"I don't like to do it with this ship," Sherman replied. "If we had the Monitor II it would be easy. With that extra vacuum chamber around her, she'll take quite a lot of that infra-sound racket. Vacuum doesn't conduct sound you know, though we'd get some of it through the struts. But this one—. Still I suppose we'll have to show them we mean business."
The Monitor turned, pointed her lean prow back toward Newark, and bore down. In their flight from the infra-sound ray the Americans had dived behind a fluffy mass of low-hanging cloud; now they emerged from it, they could see the huge green ball, far up the river, retreating at its best speed.
"Aha," Sherman said. "He doesn't like gravity beams on the coco. Well, come on, giddyap horsey. Give her the gun, Murray."
Under the tremendous urge of the gravity-beam explosions at her tail, the Monitor shot skyward, leaving a trail of orange puffs in her wake as the beam decomposed the air where it struck it. Sherman lifted her behind the clouds, held the course for a moment, called "Ready, Gloria?" and then dropped.
Like a swooping hawk, the Monitor plunged from her hiding place. Sherman had guessed aright. The green ball was not five miles ahead of them, swinging over the summits of the Catskills to reach its home. As they plunged down the yellow ray came on, stabbed quickly, once, twice, thrice—caught them for a brief second of agonizing vibration, then lost them again as Sherman twisted the Monitor round. Then Gloria's beam struck the huge globule fair and square, Ben Ruby threw the switch, and a terrific burst of orange flame swallowed the whole center of the Lassan monster.
Prepared though they were for the shock, the force of the explosion threw the ship out of control. It gyrated frantically, spinning up, down and sidewise, as Sherman worked the stick. The Catskills reared up at them; shot past in a whirl of greenery; then with a splash they struck the surface of the Hudson.
Fortunately, the Monitor's wings were extended, and took up most of the shock at the cost of being shattered against her sides. Through the beam-hole at the stern the water began to flow into the interior of the ship. "Give her the gun!" called Sherman frantically, working his useless controls. There was a report, a shock, a vivid cloud of steam, and dripping and coughing like a child that has swallowed water in haste, the Monitor rose from the stream, her broken wings trailing behind her.
"I don't know—whether—I can fly—this crate or not," said Sherman, trying to make what was left of the controls work. "Shoot, Murray—if we put on enough power—we won't have to soar." There was a renewed roar of explosions from the Monitor. Desperately, swinging in a wide curve that carried her miles out of her way, she turned her nose southwards.
"Make Philly," cried Sherman cryptically, above the sound of the explosions that were driving their craft through the air at over six hundred miles an hour. Almost as he said it, they saw the airport beneath them. The Monitor swerved erratically; the explosions ceased; she dived, plunged and slithered to a racking stop across the foreshore of the seaplane port, ending up with a crash against a float, and pitched all four occupants from their seats onto the floor.
"Well, that's one for you and one for me," said Sherman as he surveyed the wreckage ruefully. "We used up that green ball all right, but the old Monitor will never pop another one. Did anyone notice whether there were any pieces left, by the way?"