“CAST OFF!”

Lieutenant Commander Weeks compared his watch with the chronometer before him in the cockpit. He was a tall, lithe, quiet-mannered man of perhaps twenty-seven. His lean, clean-shaven face was almost boyish and undeniably good-looking. Very calm gray eyes, that in conversation seldom wavered for an instant from the eyes of those with whom he talked, a straight, determined mouth and a somewhat square chin were the notable features. He spoke as quietly as he moved, but Jack had noticed that no one else about the shed obtained such instant and eager obedience. “Six-fourteen,” he said, turning to Lieutenant Traine. The latter, leaning outboard of the cockpit, nodded.

“I think he’s coming now,” he answered.

A young sailor in dungarees was hurrying toward the _F 8_, some papers fluttering in his hand as he came. “Captain Rounce’s compliments, sir, and he regrets delay and wishes you good luck,” said the messenger as, from the first rung of the rope ladder that hung over the side, he stretched an arm upward with the papers outheld.

“Our compliments to the captain,” returned the commander of the _F 8_, “and our thanks.” The messenger saluted and drew aside. “Anything important, Ben?” Mr. Weeks added.

“Light winds in upper altitudes from southeast, varying eight to twenty. No, nothing important.” The pilot read the brief reports quickly and stuffed the sheets into a pocket of his leather jacket. “Slight disturbance over Caribbean. Let’s go!”

“Right. Ready, Mr. Jordan?”

“All ready, sir.”

“Port her nose a bit!” The commander issued the direction through a small megaphone. In obedience the groundmen clinging to the forward guy ropes moved slowly to the right and the long body of the airship swung in answer until the level rays of the sun came straight into the faces of the crew. “Steady! Hold her!” The shuffling crew stopped. Crews and workers from other sheds had gathered to witness the _F 8’s_ departure, and, although the time of the ascension had not been announced, officers’ quarters and barracks had added their quota. The airship had been trailed out of the shed an hour before and the engines tuned. She was to have floated at six, but a delay in receiving the weather reports had postponed the start. In the navigating cockpit the commander jotted the time in the log-book, stowed it again in its locker and looked forward and aft. Forward, the head and shoulders of Lieutenant Gandell showed; aft, he looked into the alert, expectant faces of Lieutenant Jordan and Engineer’s Mate Wason, the latter a thick-set young giant of twenty-one or two, and, beyond them, the two radio operators. Then he put the megaphone to his lips again. “All clear, Mr. Ryan?” he asked.

“All clear, sir!” answered the petty officer in charge of the shed crew.

“Then you may cast off,” said the commander quietly.

“Let go all!” shouted the officer below.

Jack, his heart beating fast, held his breath. But nothing happened! Or so it seemed to him until, of a sudden, the figures on the ground became squat and foreshortened. The onlookers were cheering and waving. Jack, suddenly tremendously excited, waved frantically back. Although there was no perceptible motion in the boat, the yellowish ground was sinking away beneath as though some unseen agency was pulling it down. It was difficult to believe that the airship and not the earth was moving. Now the rounded tops of the sheds were below them, the long rows of barracks and the sun-dyed parade ground northward, and the men down there were no more than pigmies! Jack drew a long, deep breath of exultation. It was like nothing he had ever experienced or dreamed of! He turned to Clode. That youth had seated himself and was experimentally tapping a key. Jack laughed involuntarily, and the ensign looked questioningly over his shoulder.

“What?” he asked.

“I――I don’t know why I laughed,” said Jack happily. “Yes, I do, though. I was just thinking that you were an awful bluff, pretending that you aren’t thrilled and excited. Of course, you’ve been up before, but I don’t believe any fellow can really ever get as indifferent as you look!”

Clode laughed a trifle sheepishly. “Guess you’re right, Sterling,” he answered. “I was sort of bluffing, that’s a fact.” He got up and looked back along the shadow of the balloon. “By jiminy, that’s a wonderful sight, isn’t it?”

Behind them the waters of the Gulf lay golden and glittering in the radiance of the westering sun. The gray destroyers looked like slender chips in the molten magic and the wheeling seaplanes like tiny birds. Far away, the rim of the sea curved like the edge of a great bowl.

“How high are we?” asked Jack in awed tones.

“Search me! Maybe a thousand, maybe more. She’ll go up fairly high before she finds her equilibrium on account of the warmth of the lower air. We’re drifting north a bit.”

“Why? There’s no breeze,” said Jack.

“Isn’t there? Watch the little whirligig thing in front of the pilot. See it go around? We don’t notice it because we’re traveling right along with it. Look down now. Recognize any of your friends?”

Jack looked as straight toward earth as the curving deck of the hull would allow. Winding yellow streaks, oblongs and squares of green, little slate-hued blocks met his sight. The world was like a map and nothing else. The darker spots, purplish-blue in the yellow-tinged expanse, were shadows. The long streak running back along the coast was the railway. Miles to the north and west a range of low hills were distinct enough but had no suggestion of height. Everything beneath looked as flat as a checker-board.

“Gee!” breathed Jack. “I――I guess I’m getting sort of scared, Clode! Suppose we couldn’t get back there!”

“What of it?” laughed the other. “Isn’t this all right?”

“Yes,” replied Jack dubiously, “but――――”

A bell tinkled in the compartment ahead and looking across he saw Lieutenant Jordan move to the controls. The commander turned and spoke, and in the silence, a silence that was broken only by the faint creaking of stays and cables, his words came back distinctly to the after cockpit. “Nineteen hundred and fifty, Mr. Jordan,” announced the commander casually. “When you’re ready we’ll start.”

“All ready, sir.” The lieutenant spoke to his mate and threw a switch in front of him. “Port engine, Danny! Let her go!” There was an instant of buzzing and then a sudden hum in the engine at the right of the hull. Underfoot, the shaft came to life, and, astern, the big propeller whirred slowly. A breeze played against Jack’s face. For the first time since leaving the ground he experienced the sensation of movement. Wason, a long-nosed oil-can in hand, was busy as the engine’s hum deepened to a sound like the droning of a million bees. Mingled with it was a higher-toned, more strident note, the clattering of rods. Now a fresh breeze blew along the boat and the _Fate_, swinging her great bluntly-pointed nose toward the west, moved majestically forward. A few minutes later Clode drew Jack’s attention to a winding ribbon toward which the ship was flying.

“That’s the Rio,” he said. “Wonder if we’ll cross it. When we do we’re in Mexico and a target for those bullets of theirs.”

“They’d never hit us at this height,” said Jack untroubledly. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“Well, Mr. Weeks didn’t show me the orders,” laughed the ensign, “but I guess we’re aiming for the State of Coahuila over yonder. Fancy the War Department wants to know what Señor Roza’s outfit looks like and where he’s keeping it. Also what he intends doing with it. I dare say you’ve heard that he means to capture Chicago and New York and a few little towns like those. He must be a nut, for fair!”

“How far is Coahuila?”

“About three hundred miles, I think, if we fly direct. But we may follow the river up to somewhere about Eagle Pass and then slip over. It’ll be dark then and we could get pretty well south before we were spotted. I suppose that, considering we’re not at war with Mexico――yet, we haven’t any real right to fly over the country.”

“Seems to me when this Roza fellow is acting up like he is we’ve got a right to fly over _his_ part of the country, anyway,” said Jack, stoutly.

“Maybe that’s so. I guess we’re going to keep along the Rio. Mr. Gandell’s bringing her around a bit.”

“How long will it take to do three hundred miles?”

“Depends on the speed, of course. We’re doing about twenty-five or thirty now, I guess. If we open up with both engines and give her a full throttle we can do better than sixty. As we’re going now we ought to be about Eagle Pass, if that’s where we’re headed for, by three in the morning. But it’s my guess that the Old Man will fix it so that we’ll be well into Coahuila by sunrise.”

“And that’s Mexico, just the other side of the river,” mused Jack. “It doesn’t look much different from Texas, does it?”

“Why should it?” laughed Clode. “They were made the same day! Guess I’ll see if I can get the Brazos Station.” He seated himself at the bench, threw his switch and began to hammer. After a moment he turned a grinning face toward his companion. “Pensacola’s trying to get the _Monticello_, and is all stewed up. Here we are!” The ensign tapped busily a moment and the sparks crackled. “Hello!” He reached for his pad and his pencil flew. Then he flashed “O. K.,” wrested the receiver from his head and jumped to his feet.

“What’s up?” asked Jack eagerly.

“Get busy!” Clode indicated the instrument. “Brazos reports a cyclone headed this way. Says southern New Mexico towns are getting it heavy.” He hurried forward with his message as Jack quickly adjusted the receiver. Camp Stanton was already calling: “Weeks Commander _F 8_ cyclone central at Silver City NM six twelve traveling east southeast report your course Thomas R. A.”

“O. K.” Jack thrust the scribbled message toward Clode, who was back at his side, and the latter read it quickly.

“Take it forward,” he said, motioning. Jack pulled the receiver off and Clode took his place. As Jack started along the passage he noted that the ship was already on a new course. The western sky, saffron yellow above the horizon, lay to port. Stepping up over the gasoline tanks between rear and engine cockpits his ears were assailed by a thunderous drumming, and he realized that both engines were at work. The wind tore at his cap and he had to hold it on for the instant that he stood there atop the tank. Then he was back under cover and had crossed the engine space and was handing the message to the commander.

Mr. Weeks and Mr. Traine leaned over it together. Then: “Just a minute, Sterling,” said the former, and wrote rapidly on his pad. “Thomas, R. A., Stanton. Sailing south, southwest one-half west from Colombres six forty-two. Storm not sighted. Will go up if necessary. Weeks, Commander.”

A few minutes later Camp Stanton again spoke: “Path of storm reported varying half to one and half miles height unknown bearing southeast at Sierra Blanca advise taking more westerly course.”

Mr. Weeks whistled when he read that. “Looks like it was on our trail, Ben,” he said. “Funny the sky doesn’t show it. Hold on, though! Sort of dirty-looking back there, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Mr. Traine looked and nodded. “And the barometer’s showing it now. I rather wish we’d had this before dark.”

“Been simpler, yes. Guess we’ll begin to work up.” He picked up a speaking tube. “Pete! The blamed thing’s chasing us. I think we’ll be safer at ten thousand. How are your controls working? Good! What do you read? Three-four――six――point――O is right. Sterling’s bringing you the last message from Thomas.”

Jack crowded between the two occupants of the navigating cockpit and put the paper in the hand of the directional pilot. Up there behind the wind-shield it was quite still. Mr. Gandell took his eyes from the message and grinned back over his shoulder at Jack.

“Looks like it was going to breeze up, Mr. Sterling,” he chuckled. “Ever been up in a dirigible in a cyclone before?”

Jack smiled as he shook his head, but the smile could not have been called a happy one. The lieutenant handed back the paper. “Well, don’t worry, son,” he said kindly. “We’re going up where tornadoes won’t bother us, I guess. Anyhow, if we do have to run, there’s plenty of room up here!”

Back in the after cockpit Jack observed Clode anxiously as the latter, drumming idly with his pencil on the little bench, listened. Below, the world was dark and mysterious, but up where the _F 8_ sailed the last dying rays of light still shone. It was a strange twilight, unlike any Jack had ever seen. Above him the rounded belly of the big envelope was steely-gray where the afterglow touched it, darkening to purple-black where the shadows lay. Eastward a faded half-moon lay far down near the horizon. Even as he looked the moon went from sight, he was conscious of a chillier feeling and realized that the ship was passing up through a cloud. The side of the cockpit where his hand rested became damp under his fingers. For some minutes the engines had been throttled down to a lazy tune and he knew that overhead, inside the silken envelope, gas was expanding in the many bags. That cloud brought him a fuller realization of height and something very much like fear came to him. Ten thousand feet! Why, that was nearly two miles! Suppose something happened! A squirmy feeling developed in the pit of his stomach and he gazed with horror into the surrounding blackness. Night had come on them and the running lights were agleam, and, ahead, the forms of the men were visible in the glows from the cockpit lamps. Somehow, those lights brought comfort. He wished that Clode would switch on the lamp above the bench. And at that moment Clode did so, and turned to shake his head boredly at Jack.

“Not a sound for five minutes,” he said. “Thought I heard Arlington once, but I’m not sure.”

He relapsed into silence again. He didn’t seem greatly concerned, Jack reflected. But then he had had air training at Pensacola and had been up in the _F 8_ twice before, whereas this was Jack’s first experience. Yesterday he had been done out of the trial spin by the necessity of securing his instruction certificate. Later he had heard about it from the ensign and had listened to enthusiastic praise of the Enscott engines, of the ship itself and of the personnel, for Clode had sought him out in his new quarters and been very friendly to him all evening. He had reversed his opinion of the ensign now and was beginning to like him thoroughly; which, he reflected, was fortunate considering that they were to be thrown together in that tiny cockpit for awhile. A bell tinkled in the engine station and almost at once the engines roared again. The wind tore past and Jack turned up the high collar of his coat. Far away the dejected-looking moon sailed into sight once more and its wan rays lighted a fleecy bank of cloud miles off to starboard. The sight was very beautiful, and for no reason that he could explain Jack’s uneasiness disappeared and a feeling of triumph took its place. Two miles above the earth, sailing steadily through space, with lights about him and an appealing odor of coffee blowing back from the engine cockpit! It made that chap, Jules Verne, a veritable piker, thought Jack! As for danger, why, one was always in the way of that. At all events, he assured himself with a smile, he was safe from automobiles!

The voice of Engineer’s Mate Wason interrupted his reflections. Wason had a voice like a young fog-horn, and now it traveled the length of the boat in spite of the wind. “Coffee’s ready!” bawled Wason.

Jack brought his mug and Clode’s, and the four sandwiches apportioned to them, and nothing ever tasted better. Clode slipped the receiver off while he ate, clapping one ear-piece back at intervals.

“This is certainly the life, Sterling!” he declared, stretching luxuriously. “By the way, what’s your other name, old man? Jack, isn’t it? Thought so. Well, you’ll be Jack after this. Sterling’s too much of a mouthful. Sounds too――too precious, too. ‘Nine-twenty-five one thousandths fine,’ you know, and that sort of thing. And my name’s Hugh, if you care to know it. So here’s to us, Jack, and to the good old _Fate_! More power to us all!” And Hugh Clode raised his aluminum cup, touched Jack’s with it laughingly and drank deep. And the next instant he was sprawling on the cockpit floor, for the boat had swayed wildly. Jack saved himself by seizing the edge of the bench. Again the boat plunged and tilted and a gust of cold air tore past. Voices, sharp and imperative, from ahead, the jangle of the bell in the next cockpit, the whistling of the wind past cables and guys and then a sickening swoop as the great airship, seized in the grasp of a mighty wind, swung from her course! Jack, clinging desperately, his heart in his throat, knew what had happened. The cyclone had caught them after all!