Silence again, in which the Master's brain reviewed the stirring incidents of the past hour and a half--how the stowaway had evaded Dr. Lombardo's vigilance and (thoroughly familiar with every detail of _Nissr_) had succeeded in making his way to the aft port fuel-tank, from which he had probably drained petrol through a pet-cock and thereafter set it afire; how the miscreant had then scrambled up the aft companion-ladder, to shoot down the Master himself; and how only a horrible, nightmare fight against the flames had saved even this shattered wreck of the air-liner. It had all been Kloof's fault, of course, and Lombardo's. Those two had permitted this disaster to befall, and--yes, they should be punished, later. But how? The Master's mind attacked this problem. Each of the four Legionaries in the pilot-house was busy with his own thoughts. On and on toward the approaching shores of Africa drifted the wounded Eagle of the Sky, making no headway save such as the west wind gave her. Steadily the needle of the altimeter kept falling. The high-pitched drone of the helicopters told that the crippled engines were doing their best; but even that best was not quite enough. Like a tired creature of the air, the liner lagged, she sank. Before half the distance had been covered to that gleaming beach, hardly six hundred feet lay between the lower gallery of _Nissr_ and the long, white-toothed waves that, slavering, hungered for her gigantic body and the despairing crew she bore. Suddenly the Master spoke into the engine-room telephone. "Can you do any better?" exclaimed the chief. "This is not enough!" "We're doing our best, sir," came the voice of Frazier, now in charge. "If you can possibly strain a point, in some way, and wring a little more power out of the remaining engines--" "We're straining them beyond the limit now, sir." The Master fell silent, pondering. His eyes sought the dropping needle. Then the light of decision filled his eyes. A smile came to his face, where the deep gash made by the splinter of glass had been patched up with collodion and cotton. He plugged in on another line, by the touch of a button. "Simonds! Is that you?" "Yes, sir," answered the quartermaster, in charge of all the stores. "Have you jettisoned everything?" "All we can spare, sir. All but the absolute minimum of food and water." "Overboard with them all!" "But, sir--" "And drop the body of Auchincloss, too. This is no time for sentiment!" "But--" "My order, sir!" Five minutes later, cases, boxes, bales, water-tanks, began spinning from open ports and down through the trap-door in the lower gallery. Then followed the seared corpse of Auchincloss, a good man who had died in harness, fighting to the end. Those to whom the duty was assigned of giving his metal-weighted body sea burial turned away their eyes, so that they might not see that final plunge. But the sound of the body striking the waves rocketed up to them with sickening distinctness.