Then came rumors that damped these hopes, followed by eye-witness reports that altogether dashed them. The bat-like monsters had flown, not off into space, but to the world’s waste-lands.
Strange, it was, the instinct that had led them unerringly to the remotest point of each continent. In North America it was the great Arizona desert, in South America the pampas of Argentina, in Europe the steppes of Russia, in Asia the Desert of Gobi, in Africa the Sahara, in Australia the Victoria; while in the British Isles, Philippines, New Zealand, Madagascar, Iceland, the East Indies, West Indies, South Seas and other islands of the world, the interiors were taken over by the demons, the populace fleeing for their lives.
As for the oceans, no one knew exactly what had happened there, though it was obvious they, too, had received their share of the bombardment on that fateful night; but, while temperatures were found to be somewhat above normal, scientists were of the opinion that the deadly spawn that had fallen there had failed to incubate.
Immediately the presence of the monsters in the Arizona desert was verified, Overton called Jim Carter to his desk.
“Well, I’ve got a big assignment for you, boy,” he said, rather more gently than was his fashion. “Maybe you know what, huh?”
“You want me to buzz out and interview those birds?”
“You guessed it. And photograph ’em!”
“Okay, Chief,” said Carter, though he knew this would be the toughest job yet.
Overton knew it, too.