After what seemed like a million years spent in a world of torturing paralysis, the power to move and to act came back to Dave Dawson. And even as he pushed himself up on his hands and knees he heard bitter words spill from Freddy Farmer's lips as the English born air ace began to pick himself up off the deck.

"Fool that I am! The dirty beggar! Waited for me and copped me on the topper as I came around the corner. I ... Good grief! You, Dave? I say...!"

"Save it!" Dawson gasped as he got all the way onto his feet. "I haven't time, Freddy. He's topside, now. You stay here and rest that head. I'll get him for us. I'll get him, or it'll be the last thing I ever do!"

And no sooner had the last word burst from Dawson's lips than there came a mighty sound from the flight deck above to mock his words. The roaring thunder of planes taking off.

"Wait here, nothing!" Freddy Farmer cried, "We'll both get the blighter!"

Perhaps young Farmer said more. If so Dawson didn't hear it, for he was streaking toward the companionway ladder. He reached it and probably set a new ship's record for reaching the flight deck in jig time. As he leaped out on deck a hundred and one things met his gaze, but only two of them registered on his whirling brain. One was that Grumman Hell Cats were tearing off like a string of beads. And the other that weather, that practically unpredictable feature of the Southwest Pacific, was closing down. The sun was a blood red ball balanced perfectly on the lip of the world. Dark, ugly clouds were sweeping up dead on to the Trenton, which was now turning up maximum knots.

That some five or six Hell Cats had already gone off was like a mule's kick in the stomach to Dawson. Maybe the pilot of one of them was the Nazi spy. If so, in the matter of a couple of minutes he could lose himself in that weather and probably never be seen again. Maybe. And then again, maybe not. Dawson didn't pause to moan or groan over the situation. Instead he sprinted down the side of the deck to where his own Hell Cat was standing with its prop ticking over, and waiting to be run into the take-off line, in case it was needed aloft.

Dave reached his plane in the matter of split seconds, but just before he reached it Lady Luck smiled upon him for the first time in centuries and centuries. In other words, as the last plane of the sundown patrol swept by him he caught a flash look at its pilot. The pilot had his helmet on, and his goggles and oxygen cup were in place, but Dawson knew in a flash that it was his man. As a matter of fact, as the Hell Cat streaked by the pilot turned his head as though to look at Dawson, and Dave was sure he saw the eyes light up with a glare of triumphant hate.

Perhaps that last was simply a trick of his imagination. He didn't know. All he knew was that the pilot of the last Grumman to take off was the straw-colored haired man he had seen through the wall crack of that shack back in San Diego. That was certain, it was absolutely definite, and it put wings on his feet for the last few yards to his plane.

Members of the deck crew saw him coming, and naturally assuming that he was to take part in the patrol just as he had on other occasions, they sprang forward to aid him. That was another lucky break. It saved many precious minutes of explaining and making ready for flight. And so it seemed that he had hardly settled himself in the Hell Cat's pit before the signalman was motioning him to gun his engine and taxi into the take-off line. He did that and as soon as he got into position he received the signal to go ahead.

He gunned his powerful Pratt & Whitney full, and the Hell Cat seemed fairly to leap out from under him. Out the corner of his eye he caught a flash glimpse of Freddy Farmer racing toward his plane, but he didn't take time out for a good look. Not once all this time had he really taken his eyes off the plane flown by the Nazi spy. Its identification letter and number were burned in his brain. F Dash Fourteen. That was it. F Dash Fourteen. The mark of a perfect fighter plane flown by one of Hitler's killers.

"But you won't be flying it for long, you dirty rat!" Dave grated as his wheels cleared and the Trenton's deck swept away out of sight beneath him. "It's been a long, long time patching up with you. But that's all ended now. This is the pay-off! And how it is the pay-off!"

As he spoke the last he took his eyes off the other plane for the first time to snap a quick glance back down over his shoulder. He saw another Hell Cat streaking off the Trenton's deck, and he knew at once that Freddy Farmer was at the controls. A tight grin stretched his lips as he turned forward.

"Good old Freddy, always right there with me," he grunted. "Of course it'll be two to one, you Nazi rat, when usually the odds are the other way around. However ..."

And that was as far as he got with that. The Nazi's plane, that had been climbing up to get into formation with the rest of the sundown patrol, suddenly cut off to the left and started down in a long power dive. The maneuver brought Dawson straight up in the seat. Had something happened? Had the Nazi gone mad? Why was he losing precious altitude by slicing downward? To do that simply made less sky for Dawson to cover to catch up with him, or at least to get into gun range.

A brief instant later, though, all those questions were answered. As Dave glanced down to the left he saw the thin but thick enough blanket of fog that was already sliding in over the outer ships of the carrier force. Just one look and he knew all the answers, and once again heard the mocking laughter of defeat in his ears.

Yes, that sea level fog layer, was thin, but it was thick enough for a plane to lose itself in very nicely. Perhaps it even grew thicker farther to the south. Dawson couldn't tell as he glanced that way. But he could see that farther south there were banked storm clouds.

"No, no, not now!" he groaned as he kicked his Hell Cat around and down toward that layer of fog. "Not at this late date, please, Lady Luck!"

But if Lady Luck answered it was simply the mocking laughter that he still imagined to be ringing in his ears. And then a moment or two later the Nazi's Grumman was in the fog layer and no more than a faint shadow ripping forward. A shadow that grew fainter and fainter as precious seconds slipped by. In the frantic hope that he could keep track of the speeding plane by not plunging down into the fog layer, Dawson pulled out a few hundred feet above it and held his course to the south. But presently there was no more moving shadow to be seen. The fog had thickened, and the Nazi was gone! As a matter of fact, when Dave took an impulsive glance back over his shoulder he discovered that he was in an aerial world all his own. There was no longer any sign of the carrier force, nor was there any sign of carrier planes in the air. There seemed to be fog and clouds all about him, yet curiously enough the light from the setting sun seemed to cut through and lend a pinkish glow to everything in that part of the world.

"Freddy, Freddy Farmer!" Dawson suddenly gasped, as he suddenly remembered his pal taking off. "Didn't Freddy see this bird and me go down? Didn't ... You dope! Find out!"

He snapped the last at himself when it occurred to him there was such a thing as a radio. He had neglected to hook it up during the excitement of his take-off. He did so now, but before he could call out over the air to Freddy he heard the flight officer aboard the Trenton recalling the planes. The planes that had taken off from the other two carriers were being recalled, too. In code, of course, so that no listening Jap ears anywhere on the broad expanse of the Pacific would understand what it was all about.

As Dawson heard the orders he was tempted to break in and tell what had happened and request that all available planes be sent out in an effort to block off the Nazi. But he checked himself even as the desire was born. The recall was being sent out for a very, very obvious reason. Weather was closing down fast and it would soon be impossible for any of the carriers to take their aircraft aboard. They would have to circle about waiting for the weather to clear, or find a large enough hole to get down through. Failing either, they would finally run out of fuel and be forced down into the sea, perhaps to be lost forever. And a mighty aircraft carrier task force about to go into battle could ill afford to lose any great number of its fighter aircraft protection.

"Skip it!" Dawson grunted with an unconscious shake of his head. "They wouldn't be any help, anyway, in this weather. You just can't ask Vice-Admiral Macon to run the risk of losing so many planes, and not even find the rat. No, it's up to you. You, and Freddy Farmer, wherever he is. But call him and ..."

He stopped himself with another and more vigorous shake of his head. And for several moments he droned forward at full throttle, striving to stab the fog layer that stretched out endlessly beneath him. With reaches of cloud scud a couple of thousand feet above him, it was like flying down a long, long, pink-tinted corridor in a world of beautiful make believe. But it was not beautiful or make believe to Dawson. He hated that sun-tinted fog layer with his entire being. And it was cruel, ugly, heartless reality, and not make believe.

"No, don't call Freddy on your radio!" he said to himself. "He may not be even close. Keep radio silence. You've got to. That Nazi rat has ears, and he certainly understands English. At least don't let him know that you're trying to hunt him out. He'll ..."

And it was at that instant that the light dawned on Dawson. It was at that moment that his stupid thinking left him, and he got a little horse sense to take its place. What he should really do was so simple, so obvious, and so clear that his cheeks went oven hot from a blush of shame.

"You ten-cent, cockeyed, bat-brained dope!" he ranted at himself. "Of course, of course! That rat is trying to make Truk, isn't he? That's his objective, isn't it? Certainly! Then why flub-dub around in this stuff hoping that he'll break up through to let you see where he is? You sap, get this air wagon hitting on everything it's got, and high tail for Truk yourself. Don't try to smoke this rat out! Get to the Truk area first, and smoke him down!"

With a savage nod of his head to emphasize his words, he quickly made a check of the course and speed he had flown since taking off from the Trenton's flight deck, and then plotted a course that should take him to that little cluster of pin point islands, surrounded by a coral reef, thirty-five to forty miles in diameter, known as Truk. Yes, it should take him there, and he hoped and prayed so with all his heart and soul. Just the same a cold lump of lead formed in his chest and came up to lodge fast in his throat no matter how much he swallowed to get it back down.

"If only Freddy were with me!" he sighed as he swung his Hell Cat on course, and gave the Pratt & Whitney in the nose every ounce of high octane it would take. "Blindfolded, that guy can find any spot in the world just so long as you give him wind direction, or something. Yeah, if he were only here, but he isn't. This is strictly up to you, Captain Dumb Dawson. And I do mean dumb, too. You took so long to get this one logical idea that maybe that Nazi rat is miles and miles on his way there now. And when you show up you'll get a sky full of Jap Zeros thrown in your face for your efforts. Oh well ... Aw, skip it!"

As though to silence the little taunting, ribbing voice, he banged his free fist against the side of the cockpit. That done, he hunched forward a little bit in the seat and concentrated every bit of his attention on his flying. Eight hundred miles to Truk? Well, a Hell Cat can do four hundred miles an hour plus. So in a little under two hours he would be there, and ... it would be yes, or no. Success or failure. And if it was failure, it would be complete failure for him. There would be no turning back to the carrier force with his tail between his legs. There just wasn't enough gas in his tanks for that. If he didn't find the Nazi rat in time, and if he didn't get shot down by Zeros that certainly must be patrolling the Truk area, he would run out of gas and be forced into enemy waters.

"And that will be the same as being shot down, and maybe worse!" he said with a slight shudder as the thought forced its way into his brain. "Wouldn't those Jap butchers love to find a Yank pilot floating around in his rubber life raft! Wouldn't they just love that! A nice little pleasant session of target practice, and then ... Cut it, Dawson! Cut it, fellow, or you'll be driving yourself bats, do you hear?"

He laughed a dry laugh at his ranting words, and then sobered instantly. He happened to glance impulsively off to his left and for the fleeting part of a second he thought he saw the shadowy silhouette of another plane sliding along through the pinkness that fused and engulfed everything. But when he took a second and longer look there was nothing but a limitless expanse of cloud and fog.

At the end of a half-hour or so the fog beneath him thinned out considerably. He could see faint patches of the Pacific. And then after ten minutes of that the fog disappeared entirely. Rather it rose up to merge with the clouds and leave an area of clear air some five hundred feet high, and the horizon-to-horizon reaches of the mighty Southwest Pacific at the bottom.

Holding the Hell Cat to its course Dawson scanned the surface of the water in all directions, but he did not see a single sign of a ship. Nor did he see any planes when he searched the area of clear air all about him. He was still alone in a world of his own, and for a couple of minutes he toyed with the idea of climbing above the clouds, just in case the fleeing Nazi had done that, and he might be able to spot him. He finally killed off that idea, though, for the principal reason that it would slow down his speed, and he did not have to have anybody tell him that speed right now was the most precious thing in his life.

Speed and time. The two things that can change the whole course of the world. And which have many times, as history will prove. Right now, they hung in the balance again. At least for him. The speed of his roaring Hell Cat. And the time it would take him to get to the Truk area so that he might cut that Nazi rat down into the depths of the Pacific to stay there for all eternity. And so that the information he was taking to one Admiral Shimoda might be food for the fishes, too.

"And there won't be any little item of him getting me, instead," Dawson grated softly, as a little inner voice seemed to mention that possibility. "I've never scrapped him in the air, but he's one guy I know I can nail. I know it, because I know I've got to! So that's how it stands, Lady Luck. Just give me the break of being able to catch up with him, and then leave the rest to me. Swell-headed and cocky? Okay, so I am! But let me at him and I'll get him, just the same!"

Those and other tidbits of thought rambled through his brain and came off his lips as he guided his Hell Cat forward under the low-hanging overcast. This was the flight of flights for him. It was, because even if he won he would still lose as far as his own life was concerned. Even if he shot the Nazi spy down into the Pacific he himself would soon follow the rat down there. Not because he had been hit, or wanted to. Because he would have no choice. There would not be any gas left in his plane. And all the guts and courage in the world; all the fighting spirit and will-to-win determination that ever existed, cannot make an airplane stay in the air when the last drop of gas has been sucked into the engine. The age-old law of gravity comes into full force then, and down you go whether you like it or not.

"Okay, I go down, so what?" he argued with his other self. "What does it matter, if I've already sent that rat down where he belongs? A fellow can't live forever, can he? All right, so why cry over it when your time comes? Didn't some great man once say that the most beautiful experience in life is death? Didn't...?"

He cut off the rest with a slow shake of his head, pushed up his goggles, and drew his free hand across his eyes.

"When a guy starts talking to himself this way, he must be going nuts," he grunted. "Boy! Do I wish old Freddy were here with me to steady me a little, like he's done so many times. Good old Freddy! I wonder where he is, now? Did he go back to the Trenton when the recall went out? Or is he...?"

He stopped and swallowed hard. Sure, why not? Freddy had brains. Twice as many brains as he had about lots of things. It wouldn't be any miracle for Freddy Farmer to figure the situation out the same way he had, and to be doing the very same thing that he was doing right now. And as that thought built itself up stronger and stronger in his brain he searched the clear air about him again. But he saw nothing. If Freddy Farmer, too, was winging all out toward the Truk area, then he was somewhere up in those clouds.

No sooner had he figured that one out than two brand-new thoughts rushed into his swirling brain to taunt him, and cause little beads of nervous sweat to form on his face. Supposing Freddy Farmer by some miracle had stumbled across that fleeing Nazi and slammed him down, just as a marksman such as Freddy could do? If so, then he was simply flying to his death by drowning, or ultimate capture by the Japs, for no earthly good reason.

That wasn't a pleasant thought, and it sent a clammy shiver rippling throughout his body. And the other new thought made him shiver all the more. Supposing—just supposing this cursed cloud weather carried all the way to Truk? Supposing the Nazi spy stayed up in it until he was well within the protective ring of Truk's Zeros? If that turned out to be the case, he wouldn't get a crack at that rat in a hundred years. Ten to one that Nazi knew some secret radio signal he could send out to tell the Japs who was approaching and not to attack simply because it was a Yank plane. Supposing ...

And right then and there Dave Dawson stopped his supposing about things. In fact, he stopped thinking of all crazy things. The clouds above him suddenly ceased abruptly. The Pacific ahead suddenly became as though on fire from the dying rays of the setting sun. It was like flying out from under a huge pink roof. He came out like a shot from a gun, and almost in the same instant he saw a flash of red ... a flash of sparkling crimson caused by the sun rays dancing off the wings of a plane way off to his right and perhaps two or three thousand feet above him.

The Nazi rat, or Freddy Farmer? That question burned in letters of fire a foot high in his brain, as he banked his Hell Cat to the right, and sent it nosing upward.