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pulled through? He knew his ship and he knew himself. Nothing could possibly happen. He knew exactly when to pull out. Even when the gravity gauge slid up to nine, even when the blood was driven down out of his head and everything went black, he knew what to do.
    There was Bolling , there was the Naval Air Station. That was the target, he was the bullet.
    â€œ Fire, Gridley ,” muttered Lucky, trying to grin.
    Back on the stick and throttle. Let her stall and whip out of it. He’d show them. Up came the nose. The ground was straight down at his back.
    The dive bomber faltered, hung motionless for an instant, standing on its tail like a flying fish.
    The bottom dropped out.
    The nose swooped down with whip-crack speed. The earth tipped. The throttle shot up the trident.
    With a bellow which made every window in Washington rattle and shake, the dive bomber started down.
    Two-fifty, three hundred. Three-fifty, four hundred. Four-fifty…Terminal velocity!
    The world was a monstrous cup. Everything was bowing back and up, except the green patch that was Bolling Field. That sank away, as though afraid of being hit by this rushing projectile.
    Seven hundred feet per second, swifter than a small-bore bullet, the plane charged earthward.
    Shaking, screaming, drumming at the faraway earth with its deafening thunder, the ship stayed in the perpendicular groove.
    Swiftly the altimeter ran down its scale. Thirteen thousand, eleven, nine, six…
    The time for the pullout was at hand. Would the plane hold together, or would it explode under the impact of air?
    Time to pull out.
    The hangars were getting larger and larger. The people increased from dots to white, strained faces. The river was stretching apart, getting wider and wider.
    Five thousand, four…
    The howling riot of the engine combined with the agonized shriek of the wires.
    Three thousand!
    Lucky came back a little on the stick. Too much would mean his instant death. Too much would slam an invisible ton weight upon him, squashing him into the seat.
    The ship would take it. Still under control.
    Back down and yell!
    Lucky, to ease the piercing pain of his ears, roared unheard into the din and fought back the controls.
    The earth whipped level with a mighty lurch. The plane streaked out in a horizontal line.
    She was holding together!
    Blood rushed from his head. Blackness shut down before Lucky’s face. Before he had ended his shout, he was unconscious.
    But this was always true. This was nothing to be concerned about. In an instant…
    With a splintering crash, the wings burst apart. Sections dived to the right and left, to float in the blue.
    Wingless, with nothing to stop it now, the dive bomber plummeted straight down, engine still yowling.
    Lucky saw the wings. He felt the mighty jolt of their leaving. Stunned, but instantly alert, he unsnapped his belt and jabbed both hands against the glass hood which covered him.
    Earth, people, river and blue sky all whirled in a mad cotillion .
    The hood would not raise. He put his shoulders against it. Wind wrenched it out of his grasp and threw it up, tearing it from its hinges.
    Windsock , trees, trucks, an already moving crash wagon…
    Lucky managed to get his feet under him. He shoved himself halfway out of the pit. The savage slipstream almost ripped him in two, pinned him where he stood.
    A boat on the Potomac, cars on the road, spinning lawns entangled with a glaring, cavorting sun…
    Lucky was staring straight ahead, jaw set, strength useless against the sinews of the wind.
    This instant he was alive. In the next he would be dead. But his whole being was concentrated on only one thing—the shock which would be Dixie O’Neal’s. To see the plane and all her future destroyed in an instant, to see a cockpit bathed red with what remained of Lucky Martin…
    A second is a century in the air.
    Lucky lifted his foot and slammed it against the throttle. In the instant the projectile