"You, Enemark?" asked he, of the man at the neutralizer far down in
the penetralia of the giant air-liner. "Throw in the first control.
Half-voltage, for three minutes. Then three-quarters, for two; and
then full, with all controls. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" came the crisp voice of Enemark. "Perfectly!"

The Master hung up the receiver, and for a moment stood brooding.
An intruding thought had once more forced itself into his brain--a
thought of "Captain Alden." In case of capture or destruction, what
of the woman? Something very like a pang of human emotion pierced
his heart. Impatiently he thrust the thought aside, and turned with a
quiet smile to Bohannan.

The major, red with excitement and impatience, still had a hand on the
machine-gun. He was patting it slightly, his face eloquent of longing
and regret.

"Still pinning your faith to steel-jacketed streams of bullets,
are you, as against ion-jacketed streams of vibrations?" the Master
rallied him. "We shall see, immediately, whether you're right or _I_
am! Bullets are all well enough in their place, Major, but electrons
are sometimes necessary. Vibrations, Major--I pin my faith to
vibrations."

"Vibrate all you want to!" exclaimed the Celt, irefully, his eyes on
the thickening swarm of flyers, some of them now plainly visible in
detail against the aching smears of color flung across the eastern
reaches of cloudland. "Vibrate away; but give me _this_!" He fondled