The Asiatic fleet was quite close now. In order to meet their onslaught the Americans had arranged their ships into three vast rings, one above the other. Suddenly a light puff of smoke broke from the side of one of the Mongolian aircraft. For a fraction of a second a high, plaintive whine was heard above the roar of rocket-motors. Then, with a report that sounded like the crack of doom, the forward end of an American greyhound of the air was bent into a twisted mass of scrap. Upon the wreckage was spattered a greenish slimy fluid that gave off a gas which turned the shattered flesh of men black, the instant it touched them, and ate into bright metal like a powerful acid, covering it with half an inch of grayish compound. The titanic struggle had begun--a thundering, hissing maelstrom of destruction. Again and again the Asiatics rushed upon their intended victims and, as often as they did so, they were beaten back by the revolving rings of American aircraft that poured broadside after broadside into their midst. Losses to both contestants were awful, but among the invaders they were greatest. Time and again a monster dreadnaught gaudily painted with orange suns would crumple up under well-directed _terrorium_ shells and take the ten-mile dive to earth, almost completely burying itself in the soft soil. Gradually, however, the Asiatics were getting the upper hand by force of numbers. After night had fallen the scene of battle was brilliantly illuminated with searchlights and magnesium flares. In the purple sky the stars glittered as calmly as ever. Though the fates of the human races of the world hung in the balance, nature's serenity was unruffled. And now the slow retreat of the Americans toward Chicago had begun. Every mile of the way was contested with dogged courage. Time was what the United States needed, and the commander of the fleet meant to gain time if it were humanly possible. "Hang on, men--for God's sake--hang on!" were his constant orders, "If we can delay long enough, victory is ours!" Set in the revolving turrets at the bow and stern of each American dreadnaught were strange thick cylinders; at the end of each was a mass of glassy crystalline substance, looking like a staring ray. What was the purpose of these queer devices? Many Asiatics wondered. Why was it that they did not flash forth some new kind of dreadful death? Their silence was enigmatic. Now the contending fleets were a hundred and fifty miles from Chicago, now a hundred, and now only twenty-five. "How much longer must we hold them?" the American commander queried anxiously by radio. "Fifteen minutes," was the reply. "By then we think that we can be ready. There has been some unforeseen delay of operations at Whitley Park." And so the Americans continued to fight for time with all the reckless pluck they had to offer.