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 no change in her course; then she stabbed to her right. I put about, watching her; and again, after a half second, she shifted so tardily that I avoided her easily and she passed us, looking neither to right nor to left. She never moved her head; she stared straight ahead.

I caught a glimpse of Pete's legs tense, twisted, more excited, even, than before. My eyes went to her and I saw her banking but never moving her head. How queer that motionless helmet! Then, less from what I actually witnessed in that flash than from a sudden culmination of memories of all the last minutes, I began to know what we were against.

It was no girl who had flown at me to knock me from the sky; it was no girl who had sent down Pete and had killed Selby and Kent yesterday and on the day before.

Nor was it a man, flying amuck, who piloted that plane. It was nothing human at all. It was an automaton. The pilot, goggled and helmeted and gauntleted, was in the image of a girl—indeed, in the image of the girl who