Just before a brightening shimmer of Summer lightning blotted out the spectacle, Don saw what made his flesh crawl.
Apparently lighting up a large, fluffy, steamy-white cloud with its own spectral glow, some phantom ship came fleetly forth through that misty, white screen.
Dark, almost black, yet not distinct and sharp, because of the mist he supposed, that mystical, phantasmic craft grew large—and was blotted from view by the bright flash of the distant storm.
Gone! Absolutely vanished! Once seen, for a bare instant, the strange and ghostly mirage had disappeared when the blaze of the lightning faded.
Immediately Garry, cool and self-contained, sent over the side a parachute-flare, self-igniting with the jerk as the ’chute opened to sustain the vivid, unearthly light in mid-sky, slowly dropping.
Chick cowered. Garry remained erect, calm, poised, staring swiftly above, to either side, and below.
He saw nothing. Slightly blinded by the recent flash of Summer electricity, and still being a little dazzled by the green of the flare that had ignited almost in front of him, he could not make out any distinct object in any direction.
Don, who had been looking down at his inclinometer to gauge his bank as he glided, just when the cries first came, was not dazzled: he sent a swift, questing look in every direction.
The sky was blank, except for the after-flare of the dying electrical discharge and the growing glare of the green light.
“But—was that still the shadow of the spook ’plane, that I just saw?” he muttered, inquiring of his straining eyes. If so, the barely discerned shadow was gone.