We know now that in the early years of the twentieth century this world was being watched closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own. We know now that as human beings busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacence people went to and fro over the earth about their little affairs, serene in the assurance of their dominion over this small spinning fragment of solar driftwood which by chance or design man has inherited out of the dark mystery of Time and Space. Yet across an immense ethereal gulf, minds that to our minds as ours are to the beasts in the jungle, intellects vast, cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes and slowly and surely drew their plans against us. In the thirty-ninth year of the twentieth century came the great disillusionment.

It was near the end of October. Business was better. The war scare was over. More men were back at work. Sales were picking up. On this particular evening, October 30, the Crossley service estimated that thirty-two million people were listening in on radios.

Alan Scott was having a great time. He had just been given superpowers, and he was putting those powers to good use as The Sentinel.

Tonight, though, he was taking a break. He sat in his apartment, listening to the radio, reading the paper.

It had taken him a few minutes to tune into a station that he could pick up well. A program of dance music was ready to come on. Currently, Alan was listening to the brief weather report.

". . .for the next twenty-four hours not much change in temperature. A slight atmospheric disturbance of undetermined origin is reported over Nova Scotia, causing a low pressure area to move down rather rapidly over the northeastern states, bringing a forecast of rain, accompanied by winds of light gale force. Maximum temperature 66; minimum 48. This weather report comes to you from the Government Weather Bureau.

"We now take you to the Meridian Room in the Hotel Park Plaza in downtown New York, where you will be entertained by the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra."

Alan went back to reading the paper. An new announcer came on. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. From the Meridian Room in the Park Plaza in New York City, we bring you the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra. With a touch of the Spanish, Ramon Raquello leads off with 'La Cumparsita'."

For the next several minutes, the room was filled with the a Spanish-like dance piece. Then, suddenly, the music volume was lowered until it was silent. An announcer's voice came on.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin from the Intercontinental Radio News." Alan looked up from the paper and began to listen.

"At twenty minutes before eight, central time, Professor Farrell of the Mount Jennings Observatory, Chicago, Illinois, reports observing several explosions of incandescent gas, occurring at regular intervals on the planet Mars. The spectroscope indicates the gas to be hydrogen and moving towards the earth with enormous velocity. Professor Pierson of the Observatory at Princeton confirms Farrell's observation, and describes the phenomenon as - quote - like a jet of blue flame shot from a gun - unquote. We now return you to the music of Ramon Raquello, playing for you in the Meridian Room of the Park Plaza Hotel, situated in downtown New York."

The music came back on, and Alan sat back. The situation sounded under control, yet why would they announce something like that?

He continued reading the paper for a few more minutes until the music was interrupted again by the same announcer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, following on the news given in our bulletin a moment ago, the Government Meteorological Bureau has requested the large observatories of the country to keep an astronomical watch on any further disturbances occuring on the planet Mars. Due to the unusual nature of this occurance, we have arranged an interview with noted astronomer Professor Pierson, who will give us his views on the event. In a few moments we will take you to the Princeton Observatory at Princeton, New Jersey. We return you until then to the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra."

Alan put the paper down and began to listen intently. He knew it would be mere moments before they began the interview again. However, in that time, he knew he would have to check up on the story.

He got up and walked over to the phone. When the operator came on, he asked to be connected to his radio station - WXYZ.

"WXYZ, how may I help you?" a voice unfamiliar to Alan asked.

"Hello, this is Mr. Scott. May I speak with the news producer?"

"One moment, please."

A new voice came on the line. "Mr. Scott!" he said. "What do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

"I was listening to Columbia," Alan replied. They are having reports of disturbances on Mars. I was wondering if WXYZ was on it."

"Well, we have heard of some reports, but choose not to interrupt programming. Is that all right?"

"Sure, sure. Okay, I'll call if I get worried."

"Okay. Good night, Mr. Scott."

"Good night." Alan hung up the phone and sat back down, reading the paper. Pretty soon, the music was cut off again, and the announcer was back on the air.

"We are now ready to take you to the Princeton Observatory at Princeton where Carl Phillips, or commentator, will interview Professor Richard Pierson, famous astronomer. We take you now to Princeton, New Jersey."

The announcer's voice was then replaced by the sound of many clocks, all of them echoing. A new announcer began speaking, rather quietly.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "This is Carl Phillips, speaking to you from the observatory at Princeton. I am standing in a large semi-circular room, pitch black except for an oblong split in the ceiling. Through this opening I can see a sprinkling of stars that cast a kind of frosty glow over the intricate mechanism of the huge telescope. The ticking sound you hear is the vibration of the clockwork. Professor Pierson stands directly above me on a small platform, peering through a giant lens. I ask you to be patient, ladies and gentlemen, during any delay that may arise during our interview. Besides his ceaseless watch of the heavens, Professor Pierson may be interrupted by telephone or other communications. During this period he is in constant touch with the astronomical centers of the world . . . Professor, may I begin our questions?"

From off mike, Alan could hear the professor say, "At any time, Mr. Phillips."

Phillips began the interview. "Professor, would you please tell our radio audience exactly what you see as you observe the planet Mars through your telescope?"

"Nothing unusual at the moment, Mr. Phillips," Pierson replied. "A red disk swimming in a blue sea. Transverse stripes across the disk. Quite distinct now because Mars happens to be the point nearest the earth . . . in opposition, as we call it."

"In your opinion, what do these transverse stripes signify, Professor Pierson?"

"Not canals, I can assure you, Mr. Phillips, although that's the popular conjecture of those who imagine Mars to be inhabited. From a scientific viewpoint the stripes are merely the result of atmospheric conditions peculiar to the planet."

"Then you're quite convinced as a scientist that living intelligence as we know it does not exist on Mars?" Phillips asked.

"I'd say the chances against it are a thousand to one," Pierson replied.

"And yet how do you account for those gas eruptions occuring on the surface of the planet at regular intervals?"

"Mr. Phillips, I cannot account for it."

"By the way, Professor, for the benefit of our listeners, how far is Mars from Earth?"

"Approximately forty million miles."

"Well, that seems a safe enough distance," Phillips said with a chuckle.

There was a pause on the radio, and off mike, Alan heard Pierson say "Thank you." The pause continued.

To keep from just having dead airtime, Carl Phillips took the time to remind the audience what they were hearing. "Just a moment, ladies and gentlemen, someone has just handed Professor Pierson a message. While he reads it, let me remind you that we are speaking to you from the observatory in Princeton, New Jersey, where we are interviewing the world-famous astronomer, Professor Pierson . . . One moment, please. Professor Pierson has passed me a message which he has just received . . . Professor, may I read the message to the listening audience?"

"Yes, go ahead," Pierson replied, off mike.

Phillips continued. "Ladies and gentlemen, I shall read you a wire addressed to Professor Pierson from Dr. Gray of the National History Museum, New York." He cleared his throat. "'9:15 P.M. eastern standard time. Seismograph registered shock of almost earthquake intensity occuring within a radius of twenty miles of Princeton. Please investigate. Signed, Lloyd Gray, Chief of Astronomical Division.' . . . Professor Pierson, could this occurrence possibly have something to do with the disturbances observed on the planet Mars?"

"Hardly, Mr. Phillips. This is probably a meteorite of unusual size and its arrival at this particular time is merely a coincidence. However, we shall conduct a search, as soon as daylight permits."

"Thank you, Professor. Ladies and gentlemen, for the past ten minutes we've been speaking to you from the observatory at Princeton, bringing you a special interview with Professor Pierson, noted astronomer. This is Carl Phillips speaking. We are returning you now to our New York studio."

The orchestra dance music began again, in progress, and Alan leaned back in his chair. Gas eruptions on Mars, and an earthquake - or something similar - near Princeton. New Jersey wasn't that far away. He could get there in ten, maybe twenty minutes using his powers.

He sat back, listening to the music. 'Everything is fine as it is. I'll just wait,' he thought.

"The flash in the sky was visible within a radius of several hundred miles and the noise of the impact was heard as far north as Elizabeth.

"We have dispatched a special mobile unit to the scene, and will have our commentator, Carl Phillips, give you a word desription as soon as he can reach there from Princeton. In the meantime, we take you to the Hotel Martinet in Brooklyn, where Bobby Millette and his orchestra are offering a program of dance music."

As the announcer ended the bulletin, Alan stood up.

"Just great," he thought. "Not only do I miss most of the musical program, now I have to go check this out."

He walked over to the closet and opened the door. He slid most of the garments aside, and revealed a panel. He opened the panel, and pulled out a red, green, and purple outfit: The Sentinel outfit.

Only taking seconds to put it on, Alan grabbed the special radio headset, turned off the main radio, and flew out the window, headed for New Jersey.

As he left, the music was interrupted again.

"We take you now to Grovers Mill, New Jersey," the announcer said before his voice was replaced by sounds of police sirens and a crowd.

Carl Phillips's voice returned to the airwaves. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Carl Phillips again, at the Wilmuth farm, Grovers Mill, New Jersey. Professor Pierson and myself made the eleven miles from Princeton in ten minutes. Well, I . . . I hardly know where to begin, to paint for you a word picture of the strange scene before my eyes, like something out of a modern 'Arabian Nights.' Well, I just got here. I haven't had a chance to look around yet. I guess that's it. Yes, I guess that's the . . . thing, directly in front of me, half buried in a vast pit. Must have struck with terrific force. The ground is covered with splinters of a tree it must have struck on its way down. What I can see of the . . . object itself doesn't look very much like a meteor, at least not the meteors I've seen. It looks more like a huge cylinder. It has a diameter of . . . what would you say, Professor Pierson?"

Off-mike, Sentinel could heard Pierson ask, "What's that?"

"What would you say . . . what is the diameter?" Phillips asked.

"About thirty yards."

"About thirty yards," Phillips repeated for the audience. "The metal on the sheath is . . . well, I've never seen anything like it. The color is sort of yellowish-white. Curious spectators now are pressing close to the object in spite of the efforts of the police to keep them back. They're getting in front of my line of vision. Would you mind standing to one side, please?"

"One side, there, one side," a policeman told the crowd.

"While the policemen are pushing the crowd back," Phillips continued, "here's Mr. Wilmuth, owner of the farm here. He may have some interesting facts to add . . . Mr. Wilmuth, would you please tell the radio audience as much as you remember of this rather unusual visitor that dropped in your backyard? Step closer, please. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mr. Wilmuth."

"Well, I was listenin' to the radio. . . " Wilmuth began.

"Closer and louder please," Phillips whispered.

"Pardon me?!"

"Louder, please, and closer," Phillips replied, a bit louder.

"Yes, sir," Wilmuth said. "I was listening to the radio and kinda drowsin'. That Professor fellow was talkin' about Mars, so I was half dozin' and half . . . "

"Yes, Mr. Wilmuth, and then you saw something?"

"Not first off. I heard something."

"And what did you hear?"

"A hissing sound. Like this: SSSSSSS," Wilmuth replied, leaning into the mike. "It was kinda like a fourt' of July rocket.

"Yes, then what?"

"Turned my head out the window and would have swore I was to sleep and dreamin'."

"Then what?" Phillip asked again.

"I seen a kinda greenish streak and then zingo! Somethin' smacked the ground. Knocked me clear out of my chair!"

Sentinel was intrigued. Greenish glow -- could it be connected to him?

"Well, were you frightened, Mr. Wilmuth?" Phillips inquired.

"Well, I -- I ain't quite sure. I reckon I -- I was kinda riled."

"Thank you, Mr. Wilmuth. Thank you."

"Want me to tell you some more?"

"No," Phillips replied. "No . . . That's quite all right, that's plenty. Ladies and gentlemen, you've just heard Mr. Wilmuth, owner of the farm where this thing has fallen. I wish I could convey the atmosphere . . . the background of this . . . fantastic scene. Hundreds of cars are parked in a field in back of us. Police are trying to rope off the roadway leading to the farm. But it's no use. They're breaking right through. Cars' headlights throw an enormous spot on the pit where the object's half buried. Some of the more daring souls are now venturing near the edge. Their silhouettes stand out against the metal sheen."

All this time, Sentinel was hearing some strange background noise. A sort of humming. But he wasn't sure if it was over the radio or in real-life, as he realized he was near the crash site.

Phillips continued his description. "One man wants to touch the thing . . . he's having an argument with a policeman. The policeman wins. . . . Now, ladies and gentlemen, there's something I haven't mentioned in all this excitement, but now it's becoming more distinct. Perhaps you've caught it already on your radio. Listen."

There was a lengthy pause as a humming sound grew louder.

"Do you hear it?" Phillips asked the listening audience, knowing full well that they couldn't respond. "It's a curious humming sound that seems to come from inside the object. I'll move the microphone nearer." There was a pause as Phillips moved the equipment. Now we're not more then twenty-five feet away. Can you hear it now? Oh, Professor Pierson!"

"Yes, Mr. Phillips?"

"Can you tell us the meaning of that scraping noise inside the thing?"

"Possibly the unequal cooling of its surface."

"I see, do you still think it's a meteor, Professor?"

Pierson was at a loss of words. "I don't know what to think. The metal casing is definitely extraterrestrial . . . not found on this earth. Friction with the earth's atmosphere usually tears holes in a meteorite. This thing is smooth and, as you can see, of cylindrical shape."

Suddenly, there was a louder noise from the object.

"Just a minute!" Phillips exclaimed. "Something's happening! Ladies and gentlemen, this is terrific! This end of the thing is beginning to flake off! The top is beginning to rotate like a screw! The thing must be hollow!"

Sentinel was near, and he could hear the voices yelling without the use of his radio headset.

"She's movin'!"

"Look, the darn thing's unscrewing!"

A policeman was yelling "Keep back, there! Keep back, I tell you!"

"Maybe there's men in it trying to escape! It's red hot, they'll burn to a cinder!"

"Keep back there. Keep those idiots back!"

Sentinel saw the top of the object come off. He flew down as it hit the ground.

"She's off!" someone yelled.

Sentinel primed his powers. He was now in sight of Phillips, Pierson, and others.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed," Phillips announced. "Wait a minute! Someone's crawling out of the hollow top. Someone or . . . something. I can see peering out of that black hole two luminous disks . . are they eyes? It might be a face. It might be . . . "

Sentinel's stomach threatened to toss his dinner back up as he saw the hideous, grotesque monster appear. All around him, the crowd was shouting, both in fear and awe. He stepped closer.

Phillips continued his commentary. "Good heavens, something's wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake. Now it's another one, and another. They look like tentacles to me. There, I can see the thing's body. It's large, large as a bear and it glistens like wet leather. But that face, it . . . Ladies and gentlemen, it's indescribable. I can hardly force myself to keep looking at it. The eyes are black and gleam like a serpent. The mouth is V-shaped with saliva dripping from its rimless lips that seem to quiver and pulsate. The monster or whatever it is can hardly move. It seems weighed down by . . . possibly gravity or something. The thing's raising up. The crowd falls back now. They've seen plenty. This is the most extraordinary experience. I can't find words . . . I'll pull this microphone with me as I talk. I'll haveto stop the description until I can take a new position. Hold on, will you please, I'll be right back in a minute."

Phillips flipped the microphone off and prepared to move the equipment.

"Hey, you!" he yelled at Sentinel. "Who the hell are you? Are you with them?"

Sentinel turned. "My name is Sentinel. I'm here to save your butts."

Wilmuth stepped up with a shotgun in his hands. "We c'n take 'em!"

"With rifles? Those are just pop guns to them!"

"How would you know?" Phillips asked.

"I'm a superhero. It's my job to know."

Phillips looked around at the chaos. "We need to move," he said.

"Over there," Sentinel said, pointing to the garden.

"Thanks," Phillips said as he ran with the microphone.

State and local police were coming in, the officers getting out and getting in defensive positions. Sentinel was on the front line.

When he thought he was a safe distance from the object, Carl Phillips contacted the station and began his commentary again. "Ladies and gentlemen (Am I on?). Ladies and gentlemen, here I am, back of a stone wall that adjoins Mr. Wilmuth's garden. From here I get a sweep of the whole scene. I'll give you every detail as long as I can talk. As long as I can see. More state police have arrived They're drawing up a cordon in front of the pit, about thirty of them. No need to push the crowd back now. They're willing to keep their distance. The captain is conferring with someone. We can't quite see who. Oh yes, I believe it's Professor Pierson. Yes, it is. Now they've parted. The Professor moves around one side, studying the object, while the captain and two policemen advance with something in their hands. I can see it now. It's a white handkerchief tied to a pole . . . a flag of truce. If those creatures know what that means . . . what anything means!. . . Wait! Something's happening!"

Sentinel jumped back as a humped shape rose from the pit. It towered everyone.

"A humped shape is rising out of the pit. I can make out a small beam of light against a mirror. What's that?"

Suddenly a burst of flame burst out from the pit, aimed right at Sentinel. He jumped out of the way, and erected his green energy shield around him. Sadly, some other civilians were not so lucky. The flames engulfed them, turning them into piles of ash.

A group of police, and armed men charged at the pit.

"There's a jet of flame springing from the mirror," Phillips continued, "and it leaps right at the advancing men. It strikes them head on! Good Lord, they're turning into flame!"

"NOOOOOO!" Sentinel shouted, running for where they used to be. When he saw it was pointless, he began running to where Phillips was.

Everyone else started running away and shrieking.

"Now the whole field's caught fire."

Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the property, sending Sentinel to the ground.

"The woods . . . the barns . . . the gas tanks of automobiles . . . it's spreading everywhere. It's coming this way. About twenty yards to my right . . ."

Sentinel heard dead silence on his headset. He stood up and decided to fly and avoid the beams.

"Phillips!" he shouted. "Why aren't you on?"

Phillips turned to Sentinel. "They got my set-up!" he shouted back.

Sentinel saw the flame gun aimed at the garden wall. "PHILLIPS!!!! LOOK OUT!!!"

BOOOM!

The garden wall blew out, sending Sentinel and Phillips flying in opposite directions. Unfortunatly for the radio personality, he didn't have any time of shielding. The blast blew him right into a fire that had broken out in the fields. Sentinel's shield protected him, but the impact of landing on the ground knocked him out.

As Sentinel faded out, he heard these last words on his radio headset, "Ladies and gentlemen, due to circumstances beyond our control, we are unable to continue the broadcast from Grovers Mill, New Jersey. Evidently there is some difficulty with our field transmission. However, we will return to that point at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, we have a late bulletin from San Diego, California. Professor Indellkoffer, speaking at a dinner of the California Astronomical Society, expressed the opinion that the explosions on Mars are undoubtedly nothing more than severe volcanic disturbances on the surface of the planet. . . . "

"I got your volcanic disruptions right here," he thought.

"Huh?" Sentinel asked. "What's happened?"

"Near as I can tell, these creatures burned the farm down."

"Creatures?" Sentinel asked as he grabbed the man's hand and stood up. "I remember. Where are they?"

"Gone, in hiding. You should get something on your radio."

Sentinel turned to the man who had just helped him. "Who are you?"

"Some call me the fastest man on Earth. Some call me the scarlet speedster. But you can call me . . .

"Flash."