Straight ahead of the Dragonfly’s speeding, climbing nose, in one more of those horrible, mistily glowing banks of Summer moisture, lit as if with a phantom’s phosphorescent fire, their horrified eyes saw a vision, dreadful, inescapable!
Two misty, shadowy airplanes, appearing as though silhouetted in shuddering brown against the gleaming of some infernal light, came at one another.
Don knew that his ship could not avoid adding its own crash to that cataclysmic impact.
There was not time to dive.
Already the propeller was within a hundred feet of the others!
Don closed his eyes, braced.
Mechanically he had depressed the nose by throwing forward the stick.
But there was no rip and rend of wings stripped off as they went under the trucks of those other airplanes.
There was nothing—neither impact nor blow, crash nor other sound.
Don looked swiftly upward.