“Drop down a few hundred feet,” suggested Pant. “If it’s necessary, we might make a landing.” Johnny tilted her nose groundward.
As they came closer to earth, they realized at once that a landing was impossible; they were passing over range after range of low, rolling hills. There were no valleys to the crooked streams that flowed between the hills.
“Shoot her up again; better traveling,” suggested Pant.
It seemed to Johnny that he could catch the thundering throb of the other plane’s engine. But this was only imagination. Truth was, however, that the other plane was gaining on them. Yard by yard they came closer. As the miles sped from beneath them, the distance diminished. Now they were a mile away; now three-quarters. And now they plunged into a great mass of white mist, which was a cloud, and were for a time lost to view.
As they came again into clear sky, Johnny gasped. The other plane appeared to have doubled her speed. It could be only a matter of moments now. What mad thing did those fellows mean to attempt? Did they hope to force them to the ground? Would they ram them? To do so seemed certain death to all.
“They’ve got parachutes!” shouted Pant through the tube.
Parachutes? Johnny’s mind was in a panic. Perhaps they meant to take to their parachutes after ramming the “Dust Eater.”
“Johnny!” Pant’s voice was even and composed, “just slow her up a bit and hold her in a steady, straight line.”
“Slow up!” Was Pant mad? The other plane must be all but upon them! Without question he obeyed. Straight as a chalk line they shot on through the blue.
One minute, two, three, four, five. As Johnny counted them on the dial of the clock in front of him, he expected at any one of them to feel a sudden shock.