A Brand New World by Ray Cummings

"Where the devil are we? " demanded Dan. "I can't see anything -- much less with these cursed glasses."

"Put them back on! " said Freddie sharply.

They had run into a gale from the north, soon after crossing over Cuba. It would have been accounted a storm-wind, before the days of the Great Change. But such winds now were common. A steady, fifty-mile-an-hour blow. Flying with it, they had made great speed. Over Jamaica, across the Caribbean, to strike the Colombian coast near the mouth of the river below Baranquilla.

It was a race against the dawn; by daylight they would be seen by Graff's watchers, before they could get near the barrage; and to wait another day, with the Red Madness stalking the earth, was unthinkable.

At Baranquilla they were flying low. No lights showed. From Baranquilla to Cartagena had been one great city of small farms. It was deserted now. Graff and I, in that swing up to the coast, had cut a swath through it; and the people all fled.

Freddie and Dan swept southeast. A vast territory; mountains, with mines all abandoned; and the forests, and lower farm lands, uninhabited now.

The dawn must have been very near. Dan was anxiously, fearfully watching for it. The Infra-red glasses turned everything a dull, dead gray; the ear-grids muffled sound to an annoying hush.

Dan occasionally would cast them off. The red things were riding the night with the plane. They hovered outside the small inclosed cabin in which Dan and Freddie were sitting. They seemed crowding the cabin itself, their voices jabbering over the muffled motor-throb.

"Keep on those glasses! " Freddie repeated sharply. "Think I want to take any chances, cooped up here with you!"

"I'm all right," Dan growled. "Where the devil are we? You said we were almost there."

"We'll see it shortly. I'll look. " Freddie raised the goggles from his eyes. Faintly, far ahead through the overcast night, the crimson glow of Graff's barrage was streaming above the horizon.

"It's there, Dan! Don't look! I'll descend -- "

They swung down, barely skimming the tree-tops; over the roofs of dark farmhouses, white lines of fences, empty fields -- abandoned farm country. The barrage came fully over the horizon; they could see the points of concentrated light at intervals around its base where the ground projectors stood. With the glasses on, it seemed to vanish. It was soundless through their ear-grids; without them its howl was plainly audible.

They were over devastated country now -- a dead gray, blank waste. Skimming close over it. Three miles from the barrage. Dan had taken the controls. Freddie was fumbling with the heat-projector and with the Essen-Bloc gun beside it. They donned their black gloves, dropped their masks over their faces; their heads were black-hooded.

"Easy, Dan! Not too low!"

Dan swung them up. Freddie lifted his glasses. He hoped he would see some sign of the Red Control ray streaming through the barrage. They must determine the location of the Control -- And then rush at it --

"Off, Dan! Close enough!"

"Too close! " Dan murmured. "If they spot us -- "

It would be failure; they must locate the Control first. They swung to the left, paralleling the barrage. Every moment they feared it would tilt suddenly down with its beam darting at them. They could withstand it, but their plane could not --

"Freddie! What's that?"