The Moon Colony

Bullet Proof

Julian Epworth reasoned that his departure from Salt Lake City was a profound secret. The fact that an airship carrying gold was on the way to Los Angeles convoyed by armed airplanes had been kept inside of the office. Because of this Epworth thought that he had an easy job.

"What's the big idea about all this fancy maneuvering?" Billy Sand inquired curiously as Epworth gave the order to close up a little on the other nine planes flying in a straight line ahead in military formation. "You are acting as if there is a war on, and if we were trying to hatch a machine gun nest."

"Now that we are up in the air, and there is no chance of a leak I will explain. The twin red and green lights that you see ahead are on one of our airplanes carrying a gold shipment consigned to the mint. Recently a plane similarly loaded disappeared, and our company lost a million dollars. We do not propose that such a steal shall be repeated."

"A million! And this crate ahead is carrying that much?"

"It is carrying two million. But," Epworth's lips twisted determinedly, "I do not think that an air pirate will be able to get away with it-not as long as these ten little babies can shoot."

Julian Epworth was the head of the secret service of the Atlantic-Pacific Airlines, Inc., and he imagined that his plans had been extremely well laid.

Billy glanced up at the clear sky, picked up the signals, and, in obedience to Epworth's command, closed in on the four planes flying on the left of the large passenger ship in the lead. A ship launched secretly into the air in the dead of night, and picked up on the desert by an escort of ten planes, should certainly be safe from a robber.

"Not a chance in a million that we will be stopped," he remarked thoughtfully. "Look at the moon and the stars! We could see a plane ten miles away, and get it long before it could get in shooting distance."

Feeling in a good humor and perfectly safe, Epworth tuned in on the radio-just loud enough to bring the news of the world to them, and not loud enough to give a warning to any other flyer in the sky that might be secretly approaching.

Suddenly Billy leaned toward his companion excitedly, and caught his arm.

"Did you hear that? I am speaking about that noise that is coming over the radio."

"Of course I heard it."

The radio was saying:

"This is Clarence Ainslee, astronomical observer at Mount Wilson Observatory. Are you looking at the moon? If not, get a large telescope and look at the extreme western extremity of the Sea of Vapours. You will see something you never saw before. There is a lake or sea forming there. At least that is the judgment of astronomers."

"What do you think about it?" Billy asked.

"Horse radish."

Both aviators looked toward the bright shining full moon.

"But," Epworth remarked, "we could not tell anything with our naked eyes."

"In addition to the appearance of a new lake," the radio continued, "vegetation is appearing not far from the eastern border of the water. The mystery of this is now puzzling the scientific world."

"Let them puzzle," Epworth muttered as he switched the radio dial. "I should worry."

"This is the news report from the morning Blade," they heard the radio say. "Station WGCF. The report has just come in that twenty masked men, all of whom spoke a foreign tongue, have robbed the Swift & Co. laboratory. They lined up the seventy chemists and their assistants, and while the gunmen held them and their helpers the bandits looted the plant. Thousands of dollars in liquid air, saltpeter, and chemicals were carried off in two enormous airplanes, dim shadowy things that stretched out two thousand feet in length."

"Some little airplane. I'd like to see it!"

"Airplane?" Billy snorted indignantly. "They are using dirigibles of course."

"What do you suppose they wanted with all that nitrogen and fertilizer?"

"Couldn't guess in a million years."

Epworth sat up straight. He had caught a view of two wriggling red lights ahead.

"There are the signals," he cried excitedly. "Something is going on ahead."

Both aviators went into action. Epworth seized the controls and Billy grabbed a machine gun. Both were still thinking about the long cylinder-like airplanes described by the radio. Epworth kept his eyes fixed on the airship carrying the gold. A red rocket shot out suddenly from the side of this airplane; followed by another. These signals were answered by nine planes that were following Epworth's guidance through the silent night lanes.

To one who did not understand, the sky looked like a pyrotechnic display.

* * *

Like avenging demons the entire convoy started toward the plane sending out the distress signals, sweeping through the sky without lights, and their silencers hiding their approach. But what they saw caused every aviator and every machine gunner to pause for a second in astonishment.

An immense airship, not less than two thousand feet long, was hovering over the passenger Douglas, guiding its movements, and twenty men were running down a ladder that had been let down into the aviator's seat of the Douglas.

Epworth, who was leading the formation of five on the larboard side, did not permit his astonishment to delay action. With a jerk he seized the control, slammed the stick into his stomach, banked slightly, leveled out until the side of the big airship was in line with his machine gun, and with a hoarse cry opened a broadside at the sky pirate-for pirate he was certain the big plane was.

When he fired he was not over one thousand feet from the pirate, and it was impossible to miss. In addition to this he had come up with a big surprise-feeling certain that the air bandits did not know that the treasure ship was convoyed. He expected to see his rain of lead tear through the cowling of the stranger and deal death and frenzy. His example was followed by every scout plane on the larboard side. A second later the five planes on the starboard swept up and poured a fierce rain of lead at the stranger. It was a barrage from both sides that it seemed would destroy anything earthly.

Yet the pirate floated serenely in the air as if it had been bombarded with peanuts, its secretly-constructed armor turning machine bullets like pellets.

Epworth give the signal, and again both formations poured their hurricane of death at the pirate. But when this bombardment seemed to pass harmlessly through the stranger, Epworth changed his tactics. He aimed at four men who were climbing down the ladder from the pirate into the Douglas. This time his shots cut the ladder into ribbons, and the four men tumbled down into the Douglas. Epworth, while feeling that he had full authority to do battle, wanted to capture the pirate and not kill the men. In this he succeeded, as to the killing, as the four pirates fell on top of the Douglas, or into the aviator's seat.

At this moment the bandits got to fighting. Two sheets of mysterious flames burst simultaneously from both sides of the immense thing, and then all became still.

But those two broadsides were enough. The ten convoy airships conked, whirled over in the air, and began to fall.

"Jump, Billy!" Epworth cried out loudly. "Jump!"

There was need. The battle was over, and the pirate plane, with the stolen Douglas now under complete pirate control, passed away into a dim shadow. The twenty occupants of the destroyed convoy planes jumped out almost at the same second, and sprang as far away from their falling crates as possible.

Epworth's umbrella opened within ten seconds. He saw Billy shoot by like a chunk of lead. Billy was his best chum, and his heart sank with the thought that he would be dashed to pieces against the ground. Frantically he leaned out. Other pilots were going by but he managed to keep his eye on Billy. Finally he straightened up with a cry of relief. Billy's parachute was spreading.

"Safe," he cried, "but great heavens what a battle! That plane's sides are bullet proof, and it rides the sky as if it owned it."

He looked upward. All he could see above his head were the stars. These were blotted out by the rapid approach of the earth, and the peak of the high mountain passing by him.

He landed safely but what would the president of the Air Company say when he returned with this terrible and unexpected disaster to report?

The Stowaway

They were seated in the living room of President Epworth's palatial residence in Hollywood. While the conversation was in a low tone and seemingly calm there was an air of tenseness that got on the nerves of the speakers.

"So you suggest--"

President Epworth paused, and looked interrogatingly at his nephew, Julian Epworth.

"That we send out a dummy on an alleged trip to Japan, start it secretly but with sufficient tips to permit the knowledge of its departure to circulate. With it send a small shipment of money. Let Billy Sand pilot the dummy, and I will follow in a swift scout plane equipped to cross the Pacific. If the sky bandits attack, Billy is to be instructed to offer no resistance, and I will lag behind and follow the robbers to their lair. When I return we will fall on that bunch with the entire United States army. Believe me I do not speak loosely when I say that the army will be necessary. Those bandits have the best fighting air vessel invented. They are far ahead of anything I have ever heard of in the way of air pirates."

"And that dummy should carry--"

"Enough gold to relieve it of the suspicion that it is a plant."

The president tapped the table with his fingers.

"Our company cannot afford to lose any money."

"My idea is to make the cargo large enough to pay a profit if it goes across but not large enough to create a great loss. If the bandits come I have a hunch that they will be connected with the men who robbed Swift & Co., Ford, Dupont, and others. If I can trace them to their lair we stand a chance to get all that back."

"Notwithstanding the fact that you are my nephew, Julian, I placed you at the head of our secret service because I knew that you had ability in spite of your youthfulness. I am now putting a grave responsibility on you. We cannot do business while a bunch of hijackers are running the air lanes, and stealing everything valuable we send out. We must stop business or catch the thieves. The first thing we know they will be dropping bombs on our airports. I am going to put this matter up to you."

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you have the responsibility of catching these men. I am turning the matter entirely over to you for action."

"Very well, I accept the charge."

As a result of this conversation Epworth concluded to send out the Greyhound, a large 12-passenger Douglas-old but a good flyer. Billy Sand was named as the pilot and entire crew. After studying weather conditions closely it was decided to make the start the following Thursday night.

So secret was Epworth in his method that he planted his small H.B. in an open space near Hines Field, six miles from the airport of the Atlantic-Pacific Company, and the only person he took completely into his confidence was Billy Sand, his aviation buddy and chum. Billy did not even let Bert Orme know that Epworth was to follow them. To Orme it looked as if an honest-to-goodness flight was being made across the Pacific Ocean.

Billy was instructed to show constantly by night three red lights, one on each wing, and one on the tail of the Greyhound. These lights were to be turned on every night at sundown during the entire trip. In addition to this Epworth decided to fly the pursuit by himself.

At eleven forty-five the young man moved his plane from its hiding place, and mounted into the air. He chuckled as he took the air. His sister, Joan, was the only living person who knew where this plane had been hidden and he felt certain that it could not have been "doctored," although he had been late in getting to it.

Unfortunately for his purpose the night was dark and a heavy fog had come up from the ocean about ten o'clock, and for ten minutes he feared that the fog banking against the windows of his cockpits would prevent observation. With a snort of dismay he threw open the window, and leaned out. The great City of Los Angeles, with its myriads of beautiful lights spread beneath, and he lost three minutes locating the five-pointed lights that marked the Atlantic-Pacific airport. He was flying low, circling like an eagle, and he lost several seconds more getting to the airport.

Had he arrived too late?

He anathematized himself, and snarled at the darkness that had caused him to be late in getting to his plane. Billy, by this time, was probably on his way.

He searched the sky with his binoculars. The three red lights the Greyhound was to display were not visible. Was it possible that his secret plans had already come to naught? Would Billy fly out over the ocean and rush into the hands of the pirates without accomplishing any good?

For a moment he had a spell of very bad humor; then he whirled the nose of his plane out toward the Pacific Ocean. He knew the course the Greyhound would travel. He had been careful with his instructions to Billy about getting into the air and these instructions conveyed to Billy the idea that he was to give no heed to the little plane that followed him. This meant that Billy would take a direct bee line out over the ocean, and expect him to follow as if there was to be an ordinary oceanic flight.

Rising two thousand feet, he shot forward with all the speed his wonderfully fast little bird could travel-three hundred miles an hour. In a brief slip of time he was over San Pedro, and could hear the roar of the ocean sweeping against the rocks north of Point Firmin. Bearing N by W he flashed over the extreme end of Catalina Island on the north. Still the dense fog rolled against his windows and into the cabin; and the three red Greyhound lights were not visible.

He groaned in an agony of spirit. What would his Uncle William say to this terrible waste of money and inefficiency?

"And what will Joan say?" he asked himself aloud in a strained hurt way. "She also will think that I'm a slip-up."

"She will say that you have a very fast little airplane, that you can fly circles around the Greyhound, and that now is the time to fly them." A soft, mellow voice answered his query from the rear end of the cabin. "Fly low, say one thousand feet above the water, and keep your eyes glued to your field glasses. Joan will watch for you while you manipulate the controls."

A handsome, well-formed and athletic young girl, about eighteen years old, crawled out of the tail of the fuselage, and dropped into the aviator's seat by his side.

"H-how did you get here?" Epworth blustered. "What do you mean by butting in on a dangerous mission like this? How did you find out that I was going to make this trip? Now I will have to turn around and take you back. If you were not my sister I'd slam you overboard."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't throw me overboard. If you did that you wouldn't have a little sister to fuss about. As to all those other questions-come at me easy. Put them one at a time. But before you begin to propound them get into some kind of action. Go down a thousand feet. You are too high in the air."

This was good sense, and Epworth nose-dived immediately. When he straightened out on the thousand foot line he leveled his nose northward into a vast encircling movement.

"You needn't go any further north," Joan remarked casually. "I see your three little old red lights out toward the west."

Epworth heaved a sigh of relief; and then turned angrily on his sister.

"Now talk up. You have balled things up terribly. When daylight comes I will have to signal Billy to go back so that I can take you back home. You are set for college, young lady, and it is nearing the opening of the year."

"I am not going back. My brother is out here on a life and death mission, my uncle stands to go broke if this mission fails, and I'm going to help. Get that, Mister Bossy."

"But you can't go, Joan. This task may take me to the North Pole, or to some island in the South Pacific, or to Siam."

"I am going with you or I am going to jump over the side of this plane into the ocean."

There was a finality about her words that carried conviction. That was Joan all over. She was very quiet, very self-possessed, very polite, but she was like the Rock of Gibraltar when she made up her mind.

Epworth did not reply. Now that he was actually following the Greyhound he did not want to desert his task. He pushed nearer to the three red lights. Billy was purposely running with his cut-outs open, and he could hear the roar of the Greyhound's engines. This was another evidence that he was trailing the right airplane. At this time all other planes that sailed the air were as silent as birds.

"Now let me hear how you got on to this job?"

"You talk too much," Joan rebuked severely. "I heard you talking to Billy last night when he came up to the house."

"Then if you know about it I guess the bandits know something about it also," he chuckled.

Joan did not answer, and for an hour Epworth ran to the starboard of the Greyhound, and several hundred feet higher.

"There is a shadow hanging over the Greyhound," Joan observed presently. "Is it a cloud?"

"So soon!" Epworth exclaimed in astonishment. "Those robbers are certainly wise ones, and the leak out of the Atlantic-Pacific Airlines must be as big as a river."

"I do not seem to get you," Joan replied slangily. She had been associating so much with aviators and air men that she had become one. "Spring a little larger leak in your gas line."

"You are now going to view the methods of the sky bandits," he said slowly, handing her his binoculars. "Keep your eyes fixed on that shadow, and I will manipulate the plane nearer so that you will be certain."

Within three minutes they were close enough to see a sky hold-up. A long cylinder, tremendously long it seemed to her as she viewed it through the fog, swung gracefully and easily into position over the Greyhound, and for several moments ran along smoothly as if it were a part of the lower airship. Then a trap door opened in the bottom of the cylinder, a rope fell into the aviator's seat of the Greyhound, and ten men descended quickly. For several seconds the ladder swung to and fro over the Greyhound but when a signal whistle, sharp and clear, rang out from the aviator's seat of the Greyhound, the great cylinder whirled with lightning speed and darted away directly north. It was swallowed up so quickly in the fog that Joan could only stare at it with open-mouthed surprise.

When she thought to look back at the Greyhound the captured vessel had swung into the course of the cylinder.

"It is impossible to follow that thing," she whispered in awe. "Why it flies-it flies-like-like--"

"A ball out of a cannon," Epworth finished. "But fortunately I did not contemplate following it. We will follow the Greyhound. I knew before we started out on this trip that those cylinders could gain a speed of six hundred miles an hour, and my plot was to get them to capture the Greyhound, and follow it. They have fallen into the plot, and now a sky bandit, and not Billy, is piloting the plane."

With a careful movement he dropped in behind the Greyhound, and climbed up over it. But presently he discovered that he would have to go higher. The Greyhound was gradually seeking altitude in a long upward nose sweep. This movement was continued until an altitude of five thousand feet had been attained. At this altitude the Greyhound leveled out, put on more speed, and darted courageously toward the frozen North. Epworth followed, easily keeping the three red lights in view although the cut-out of the Greyhound was now closed.

"Six hundred miles an hour!" Joan's voice contained an element of doubt. "How could they attain such a speed? There is no known force that will pull them that fast."

"Goddard's liquid rockets," Epworth answered briefly. "I was studying their explosion when the hold-up was taking place. They have a soft, low, whirling explosion but these men have gone the scientist one better. They have found a method of silencing the explosions and still retaining all the force."

"My, I wonder where they are taking the Greyhound?"

"We are following them to find out."

"I am still wondering how the cylinders can give such speed."

"The rockets are propelled by the steady combustion of carbon in liquid oxygen."

"I have an idea that they must be taking the Greyhound a long distance from home."

They were.

Four days later Epworth and his sister, Joan, were still following the stolen airship-and were flying over an unknown portion of the Arctic Ocean. Below them there was a vast sea of ice.

An Arctic Blizzard

On and on, over pale gray wastes, above fleecy clouds and heavy fogs; high up over tossing waters, and floating mountains of ice-not a stop for fuel, with engines silenced until they flew like bats in the night, the Greyhound leading the way, and Epworth sticking to it like a dark, hungry shadow with his ship lines camouflaged by sky blue paint, and his eyes ever vigilant.

How Billy managed to keep the three red lights going notwithstanding the fact that he was a captive was a mystery that Epworth did not attempt to solve. It was being done, and Epworth was contented to follow.

At last Northeastern Siberia, and a mysterious range of mountains. Epworth, taking his position, knew them for the Cherski Mountains, recently discovered and completely unexplored-a barren, cold, lifeless region bordering on the Arctic Ocean a thousand miles from the outmost limits.

How long would this journey last? Where would the Greyhound lead? Had the sky bandits discovered that they were being followed, and were they leading him into a death trap amid a vast wilderness of ice?

He examined his gas supply. Joan looked at him inquiringly.

"Just about enough to take us back to Point Hope."

Her eyes sought the cowling of the little machine fearfully.

"Shall we go back?"

She pointed at the Greyhound.

"Billy is in that ship," she replied softly. "We cannot leave him. His liberty, and very likely his life, depend upon our actions."

He put his hand affectionately on her shoulder-just like a chum. Few brothers loved their sisters as Epworth loved Joan.

"You are the bravest, squarest girl in the world. I knew you would say it. But--"

He shook his head.

"We will have to depend upon stealing enough gas from the tank of the Greyhound to get back," she added smilingly.

Now the Greyhound turned abruptly westward, and followed the Cherski Mountains, lowering its altitude to five hundred feet above the highest peak. Epworth followed persistently, keeping a higher altitude.

"Small wonder," Joan remarked as she watched the shadow of the Greyhound flit swiftly over the face of the white-capped ridges, "that the governments could not locate them. With their swift airplanes they dart down on the commerce of the world like Omar on a desert caravan, and are back in their hidden North Pole lair before the robbery is known by the authorities. Where are we?"

"Eight hundred miles north by west of Bogosloff Island, perhaps a thousand miles."

"So far," Joan observed patiently, "we have had unusually even weather. Now we are going to have an Arctic blizzard."

She pointed north over the long reach of ocean that came up to lash the mountains beneath them. Epworth shivered. Then he smiled.

"We have a mighty staunch little airship."

She did not answer for several moments. Would these bandits go on forever? Was there no hole anywhere for them to hide in?

"The Greyhound has disappeared," Joan suddenly broke out excitedly. "I saw it just a moment ago behind that distant peak."

Epworth glanced out of the window. A sudden sheet of frozen snow and a rain of heavy chunks of ice struck the window. It came with terrific fury, unexpected. However, he had adjusted the stabilizer, and notwithstanding the fact that the little ship was tossed up and down like a feather and went lop-sided for a second it weathered the furious burst, and staggered on like a wounded bird.

Epworth gave one more look for the Greyhound. Not a thing was now visible-not even the rugged snow mountains below. With a grave face he banked and faced the storm, putting on every ounce of power the engine would carry. The little plane stood still, poised like an eagle, with the bronzed shadow of its wings dipped in the immensity of gray storm and whirling, shrieking wind.

On the windows of his ship the rubber vacuum wipers stopped, choked immovable by lumps of ice hurled against the glazed surface. To see out was impossible-he was shooting through darkness, a howling, shrieking, terrifying murk created by storm. He glanced at Joan. She smiled at him to cheer him, but it was a courageous effort to conquer a mighty fear.

He must see out. If they moved forward in the direction they were headed they would be forced out over the ocean, away from the sky bandits' retreat. That camp was somewhere in this range of mountains. He had a hunch that it was not far away. If he succeeded in his mission he must keep the mountains in view and make a search when the frenzy of the storm had passed.

Nevertheless he moved with slow deliberation. He pasted a small strip of inch-thick Balsa wood beneath the wipers on the window, lighted two candles and stuck them on the Balsa shelf thus made. It was dangerous-deadly dangerous. If the storm shot a flash of that blaze into the gas tank the end would be instantaneous. He smiled grimly, and nodded at his sister. The girl bowed her head in acquiescence. She also realized the danger of a flame of fire at this time.

The heat of the candles warmed the window and the wipers began to move, clearing the space for visibility.

His observations were useless. All he could see was a world of whirling snow and ice.

He sought altitude. But the higher he ascended the fiercer grew the storm. Then he nosed down slowly until he stood a thousand feet above the highest mountain. Then he slowed his engines and allowed the storm to push him backwards. He was seeking the neighborhood where he had last seen the Greyhound.

Again he turned his eyes on Joan. She was taking the battle like a Trojan.

"You are very brave," he said gently.

"And the boy with me is not a coward," she replied softly.

She gave him her hand, and there was not a tremble in it.

"I have lost our reckoning, but--"

The sentence was not completed. The tempest increased with irresistible fury, and shot them down obliquely, catching the starboard wing, and with weird, demoniacal power whirled the plane over and over in a rush of air that the propellers were unable to stop.

Joan was hurled into Epworth's arms, and both were tossed up and down in their seats, and against the light cowling. Each second they expected to be hurled out of the cabin. In order to lessen the danger Epworth shut off the engine. At least there would be no fire.

"We must jump," he explained briefly. "The plane is whirling over and over and will strike a peak soon."

"Small chance for an umbrella in a storm like this," Joan returned quite calmly. "It will be whipped into strips."

"Yet the parachute is our only hope."

He hooked the package around her shoulders and adjusted it carefully. Then he put one around his own shoulders, and handed her a package that he took from a pocket in the fuselage.

"Some useful articles, and a little food and water," he informed her. "May come in useful. We can't tell what is ahead of us."

"Good bye, sister."

"Good bye, brother."

They smiled at each other, and jumped.