It was a perfect day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and from horizon to horizon the rolling blue Pacific was flooded with gold from the sun hanging on high. In addition to it being a perfect day the mighty Yank carrier force steaming westward was a sight to catch the throat of even the most self-centered landlubber. In perfect battle array, with cruisers out on both sides, and the destroyers darting about like water bugs, the mighty armada traced a pattern of creamy white wakes on the gold-tinted blue that looked like a painting from another world.

It was indeed something to see and remember always, but Dave Dawson and Freddy Farmer hardly noticed. Slumped down in one of the crash nets aboard the Carrier Trenton, they stared out at the rest of the force with gloomy eyes and furrowed brows. They were depressed, unhappy, and licked. Only sheer doggedness would not let them admit the latter truth. But it seemed true just the same. For three days, now, they had been with Vice-Admiral Macon's force, and for all the good they were doing themselves, or anybody else, they might just as well have been back at San Diego teaching Navy fledglings to fly.

"Well, what now, little man?" Dawson suddenly broke the long brooding silence between them. "Shall we start all over again for the umptieth time? I mean, check on the fighter pilots once more?"

Young Farmer didn't reply for a moment. He rubbed a hand down the side of his face, shook his head, and sighed heavily.

"What's the blasted use?" he groaned. "That Nazi rat we're looking for can either make himself invisible, or else he just isn't with this force. And that last is what makes me feel like such a fool. What a beautiful trick of fate if that lad is actually thousands and thousands of miles from where we are right now. You know, Dave, we've seen a lot, and we've done our full share of things, but this business is the queerest ever. The trailing destroyers haven't even reported sighting a single water flare. Maybe we just dreamed everything!"

"You're telling me?" Dawson growled. "For two cents I could dive right over the side and do the world and the war a big favor. What saps we've been, and still are! Things are certainly screwy in life. Just imagine, a little suggestion and, bingo, all this is the result. It's enough to drive a man nuts, permanently."

"It is, and it has, as far as I'm concerned," Freddy Farmer muttered. "But what did you mean by a little suggestion?"

"The one I made," Dawson said. Then with a shake of his head, he continued, "And just how many centuries ago was it, anyway? Oh well, it was back in San Diego. It was raining, remember, and I suggested that we take a little walk? That's what I mean. If I'd only stuck to reading my book, and not listened to you crab about the California weather, we wouldn't be here."

"Oh, so it's all my fault, is it?" young Farmer flared up. "Well, let me jolly well tell you that I...!"

"Easy, Freddy, easy," Dawson cut him off and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I don't mean that at all, pal. We both started this business together, and we both stubbed our toes. Let's not go flying at each other's throats, huh? That would make us a pair of fine guys, I don't think. I'm sorry if you got me wrong, kid. But let's not blow our tops, huh?"

Freddy Farmer smiled, and there was far more than apology in it.

"Of course, Dave," he said. "I forgot myself, and I ask you to forgive me for being such a blasted fool. I certainly don't deserve your friendship when I act like that. And I guess you know, Dave, that your friendship means more to me than anything else in the world. That's the truth, old thing."

"I know it is, Freddy," Dave told him quickly, "And it is the way I feel about you. So ... well, that's that, kid. And now we're back where we started. What do you think we should do now? Start making the rounds of the carriers again, with a prayer? Or should we go to Vice-Admiral Macon, and tell him we're a couple of flops, and ask him to assign us to active flight duty with these boys, and maybe earn our board and keep a little?"

"Whatever you say suits me," Freddy Farmer replied with a shrug. "The vice-admiral has been awfully decent giving us the run of the entire force as he has. Frankly, though, I think that everybody else is not only getting fed up with us popping in and off their flight decks, and snooping around, but they are also becoming very suspicious. Much more of this and we'll upset the morale of the force. After all, they're going into battle soon. And chaps about to go into battle don't want a couple of mysterious nobodies flitting about them. But if you think we should pay another visit to the other carriers, then I'm with you, no matter what anybody thinks. Well, what do you say?"

"Well, I guess ...," Dawson began and then stopped.

He stopped because he caught sight of the vice-admiral's aide hurrying toward them across the flight deck.

"Oh," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "I guess what we do next has already been decided for us. Here comes Lieutenant Commander Clarke, and he's not just out getting the sunshine. You and I, Freddy, are about to go see the Old Man of this carrier force."

And the truth of that statement was proved a couple of moments later when the lieutenant commander reached them.

"The vice-admiral sends his compliments to you two gentlemen, and requests that you come to his quarters at once," the Naval officer said. "Follow me, please."

A few minutes later the two air aces were alone with Vice-Admiral Macon, a short, thick-set man with a face that could look hard as nails one minute, and all custard pie and sunshine the next. Right now his expression was sort of in between. He nodded politely as Dawson and Farmer presented themselves, and with a friendly wave of his hand indicated that they were to be seated. Then after searching their faces for a moment, he spoke.

"No luck yet?" he said.

"No, sir, I'm sorry to report," Dave replied for both of them. "And frankly, sir, I cannot understand it. We have visited every carrier several times, as you know, of course. And we have seen every fighter pilot at one time or another, yet I will swear that the man we want was not one of them. There's just one thing that occurs to me now, sir. Is every fighter pilot who was with the force in San Diego still with it? I mean by that, sir, because of the mission now being carried out, have any fighter pilots been transferred to torpedo or scout-bomber or dive-bomber squadrons, since the force put to sea?"

The force commander thought a moment, and then shook his head.

"No," he said bluntly. "Every man is serving just as he did when the force was at San Diego. The only changes have been the fighter pilots that were taken aboard at Pearl Harbor. I'm afraid that you're wasting your time, gentlemen. And I do know that you are causing a considerable mystery among the flying officers of the force. I do not like that, and something must be done about it. That is one of the reasons why I sent for you."

The vice-admiral paused as though to take time out to select his next words.

"Another reason," he went on a moment later, "is that by sundown tonight we will be within eight hundred miles of Truk. Unless you find your man by then ... if such a man does exist in my force ... you will be assigned to one of the squadrons for active duty, and are to forget all about this other business. We will be going into action tomorrow, and ... well, nobody in my command is taking this cruise just for the ride. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Dawson replied instantly. "As a matter of fact, sir, just before your aide summoned us to your quarters, we had decided to request permission to see you so that we could ask to be put on active flying status. We admit it, sir. We just have been along for the ride. And we appreciate more than we can say the freedom of movement that you have permitted us. So if we still haven't accomplished anything by sundown, sir, we both will be willing and eager to serve in any capacity you deem fit."

The vice-admiral nodded, and then glanced questioningly at Freddy Farmer.

"Captain Dawson speaks for both of us, sir," the English-born air ace said at once. "I am not only willing and eager to serve in any way you wish, but I will consider it a great honor, sir."

For the first time since their entrance the vice-admiral gave them a smile. It was warm, sympathetic, and full of understanding. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said. "The entire force will be glad to have you flying with us. Your past records are not exactly secrets, you know. Very well, then, you can carry on as you have been until sundown. After that you are flying and fighting for the Navy. That is all, and thank you again."

The two youths took their leave of the force commander and returned thoughtfully to the Trenton's flight deck.

"Until sundown," Dawson murmured, and squinted at the sun sliding down the western sky. "I'd say two hours, or maybe two and a half. Well, back to the old question. What do we do about it now, Freddy? A swell suggestion hasn't suddenly hit you, has it, by any chance?"

"What suggestion?" young Farmer sighed. "All I'm thinking about right now is that I hope tomorrow I get a crack at a hundred of the Jap beggars when we hit Truk."

"Well, it will take more than a hundred cracks at them, and successful cracks too, for me to feel even one degree better," Dave said. Then, as though talking to himself, he murmured, "We'll be eight hundred miles from Truk in a couple of hours or so? That means we must be about eight hundred and eighty miles from there right now."

"You're probably correct," Freddy Farmer said. "But why all the sudden figuring? What of it?"

"Only this," Dawson said, and gazed along the deck at the planes of the sundown patrol being made ready for flight. "It means that this carrier force is plenty close enough right now for our Nazi spy to get there in his Grumman Hell Cat, if he's flying one of those babies."

"And close enough, too, even if he's in a Grumman Wild Cat squadron," Freddy Farmer echoed. "But you're leading up to something, Dave."

"In a way, yes," Dawson replied slowly, and made a gesture with his hand that included all three carriers. "A last hope, you might call it. I mean, the sundown patrols for all three flat-tops are getting set to go aloft. There isn't time, and it would be foolish of us to try and pay a visit to all three carriers for a look at the pilots taking off. With preparations getting under way to launch planes we'd probably be refused permission to land on the other two flat-tops, anyway. But here's an idea, Freddy. Let's you and I take our Hell Cats up and sort of cruise around."

"Why?" young Farmer demanded. Then as his face suddenly lighted up, "Oh, you mean...?"

"Exactly that!" Dawson cut in on him. "These sundown patrols are simply top-cover protection in case there is a surprise raid by planes from some Jap carrier that maybe has sneaked in close during the day. In other words, the sundown patrols don't go wandering off. We can keep our eyes on all the ships in the air. So if our Nazi friend is flying one of them, and suddenly breaks away from his section and goes sailing off on his own, then we'll see him at once and do something about it. See what I mean?"

"Perfectly!" Freddy Farmer said excitedly. "And it's a swell idea, Dave. At any rate, it's much better than standing here on this blasted flight deck eating our hearts out. Right-o, then. Let's go get our flying gear and get into the air. I ..."

The English-born air ace suddenly stopped short, licked his lips and swallowed hard.

"What's up, pal?" Dawson demanded.

"Nothing," Freddy told him. "I just think I have a sudden feeling. You know, one of your crazy hunches. Oh, blast it, I mean that I have a queer feeling that things are going to happen before this day is done."

"Praise Allah they'll be good things!" Dawson breathed fervently, and headed toward the companion ladder leading below decks. "Let's go, kid!"

With considerable of their sense of usefulness and futility replaced by new-born hope and renewed determination, the two air aces hurried below to the quarters that had been assigned them aboard the Trenton, and collected their flying gear. From there they went to the Ready Room where all the up-to-the-minute flight data was posted on the huge black-board. They quickly copied it down on their flight navigation boards, and then went out of the Ready Room and along the companionway leading to the hangar deck, and the short way topside.

They were skirting the planes that were grouped on the hangar deck when suddenly Freddy Farmer gasped aloud and grabbed hold of Dawson's arm.

"Dave!" he whispered hoarsely. "Look! That chap walking past that dive bomber over there. The one just under the light. Good gosh, Dave! It can't be. I ... But it is! It is! That's the beggar, I swear. It's ..."

Young Farmer didn't finish the rest. He let go of Dawson's arm and started racing across the hangar deck at top speed. By then Dave had taken a look at the man Freddy had pointed out, and his heart was striving to explode right out between his ribs. The man was garbed in flying gear, but he carried his helmet and goggles in his hand so that his head was bare. And he was across Dawson's line of vision so that only the side of his face was presented. But that was enough. It was more than enough. In an infinitesimal part of a split second Dave Dawson's memory raced backward, and once again he was peering through a narrow crack in the side of a weather-beaten shack at a Navy ensign with straw-colored hair, eyes that must be blue, and a neck that was slightly thicker than the average neck of a man of that height. And once again, now, he could see no outstanding feature.

"Our man!" he heard his own voice choke out. "The Nazi rat. On this flat-top all the time? Right under our noses, and we haven't spotted him until now? Good grief, how did that happen? How...?"

He cut off the rest because by then he was sprinting after Freddy Farmer, and he needed all of his wind for that. Freddy was halfway across the hangar deck, and the Nazi spy was walking casually toward the companionway on the other side. Suddenly, though, perhaps because he heard Freddy's running footsteps, or perhaps because Freddy called out, he turned his head. For the bat of an eyelash he pulled up short and stared, and then he broke into a mad run.

"That man!" Freddy Farmer's voice seemed to fill the entire hangar deck. "Stop him! Stop that man!"

Young Farmer's cry was directed at an aviation machinist's mate just coming out of the companionway on the other side. The Naval rating stopped, blinked, and stared at the man running toward him.

"A Nazi spy!" Farmer shouted. "Stop him!"

But Freddy's cries were just a waste of breath. The aviation machinist's mate started to put out a hand to signal the Nazi spy that somebody wanted him, but that's as far as he got. The running spy slugged him a terrific blow on the jaw and the Naval rating went down as though the deck had dropped out from beneath him. And in the next instant the spy had dived into the companionway and disappeared. Freddy Farmer was a good fifteen yards from the companionway opening, and Dawson was another twenty yards or so behind his pal.

In an effort to cut down the distance Dawson ducked under the wing of a plane, but he didn't duck low enough. The tip of the wing caught his shoulder, threw him off balance, and sent him sprawling onto the deck. He wasn't even dazed, though, and he was up on his feet almost instantly, but by then Freddy Farmer had disappeared into the companionway, too.

Choking and gasping for breath, Dawson plunged forward and went over the prostrate aviation machinist's mate in a leap and tore into the companionway. The sudden change of light blinded him for a split second, but he knew that the companionway turned sharp right at the end of twenty yards, and that at the end of the right turn there was the companionway ladder that led directly topside to the flight deck.

By the time he reached the turn he was used to the fairly dim light. But even at that he didn't see the figure sprawled on the deck until too late. The figure of Freddy Farmer. Dawson heard his own voice cry out his pal's name as he strived desperately to swerve off to the side. But his efforts were not enough. His left foot struck one of Freddy's legs and he went flying over young Farmer, and down in a heap.

All the colored lights in the world flashed in his brain. There was so much fire in his lungs that he couldn't breathe. He could only lay motionless, his face pressed against the companionway deck as the vibrations of the carrier's engines went through his whole body. The vibrations of the ship's motions plus the dry sobs of rage and fury that shook him.