Men rose up before the rushing airship. One of the great gates began
to swing shut, far at the end of the track. The Master laughed again,
with the wind whipping at his hair. "Full speed ahead!" he shouted
into the telephone.

The _Nissr_ leaped into a swifter course. Then all at once she skidded
clear of the track, slanted upward, breasted the air. Her searchlight
blazed. All along her flanks, fire-jets spangled the night. Cries
echoed from her, from the great stockade.

The Master gave her all the lift the farthest wrench of the levers
would thrust on her. The gate was almost shut now--would she clear it?

Below, track, earth, everything was spinning in and in. Ahead, above,
yawned vastnesses. The Master could no longer see the gate. A second
of taut thrill--

_Crash_!

The _Nissr_ quivered, staggered, yawed away. The forward starboard
float had struck. A faint yell rose as someone, hurled backward by the
shattered _débris_ of the gate, plunged down the cliff.

For half a second, the giant plane reeled over the abyss. Her rush and
fury for that half-second threatened to plunge her, a mangled, flaming
wreck, hundreds of feet down on the black, waiting rocks below the
Palisades.

But engine-power and broad wings, skill of the hand at the levers, and
the good fortune that watches over bold men, buoyed her again.