The Russians approached slowly, keeping their lines straight. They were within two hundred yards of the knoll. Suddenly from a point a hundred yards to the left of the end of the land came a rattle of fire. The attacking line dropped in a pile of grotesque heaps.
“It’s McCready!” shouted Carnes. A little ravine ran from the knoll toward the trucks. Sitting in the ravine was the lieutenant, playing a Browning machine gun on the line of attackers. When there were no more of them on their feet, he turned his gun on the trucks. Panic seized the Russians and they made a rush for their truck. Their leader leaped among them, yelling furiously. They paused and turned to the projector tube. Slowly they swung it around. The lieutenant’s gun ceased firing.
As the Russians rushed the now silent gun, Dr. Bird stepped to the gun on the knoll. He trained it and pressed the trigger. A rattle of fire came from it and two of the rushing figures fell. The attack paused for an instant. McCready had risen to his feet and was running up the ravine with his gun under his arm.
“Good head!” cried Dr. Bird, “Clever work! Watch the fun now.”
He ceased firing his gun. The Russians wavered and then rushed the point from which McCready had fired. The lieutenant allowed them to get to within a short distance and then crumpled the attack with another burst of fire from the flank. With cries of alarm, the Russians turned and fled toward their trucks. McCready ran along the ravine until he was within fifty yards of the standing machines. As the Russians approached, one of them stepped to the truck crank. McCready’s pistol spoke and he dropped. A second shared his fate. With cries of despair, the Russians climbed into the remaining truck whose motor was running. Rapidly it drove away across the plain. McCready rose from the ravine and ran toward the standing truck. He started the motor and headed for the knoll.
“He’s got a truck,” cried Carnes. “We can get away in it.”
“Where to?” demanded Dr. Bird. “Archangel is between us and the Denver.”
The truck came up.
“Come on, Doctor,” cried McCready. “Hurry up. We’ll take the battery out of this truck and get our plane going.”
“Oh, clever!” cried Dr. Bird admiringly. “Load that gun while I get Feodrovna, Carnesy. We’ll get away safely yet.”
The truck rolled up to the plane and stopped. While Carnes transferred the prisoner and the guns to the plane, the lieutenant and Dr. Bird ripped up the floor boards of the truck and exposed the battery. It was a matter of moments to detach it and carry it to the plane. It would not fit in place but they anchored it in place with wire.
“You’d better hurry,” cried Carnes. “Here come a couple more trucks over the plain.”
“That’ll do, Doctor,” said McCready. “Get on the prop and we’ll see if the old puddle jumper will take off.”
Dr. Bird ran to the propeller.
“Ready!” he cried.
“Contact!” snapped McCready.
The plane motor roared into life. The ship moved slowly forward as Dr. Bird climbed on board. Toward the oncoming trucks they rushed across the plain. A crash seemed imminent. In the nick of time McCready pulled back on his joystick and the plane rose gracefully into the air, clearing the leading truck by inches. The truck halted and hastily mounted a machine gun.
“Too late!” laughed the lieutenant. “Now it’s our turn for some fun.”
He tapped the key of his radio transmitter. In a few seconds he received an answer.
“They have reduced Fort Novadwinskaja,” he reported to the rear cockpit, “but they don’t know what to fire at next. Their largest guns will reach the factory easily. Shall I start some fireworks?”
“You may fire when ready, Gridly,” chuckled Dr. Bird.
Again the lieutenant depressed his key. From their altitude of four thousand feet, they could see the Denver. From its forward turret came a puff of smoke. There were a few moments of pause and then a cloud of black rose from the plain below them, half a mile from the factory. McCready reported the position of the burst to the ship. A second shell burst beyond the factory and the third just in front of it.
“It’s a clear bracket,” said McCready. “Now watch the gun. I’ll give them a salvo.”
From the side of the Denver came a cloud of black smoke as all of her turret guns fired in unison. The aim was perfect. For a few moments all was quiet and then the factory disappeared in a smother of bursting high explosive shells.
Hardly had the shells landed than a terrific sheet of lightning ripped across the sky. The thunderclap which seemed to come simultaneously, rocked the plane like a feather. Sheet after sheet of lightning illuminated the sky while the roar of thunder was continuous. Rain fell in solid sheets. Even as they watched, it began to turn into snow. The air grew bitterly cold.
“The solar magnet is wrecked,” shouted the doctor, “and these storms are the efforts of nature to return to normal.”
“If they get any worse, we’re doomed.”
“But in a good cause.”
Through the storm the plane raced. Suddenly the motor died with sickening suddenness.
“Our haywire battery connections are gone,” shouted McCready. “Say your prayers.”
The wind tossed the plane about like a feather. Rapidly it lost altitude. A building loomed up before them. As a crash seemed imminent, a gust of wind caught the plane and tossed it up into the air again. For several minutes the ground could not be seen through the rain. Suddenly the plane hit an airpocket and dropped like a stone. With a splash it fell into the sea. A rift came for a moment in the curtain of rain.
“Look!” cried Carnes.
A hundred yards away, the Denver rode at anchor.
“I’m only sorry about one thing,” said Carnes ten minutes later as they changed to dry clothes aboard the battle cruiser, “and that is that Saranoff wasn’t in the factory when that salvo fell on it.”
“I’m glad he was away,” replied Dr. Bird. “With him absent, we succeeded in destroying it. If he had been there, our task would have been more difficult and perhaps impossible. I am an enemy of Saranoff’s, but I don’t underrate his colossal genius.”
THE COFFIN CURE
by Alan E. Nourse
When the discovery was announced, it was Dr. Chauncey Patrick Coffin who announced it. He had, of course, arranged with uncanny skill to take most of the credit for himself. If it turned out to be greater than he had hoped, so much the better. His presentation was scheduled for the last night of the American College of Clinical Practitioners’ annual meeting, and Coffin had fully intended it to be a bombshell.
It was. Its explosion exceeded even Dr. Coffin’s wilder expectations, which took quite a bit of doing. In the end he had waded through more newspaper reporters than medical doctors as he left the hall that night. It was a heady evening for Chauncey Patrick Coffin, M.D.
Certain others were not so delighted with Coffin’s bombshell.
“It’s idiocy!” young Dr. Phillip Dawson wailed in the laboratory conference room the next morning. “Blind, screaming idiocy. You’ve gone out of your mind—that’s all there is to it. Can’t you see what you’ve done? Aside from selling your colleagues down the river, that is?” He clenched the reprint of Coffin’s address in his hand and brandished it like a broadsword. “‘Report on a Vaccine for the Treatment and Cure of the Common Cold,’ by C. P. Coffin, et al. That’s what it says—et al. My idea in the first place. Jake and I both pounding our heads on the wall for eight solid months—and now you sneak it into publication a full year before we have any business publishing a word about it.”
“Really, Phillip!” Dr. Chauncey Coffin ran a pudgy hand through his snowy hair. “How ungrateful! I thought for
