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Updated: June 4, 2025
But at one hundred feet aloft the fliers braked their headlong flight, hovered motionlessly in echelon formation. A moment's breathless pause to the hiding men it seemed eternity and all the uneven terrain, rocks, trees, bushes, the soil itself, burst into glowing white crystal clearness. The Mercutians had turned on their search beams.
Rick braked to a stop as the highway met the turnoff to Easton. "Think we're far enough north?" Scotty had been consulting a road map. He shook his head. "Not yet. Easton is almost due east of Knapps Narrows, and we know the saucers have been sighted there. Better go on to Wye Mills." "Okay." The road was dual-lane cement, now, and Rick relaxed while the car sped northward. "Odd name, Wye Mills.
But he had no desire to test it, nor to stay in an auto which could probably be traced so easily. He braked to a halt outside the subway and led Ellen down. "We're down to the last hole," he told her as the train pulled out of the station. "How much money do you have?" She shook her head, and held up her arm. "I left it, Will." They were beyond the last hole, then.
It was his job to get the gyros delivered and set up in the Space Platform. He had failed. The black car braked to a stop. There was Major Holt. Joe had seen him six months before. He'd aged a good deal. He looked grimly at the two pilots. "What happened?" he demanded. "You dumped your fuel! What burned like this?" Joe said thickly: "Everything was dumped but the pilot gyros. They didn't burn!
He shifted gears and accelerated at the top of his car's power. Another car behind him braked and barely avoided a crash while blowing its horn furiously. Then the traffic went on. But it was lessening now. It was mostly private cars, owned by the workmen. Suddenly there were no cars coming down the long straight stretch of road.
"And the green-fly, and the moorish-fly!" cried Benson, snatching them up with transport; "and, chief, the sad-yellow-fly, in which the fish delight in June; the sad-yellow-fly, made with the buzzard's wings, bound with black braked hemp, and the shell-fly, for the middle of July, made of greenish wool, wrapped about with the herle of a peacock's tail, famous for creating excellent sport."
They could identify the changing of gears and the reversing and going ahead, until, at the end of five minutes, a long low, black car burst from the wall of greenery and charged the soft earth bank, but the earth was too soft, and when, two-thirds of the way up, beaten, Charley Drexel braked the car to a standstill, the earth crumbled from under the tires, and he ran it down and back, the way he had come, until half-buried in the bananas.
Tom nodded and braked the jeep to a screeching halt. "Coast Guard too. They can pass the word to commercial shipping to be on the lookout." A telephone rang as he hurried into the office. "For you," the clerk said, looking up at Tom. "Nice timing!" Tom grabbed the phone. His face widened into a grin. "Bud! You seagoing jet stream! What happened?" Arv grinned, too, in relief.
Suddenly they cut off, and it seemed as if the ship had braked. But the pilot dived steeply, for speed. The co-pilot was saying coldly into the microphone: "He shot rockets. Looked like Army issue three point fives with proximities. They missed. And we're mighty lonely!" The transport tore on, both pilots grimly watching the cloud bank below.
Dark switched his radio to the official channel. " ... await check. Repeat: groundcar in cloverleaf, stop at once and await check." Dark braked the groundcar to a stop. As soon as the copter grounded, he could accelerate and escape. But the copter did not ground. It hovered, directly over him.
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