"We can't be more than a hundred and fifty miles west of the
Canaries," judged the major. "Sure, we can eat supper tonight in an
oasis, if we're so minded--with Ouled Naïls and houris to hand round
the palm-wine and--"

"You forget, my dear fellow," the Master interrupted, "that the first
man who goes carousing with wine or women, dies before a firing-squad.
That's not the kind of show we're running!"

"Ah, sure, I did forget!" admitted the Celt. "Well, well, a look at a
camel and a palm tree could do no harm. And it won't be long, at this
rate, before--"

A sudden, violent concussion, far aft, sent a quivering shudder
through the whole fabric of the giant liner. Came a swift burst of
flame; black, greasy smoke gushed from the stern, trailing on the
high, cold air. Long fire-tongues, banners of incandescence, flailed
away, roaring into space.

Shouts burst, muffled, from below. A bell jangled madly. The crackle
of pistol-fire punched dully through the rushing swiftness.

With a curse the major whirled. Frowning, the Master turned and
peered. _Nissr_, staggering, tilted her beak sharply oceanward. At a
sick angle, she slid, reeling, toward the burnished, watery floor that
seemed surging up to meet her.

A hoarse shout from the far end of the take-off drew the Master's eyes
thither. With strange agility, almost apelike in its prehensile power,