was a futile attempt. There was nothing but silence in the ether.
Dirk felt a cold hand of sweat beading his forehead. This was serious. It. just wasn't possible that the Standard Broadcasting System had completely faded from the air.
Dirk bellowed for his assistant.
"Hang on here," he told him, shoving the headphones at him. "I'm going on deck."
He sprinted up the companionway and hurried to Larry's side. It seemed to be growing darker, the sun was half-hidden behind an ominous bank of heavy clouds and a hazy green phosphorescence was drifting across the surface of the ocean like a dank, strange fog.
They were drawing away at full speed from the explosive area, but the thick green fog that was rolling in on them blotted out everything within a hundred yards of the ship.
"I don't like this, " Dirk muttered. "We must he fifteen or twenty miles away from the spot where the ships were anchored. We couldn't see them now anyway, but still I feel as if that fog is—is hiding something.
He watched the green phosphorescence spill over them like some liquid, forming tiny sworls and designs as it completely shrouded their boat.
He could see Larry only as a dim figure through the concealing vapor and he could hardly see the rail in front of him.
"I'm going below," he shouted. Somehow he felt that he had to raise his voice to be heard. "See if I can get New York."
In the control cabin he took the head phones from his assistant and opened the channel for Standard's New York key station. For ten minutes he waited, hearing nothing but an unintelligible crackling.
He was just ready to snap the switch off when, through the electrical sputterings, a faint, frenzied voice poured in.
Dirk tensed anxiously, cursing the static disturbance that drowned out the words. He turned the volume up to capacity, until the noise was deafening.
Then he made out a few words.
"For—God's—sake," the straining voice implored, "d—don't—" The voice faded out altogether as the roaring static increased in volume.
Dirk swore impatiently and worked desperately at the controls. What had that voice been trying to say? To whom had it addressed that almost fanatical plea? He could feel a tight close feeling in his throat and the palms of his hands were damp with sweat. There was something unnaturally terrifying about that voice, that desperate, fear-crazed voice.
THEN he picked it up again.
"New York calling . . . warning . . . too late . . ." the desperate voice cracked and faded out, but he caught it again almost immediately. "Blue ships . . . attacking . . . attacking everywhere . . . green jog. . . ."
Dirk felt a moment of terror.
Green fog! What had the green fog to do with this unnerving business? Was it the same green fog that was rolling over the ship, even—his eyes flashed to the door—seeping through the keyhole and under the door of his control room?
The voice came in again: "Red ships . . . blue ships . . . from God knows where . . . attacking . . ."
The voice faded out again and then, while Dirk was dialing frantically, an ear shattering clap of noise and static blasted through the set. lasting about ten seconds. It was followed by a deep, and somehow final, silence.
Dirk worked frantically to pick up
