“How’s your fuel, Jack?” the Commander asked.
“I’ll have a look, sir.” Jack studied his gauge. “Not bad,” he reported. “Under present conditions we should do eight hundred miles.”
“That’s all anyone can hope for. How do you account for this ship’s efficiency?” the Commander asked.
“Well, you see, sir, it’s my understanding that a new alloy has been developed that will withstand a very high temperature. Then the jets are deflected by setting them at right angles to the air stream. Of course,” he demurred, “I only learned a little—I read it in a scrapbook. All I really know is that this plane’s got speed and can carry enough fuel to take you places and permit you to do things,” Jack laughed happily. “That’s all I ask of any plane.”
“It’s all anyone can ask,” said the Commander. “But let me tell you one thing, son, if a cannon ball or even a slug from a machine gun ever penetrates the wall of the combustion chamber in this plane, with all that heat she’ll burn like a match!”
“It’s protected partially, at least, with steel plate, sir,” Jack replied soberly. “But why let the enemy get a crack at you when you’ve got a ship like this?”
“Why, indeed?” agreed the Commander. “All you have to do is turn on the oxygen and climb for the stars. You—”
The Commander broke off to listen intently. “Jack!” he said. “Shut off that squeal and drift down a bit.”
Jack silenced his engine. Then he heard it. The thunder of a powerful plane.
“A snooper!” he exclaimed.