and chunky, emerged from the white screen of the fog, moving toward the barracks, a clap-board building considerably the worse for wear. Ben Chapin hailed the figure. “Who’s flying the dawn patrol, Adjutant? Adams and Cole?” The short officer shook his head, pausing beyond the reaching wisps of white stuff. He spoke in a grim voice. “Adams and that new officer--Langdon,” he stated. “Looks tough, eh?” Ben Chapin nodded. “Not so bad for Adams,” he said slowly. “He’ll have brains enough to fly back out of it, and land somewhere. But this Tex Langdon--the Lord knows what he’ll do!” The adjutant swore. “Wild riding birdman!” he muttered. “But if he tries to come down in this stuff, he may finish up his career in a hurry.” The adjutant vanished from sight into the narrow corridor of the barracks. He was hungry and cold, and not particularly concerned about Tex Langdon. Lieutenant Chapin stood out in the fog, and shook his head slowly. “Hope Tex does use his bean!” he muttered. “Sort of like that officer. Acts like he’s _trying_ hard enough. But this’ll be his first dose of--” * * * * * He checked himself. He was thinking of the clash after mess, last night, between Adams and Tex Langdon. It had been a sharp one. Lieutenant Adams was an old-timer--three weeks on the front. Tex had been up three days. In that time he had nosed over one ship, cracked another up two miles from the Squadron, in a forced landing, and then he had taxied into a wing-tip of Adam’s pet Nieuport, just before mess. The old-timer had told him just about what he had thought. Tex had listened with a grin on his face, and the grin had enraged Lieutenant Adams.