"You'll get all you want of that," said Ben a trifle grimly. "I'm glad they're giving us this much of a break. It lets us get things organized. Sherman is monkeying with a light-power motor now. If he catches it, our troubles will be over."
"Wait a minute," called an officer at a desk, as a telegraph key began tapping. "This looks like something." He translated the dots and dashes for them. "Lassan—city—door—opening.... It's from the signal station on that mountain right over it.... Big—ball—coming out—will—will—what's this? The message seems to end." He depressed the key vigorously and then waited. It remained silent.
"Oh, boy," said Sherman, "there she goes! They got that signal station, I'll bet a dollar to a ton of Lassan radiation."
The officer was hammering the key again. "We're sending out airplane scouts now," he said. "Too bad about the signal station, but that's war!"
"Come on, gang," said Ben. "Let's get out to the flying field. Looks like we're going to be in demand."
In a car borrowed from the headquarters staff they raced out to the field where the Monitor stood, ready on its ramp for any emergency. Just as they arrived an airplane became visible, approaching from the north. It circled the field almost as though the pilot were afraid to land, then dipped and came to a slow and hesitating stop. The onlookers noticed that its guy wires were sagging, its wheels uneven; it looked like a wreck of a machine which had not been flown for ten years, after it had lain in some hangar where it received no attention at all.
As they ran across the field toward it, the pilot climbed slowly out. They noticed that his face was pale and horror-struck, his limbs shaking.
"All gone," he cried to the oncoming group.
"What? Who? What's the matter?"
"Everything. Guns. Tanks. Airplanes. The big ball's got 'em. Almost got—" and he collapsed in Ben's arms in a dead faint.