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flew
onward.
    â€œHow’s the gas?” said
Johnny.
    â€œEnough for a
half-hour,” said Irish.
    Johnny looked down.
“There’s plenty of this. Think you can find a town and field in all this
smoke?”
    â€œMaybe, if it doesn’t
get much darker.”
    â€œLocate the field, if
you can, but give me a break. I’m going to turn a crank on this.”
    She watched him coolly
set up and check the load of a DeVry . Irish was going up higher so they could
get a better shot. She began to be nervous about the gas, about the possibility
of finding a place to land in that angry expanse which stretched illimitably
below their frail wings. The bumps lessened as they went higher.
    â€œMight not have
another chance,” said Johnny practically. “Might rain or something, and spoil
the news.” He was turning his crank, eye fixed to a sight, tripod hugged
against him to keep off some of the engine vibration. “Boy, this is a shot.
Wish it was color. See those blue flames? That red sky . . . ? Boy!” His
enthusiasm increased as he cranked. “Higher, Irish!” His eyes gleamed as he
looked around for angles which would show the most flame. “Boy, we’re lucky.
They might have put this out.”
    Five thousand people
and a hundred thousand timbered acres, she thought to herself.
    â€œWouldn’t it make some
picture if we could get one of those towns burning?” said Irish.
    â€œNone of them are,”
said the girl.
    â€œBut they might,” said
Johnny hopefully.
    â€œBut where would we
land?”
    â€œWe’ll worry about
that when we get some of these pictures. Take her down, Irish. Got to get that
crown fire. Might see some of the fighters from the air. Got two of them that
were trapped, once,” he told the girl. “But no such luck this time.”
    She shuddered,
clutching the sides of her chair as they dived sickeningly down at the
geysering flame below.
    Johnny lined up the
crown fire as it sped from treetop to treetop, one giant, terrifying path as
far as they could see to the west.
    â€œGot it?” cried Irish.
    â€œGot it. Locate the
town!”
    Irish pulled back on
the stick and they shot upward, out of choking smoke. But they did not go far.
With a jarring cough, the engine missed a beat. And then it repeated in a swift
succession of volleying backfires which sent a plume of red-blue flame out of
their exhaust stack under the wing.
    Irish put the nose
down. The engine stopped entirely and all the sound there was came from below.
It was a roar like surf, and the girl knew, with terror clutching at her heart,
that that sound was the crown fire racing above the forest.
    â€œAhead or behind?”
said Irish.
    â€œAhead. Find a brook.
Find anything.” Johnny’s hands were swiftly taking the load out of his camera,
rolling it up and wrapping it up. He seemed to have no attention for anything
else.
    â€œThere’s an open
space!” yelled Irish. “Belt yourself down. This is going to be rough!”
    â€œThrow your belt
across you,” ordered Johnny, sinking into a chair and buckling his own.
    She found that her
hands were frozen. Somehow she managed to fasten the clasp. It was too loose
for her and she glanced at Johnny. He was still wrapping up the film, using his
own coat.
    â€œMight get singed,”
said Johnny, tapping the drum in his hand.
    She had barely heard
him when they struck. She didn’t know what happened. She lost a few seconds out
of her life and knew nothing about them except that they had gone. She was
sitting in her chair, but her weight was all against her side. In the angry red
light which permeated the forest, she could see the trees, all horizontal about
her. Hands grabbed her and jerked her out of the ship.
    â€œWhere’s a creek?”
yelled Johnny.
    â€œI saw something shiny
over to the left!” yelped Irish.
    She could hear a
snarling, angry sound to the south and