attack, however, he had lost altitude, and now he was forced to climb to stay in
the air. Instantly the auto-rifle barked and the silver ship plunged into what
seemed to Barret to be collision. Then it was swooping up again, and the enemy
was fluttering down out of a stall.
“Good boy!” Barret screamed, utterly unheard even by himself in the noise of the
two fighters. “He’s headin’ this way! Git ready!” The warning was inaudible, but
unnecessary; the men below were tense and rigid, waiting for the plane to
ground. One more burst from the auto-rifle, one more terrible screaming swoop of
the Icarus, and the turncoat’s plane did a ridiculous little flip-flop and lost
flying speed. It struck nose first in the earth about two hundred feet from the
edge of the forest and turned gently over. Something began to crackle, and
Barret howled incoherent commands. The men pounded from concealment and out
across the open, the tall grass reaching almost to their shoulders, their heavy
pails slowing them. Before the first tongue of flame had gained much headway,
however, the incipient fire had been stifled in sand and dirt, and they were
stamping at the grass around the plane.
As Marshall’s parachute boomed behind them over the woods, something struggled
free of the overturned fighter and arose into view: it was the pilot, holding up
his hands. There was no question but that the defeated pilot wanted to
surrender. He stood as high as he could on shrunken, bowed legs, and held up
four hands. Barret heard a deadly growl from his men, and then two shots in