"Yes, sir?" answered Bohannan, who despite his familiarity with the Master was now constrained to formality. Resentment sounded in his voice. "Send Brodeur to relieve me, in about ten minutes." "Yes, sir," repeated the Celt. For a moment, standing there in the gloom of the pilot-house, he eyed the dim, watchful figure at the wheel. Then he turned, slid the door, and disappeared. As he walked aft, past the aluminum ladder that led to the upper galleries, he muttered with dudgeon: "He rates us two for a nickel, that's plain enough--plain as paint! Well, all right. I'll stand for it; but there may be others that--" He left the words unfinished, and went to do the Master's bidding. Alone, the Master smiled. Wine of victory pulsed in his blood and brain. Power lay under his hand, that closed with joy upon it. Power not only over this hardy Legion, but power in perspective over-- "God, if I can do it!" he whispered, and fell silent. His eyes rested on the instruments before him, their white dials glowing under the little penthouses of their metal shields. Altitude now showed 2,437 feet, and still rising. Tachometers gave from 2,750 to 2,875 r.p.m. for the various propellers. Speed had gone above 190 miles per hour. No sign of man remained, save, very far below through a rift in the pale, moonlit waft of cloud, a tiny light against a coal-black plain of sea--the light of a slow, crawling steamer--a light which almost at once dropped far behind. Vast empty spaces on all hands, above, below, engulfed _Nissr_. The Master felt himself alone with air and sky, with power, with throbbing dreams and visions. "If it can be done!" he repeated. "But--there's no 'if' to it, at all. It _can_ be! It _shall_! The biggest thing ever attempted in this world! A dream that's never been dreamed, before! And if it can't, well, a dream like that is far more than worth dying for. A dream that can come true--by God, that shall come true!" His hands tightened on the wheel. You would have said he was trying to infuse some of his own overflowing strength into the mechanism that, whirling, zooning with power, needed no more. The gleam in his eyes, there in the dark pilot-house, seemed almost that of a fanatic. His jaw hardened, his nostrils expanded. This strange man's face was now wholly other than it had been only a week before, drawn and lined by ennui. Now vast ambitions dominated and infused it with virile force. As he held the speeding air-liner to her predetermined course through voids of night and mystery, he peered with burning eagerness at the beckoning stars along the world's far, eastern rim. "Behold now, Allah!" he cried suddenly. "_Labbayk_![1] I come!" [Footnote 1: _Labbayk_ (I am here) is the cry of all Mohammedan pilgrims as they approach the holy city of Mecca.] CHAPTER X "I AM THE MASTER'S!"