"What do you say, Dave; stop this blasted thing for a moment, what?" Freddy Farmer said. "I'm coming loose at the joints. Besides, this is a beautiful spot. What is it anyway, do you know?"

"The beach at Kahuku Point," Dawson replied as he guided the jeep in which they were riding to the side of the road, and braked it to a stop. "And you're right, Freddy, this is some spot. With that half-moon hanging up there in the sky, it's just like a picture from the brush of a great artist."

"Well, strike me pink!" young Farmer gasped as he climbed out of the jeep and gazed at Dawson. "The chap seems to have some beauty and romance in his soul after all!"

"And nuts to you!" Dave snapped as he climbed down, too. "Can't a fellow admire something without being taken for a guy with long hair who lives in a garret?"

"But the way you said it, Dave," Freddy Farmer said with a sly look in his eyes. "So soft and so deep. Do you write poetry, too, my good man?"

"Look, dime a dozen!" Dawson grated. "It was your idea to take this jeep trip around the island. So don't start any of that stuff with me. I simply said that this was quite a spot. And it is, see?"

"Right you are, Dave, right you are, old thing," young Farmer laughed. "I simply couldn't pass by the chance to pull your leg a bit. First time I ever heard you admit there were such things as moons, and what not. Just shows there is another side to you. And I like that side, too. So am I forgiven?"

"Aw, go spin a wing!" Dawson growled, but he grinned and gave Farmer a playful punch in the ribs. "Fact is, Freddy, nobody can be hard-boiled in the Islands. There's something about them that would break down the toughest egg that ever came down the pike. I've seen a few places in this old world in my few years, but somehow the Hawaiians always remain at the top of the list."

"Yes, they really are quite something, I must admit," Freddy murmured as he gazed about at the faintly silver-washed scenery. "I'm fair to being in love with them myself. What say we take a walk back along the road a ways? Or should we be getting on back to the Kaneohe Naval Air Station?"

Dawson glanced down at his wrist watch and shook his head.

"It's early," he said. "We've got lots of time. And I don't think Commander Drake will be mad at all if we stay out of his hair for a spell longer. Now, there is one swell guy, isn't he, Freddy? I went for him one hundred per cent the moment I laid eyes on him."

"A very pukka chap, and no doubt of it!" Freddy Farmer agreed instantly, and dropped into step. "We've probably bored him to tears, but he hasn't shown it for a single second. Always ready to please. Always eager to do anything to help us pass the time. That day yesterday with him is one I'll always remember. Don't believe there's a blasted thing left on this island that he hasn't shown us. A very, very top-hole gentleman, for fair."

"That, and more," Dawson grunted. "But I've a hunch he got a kick out of it too, taking us on the sight-seeing rounds. If only because it got his mind off other things. The commander is worried about the spy business here in the Islands. There are no two ways about that. If we don't spot that Nazi tomorrow when the carrier force comes in, he's going to take it like a mule's kick in the face."

"I fancy we'll feel much the same way ourselves," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Makes me almost afraid to have tomorrow come. And for two reasons, too."

"One is maybe we won't find the guy," Dawson said. "What's the other?"

"That we'll find him, and then that will be that," young Farmer replied after a moment's pause. "I mean, our job will be all washed up. I gathered that Vice-Admiral Stone expects us to go back to the mainland on the next plane, after this business is all taken care of."

"Yeah, I got the same idea," Dave said gloomily. "And it's been bothering me. I'll hate like sixty to go back to instructing. To tell you the truth, once this business is all settled, I'm going to go to the vice-admiral and see if I can't get him to arrange for us to be sent to the Southwest Pacific war zone. Anyway, some place other than back to the mainland."

"I doubt that you'll have any luck," Freddy Farmer sighed. "Technically, the vice-admiral hasn't anything to say about where we go next. We are Air Forces, you know. Loaned to Naval Aviation for instruction duty. Orders for us to proceed to any fighting zone would have to come from the Air Forces Command, not the Navy."

"Right, but did you have to bring it up?" Dawson groaned. "However, this business isn't cleared up yet. I've got me a funny feeling, I have."

"Was there ever a time when you hadn't?" young Farmer shot right back at him. "What's it this time? That we're going to fail tomorrow?"

Dawson didn't reply for a moment. He walked along the moonlit and shadowed road, hands jammed in his pockets, and a faraway look in his eyes.

"Yeah, Freddy," he eventually said slowly, "I guess you could put it that way. I've been making the old brain wheels spin over in high gear on all this business. And I stumbled on one little item that maybe throws the whole thing out of whack. Time."

"Time?" Freddy Farmer questioned with a frown.

"Yeah, time," Dawson said. "No matter how you look at it, the carrier force was far at sea when you and I stopped hearing the birdies sing. And ..."

"But you said...!" young Farmer began.

"I know," Dawson stopped him. "I said that being as how things were all arranged, they probably took a chance and had that Nazi spy go back aboard his ship. But later, when the Jap guessed that we were going to do things about it, he stopped taking chances."

"You certainly don't make sense," Farmer growled. "But if you're referring to the Nazi spy, no matter what the Japrat decided, or didn't decide, the Nazi was far at sea by then. And on his way to Pearl Harbor."

"Correct," Dave grunted. "But there was the item of that guy in Honolulu. Oh sure, we may spot the Nazi tomorrow, but I don't think he'll lead Commander Drake and his men to the Honolulu address. And even if he should, Commander Drake won't find anybody there."

"You're crazy!" Farmer snorted.

"Okay, so I'm crazy," Dave said placidly. "But that's the way I feel just the same. Doggone it, Freddy, the thing is just too open and shut, as far as we're concerned. I mean, we hold all the cards. And nothing ever works out that way. The stakes are too high for it to come off that way!"

"Rubbish!" young Farmer snorted again.

"You think so?" Dawson murmured, and turned his head to look at him. "Okay, then. Figure it this way. One, that Japrat was smooth enough to hear us outside that shack, and catch us with our flaps down. Two, he was smooth enough to swipe a plane and chase us up to L.A. Three, he was smooth enough to slip time fire bombs into the mail sacks aboard the Fort we were to fly. Four ... But skip the rest. Do you think he's not also smooth enough to somehow get word to his Honolulu man, so that this end of the business won't go boom along with that Nazi spy? Do you think he's dumb enough to risk the loss of an important spy contact here in the Islands by just hoping that his Nazi spy won't be nailed? If you do, you're nuts, is all I've got to say. And what's more, I'd like to lay a little bet that he also gets word to the Nazi spy. Maybe not until the Nazi sets foot on shore, but darn soon after that, and don't kid yourself."

"About the beggar in Honolulu, yes," Freddy Farmer said. Then with a shake of his head, "But about that Nazi spy, no. He wouldn't be bothered with that, because if he's as smart as you say he'll know that his Nazi spy will never be able to set foot on shore. I mean, if he has such communication with his Honolulu chap then he'll obviously be informed that his mail sack business failed. That we did arrive. So he'll naturally realize that his Nazi spy will be identified by us before he even steps ashore."

"Nuts!" Dawson snapped. "If you give the guy a little brains, then for cat's sake go all the way, and figure him for a lot of brains. Figure him to be able to figure it the way we have. Vice-Admiral Stone's plan, I mean. In short, that we won't grab the guy aboard ship. That we'll let him go ashore, and trail him. Don't you see, Freddy? If that Jap figures that we heard all about his Nazi spy sailing on one of the carriers, then he also figures that we also heard about the meeting in Honolulu. And he will act accordingly, believe you me!"

"Well, it's rather involved, but perhaps you're right," young Farmer said with a shake of his head. "But if we spot the chap tomorrow, I wouldn't call that failing."

"I would!" Dawson said quickly. "Nailing that Nazi spy is just part of the thing. There's the Honolulu angle. Now that we're in it, we're in it all the way, as far as I'm concerned. Our big mistake was to be caught flat-footed way back at the start. So unless the whole thing is cleaned up one hundred per cent, it'll be a failure for me, is the way I look at it."

"Yes, I see your point," Freddy Farmer mumbled. "But not to change the subject, what do you think of Vice-Admiral Stone's plan for us to spot the chap?"

"Okay, I guess," Dawson replied with a shrug. "The entire force is to anchor inside the submarine nets while the vice-admiral makes his inspection of all three carriers. We'll go aboard with his party not as officers, but as gobs. Nobody ever looks at a couple of gobs in a vice-admiral's inspection party. Besides, we won't be trailing along with all the gold braid. We'll be stationed at the gangway ladder where we can get a look at everybody, and still be noticed. All pilots will be lined up on deck, and so forth. Yeah, I think the plan is okay."

"Wish I thought so," Freddy Farmer grunted. "Strikes me as a bit too fancy, though. I can think of a lot of ways that would be just as good, and much simpler."

"Well, I'll tell the vice-admiral when he comes in," Dave said with a chuckle.

And with that they both lapsed into silence and strolled slowly along the road that paralleled the Kahuku Point beach. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing things. What was to happen tomorrow when the carrier force arrived, would happen. And that would be that. So they strolled along, one or both of them pausing every now and then to admire the moonlight on the palm trees, or the way it danced over the broad expanse of the Pacific like billions and billions of spinning silver coins. At one spot the sight was particularly awe-inspiring, and Dawson stared at it intently like a man in a trance.

Eventually, he heaved a long sigh, stretched his arms over his head, drew in a deep breath, and then let it out in another long drawn out sigh of complete contentment.

"Some night, hey, Freddy?" he grunted. "Boy, this is sure one swell spot, war or no war. Me for this place in my old age, and no fooling. After I make my million in civilian life, of course. How about you, little man?"

There was no comment from Freddy Farmer. Dawson turned and started to open his mouth to repeat his words, but he snapped it shut instead. For perhaps five full seconds he stared pop-eyed at the spot where the English-born air ace had been walking by his side. But Freddy wasn't there anymore. He had disappeared; completely vanished as though the ground had swallowed him up. Shadowed moonlight all over the road, but not a sign of Freddy Farmer.

"Hey, Freddy!" Dawson suddenly let out a yell. "Where the heck are you, fellow?"

The silence of the night swallowed up the echo of his words. He slowly turned all the way around and searched with puzzled eyes in all directions. A wave of annoyance suddenly flooded through him. He had the urge to go on walking along the road, but on second thought he curbed it.

"Okay, funny man!" he snapped. "Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come on, Freddy! I don't feel like playing that kind of a game! Snap into it, fellow!"

And the silence again swallowed up the echo of his words. There was nothing but the moonlight, the shadows, and the soft velvety silence of a Pacific night. Real anger flamed up in Dawson, and then suddenly the anger was touched by the finger of cold fear. A clammy, eerie sensation rippled across the back of his neck. For no reason at all he suddenly remembered when once as a kid he had fallen out of bed and awakened on the floor of his room. The room was black as pitch, and the feel of the carpeted floor as frightening to him as the feel of a rattlesnake. His yells that night had been heard five houses down the block. But he didn't make a sound now. The very air that he breathed seemed to clog in his throat.

And then without warning the strangled cry came to him from out of the depths of the night-shrouded trees that bordered the road on the left.

"Dave! Help! Come quick! Dave! Dave!"

The last was choked off by what seemed like a gurgling moan that made Dawson's heart stand still, and the blood in his veins turn to ice. For perhaps two seconds he stood paralyzed, and then he spun and plunged into the dark trees. But he had taken only half a dozen steps when something caught him sharply across the forehead. Something else slammed into his right side. And as his head seemed to spin off his shoulders, and the rest of his body to go crashing downward, he was vaguely conscious of hissing sounds, and the dank, musty smell of something crawling and loathsome!