His face all alight with the joy and happiness of a little boy seeing his first Christmas tree, Freddy Farmer took in every detail of the Savoy Hotel dining room. Every now and then he took a mouthful of the food the waiter had set in front of him, but mostly he let his eyes roam all over the huge room. He grinned at everyone who happened to look his way, whether he was a general or a civilian office clerk. In short, Freddy Farmer's heart was bubbling over, and he didn't care who knew it.

"Well, have you finally decided?" Dave Dawson presently asked him. "Or are you simply giving your neck muscles a workout?"

"Eh, what's that?" the English youth echoed, turning his head to look at him. "Have I finally decided what?"

Dawson waved a hand at the room at large.

"If you've ever been in this place before," he said. "Because you have, in case you've forgotten, or can't make up your mind. Remember? And I've got a hunch that we were sitting right at this same table, too. Remember?"

Young Farmer frowned, and took a moment out to collect his thoughts. Then suddenly his face lighted up.

"Why, yes, of course!" he exclaimed. "The night we met Soo Wong Kai, the Chinese Minister of War. That meeting certainly resulted in something, didn't it!"[1]

"Yeah, and how!" Dawson murmured. Then a shadow seemed to pass across his sun- and wind-bronzed face as he added, "Right now I'd like to be feeling as contented with things as I felt that night."

Freddy Farmer stopped a piece of muffin halfway to his mouth and looked at his flying mate and dearest pal in marked astonishment.

"You mean you don't?" he ejaculated. "Good grief, why not? Why, everything's much better for the United Nations now than it was then, and— say, Dave, old thing, what's up with you? Ever since we arrived you've acted like you were attending a blasted funeral, or something. Don't you feel all right?"

Dawson scowled, and then forced his lips to stretch into a smile.

"Sorry, kid, my error," he said. "I'm a heel to spoil your visit to London. Sure, I feel swell. It's—Oh, skip it, huh?"

"Not by half, I won't!" Freddy said quickly. "Tell it to Pater, old thing. Just what is bothering you?"

Dawson toyed with his fork for a moment before replying.

"I don't know," he said. Then, with a little shake of his head, he added quickly, "I mean, I don't know just how to put it in words. I've just got a funny hunch, that's all."

"Praise be, then!" Freddy Farmer breathed in relief. "For a moment I thought it was something serious. Just another one of your hunches, eh? But pardon me for interrupting, my good man. What's the bad, bad hunch about this time?"

"Okay, I can take it." Dave grinned at him. But the grin quickly faded. "Maybe it isn't a hunch," he said. "Maybe it's just me. But I'm wondering if Old Man Jinx isn't catching up to us, Freddy?"

"Rubbish!" the British-born air ace snorted. "Positively ridiculous. Just because I had a little trouble with that Lightning, and brought it in for a terrible landing? Why—"

"And my crate couldn't fly for beans!" Dawson interrupted. "Plus the fact that it took us years to finally get away from North Africa. Plus the fact that we almost cashed in our chips in that pea soup fog. Plus—Oh nuts! Don't pay any attention to me. I've just turned into a wet smack of late. Call me Old Woman Dawson, pal."

"I'd call you a lot of things, only there are ladies at the next table!" Freddy Farmer said, and gave him the stern eye. "You're just wound up a bit, Dave. Relax, old thing. Lord knows that's what you've told me enough times. Look, I've got a surprise, Dave!"

"Hold it!" Dawson cried, and raised both hands in protest. "If you think you're going to drag me halfway across London to see some weather-beaten joint where one of your famous kings stopped for tea and crumpets, you're—"

"The Holborn!" Freddy stopped him. "It's a theatre, and there's a very funny show playing there. Part American cast, too. I got the tickets this afternoon without saying anything to you. Well, what about it? Shall we go, or just sit here and mope about your blasted hunches?"

"Part American cast?" Dawson echoed.

"Yes, but they don't spoil the show too much, I hear!" Freddy snapped at him. "Well, is it a go?"

"On one condition," Dave said, and gave Farmer a very grave look.

"And that is?" the English youth walked into the trap.

"That you wait until it's over before you ask me to explain the jokes and tag lines!" Dawson said with a chuckle. Then quickly, "Now, now, little man! Food's scarce in England. Put down that plate!"

"As if I'd waste a crumb on the likes of you!" Freddy Farmer growled, but he did release his sudden hold on his plate. "Now if there were a hammer or a length of lead pipe handy. Oh well, probably neither would make an impression on your thick skull!"

Dawson laughed at the look on Freddy's face, and as he resumed eating his meal he suddenly realized that his mood of gloom and depression had gone. He felt swell; sitting right on top of the world.

As it was still early evening, the two aces took their time finishing the meal. But finally they settled the check and wandered out into the blacked out streets of London. As they reached the Strand they both impulsively paused and peered at the shadowy sky line. It was a long time since the Luftwaffe had given up the attempt to force stout-hearted London to its knees, but many scars of those weeks and months of nightly sky horror were still visible. No, there were not heaps of bomb rubble all about. On the contrary, Londoners had pitched to with a will and cleaned up their beloved city. The scars that Dawson and Freddy Farmer saw were simply the gaping holes where once a building, or a theater, or a row of shops, had been. In other words, it was not what they saw that sent their thoughts flying back to the blitz of London; it was the familiar things that they didn't see. And would never see again.

"The dirty beggars!" Freddy Farmer said in a low, strained voice. "The dirty dogs for doing this to London!"

"Yeah," Dawson murmured. "But they're getting paid back, pal. And how they're getting paid back! Before we're through they'll wish they'd never been born."

"What a pity," young Farmer grunted.

"Huh, pity?" Dawson echoed sharply. "Because we're smacking them plenty, and—"

"No," Freddy interrupted. "I mean, what a pity any of them were ever born in the first place. So help me, I don't believe I'll ever live to see the day when just hearing the word Nazi won't make my blood boil, and make me see red."

"And that goes for millions of people, Freddy," Dawson said. "But right now, nuts to the future. Shall we try to flag a taxi in this sprawled out coal mine, or is the Holborn near enough to walk?"

"It's not far, so let's walk," young Farmer said. "It will be like old times, perhaps."

"Okay, Grandpa!" Dawson laughed. "But watch your step, and don't trip over your beard. And by all means, don't let us get lost, see?"

"Lost?" Freddy Farmer snorted. "Why, you could dump me down in any part of London, and I'd—"

"Which might not be such a bad idea at that!" Dawson chuckled. "Okay, my handsome guide, let's get going."

Keeping close to each other, they strolled up the Strand toward Aldwych Circle and Kingsway. They took their time, which was the best thing to do in London's blackout. Time and time again they almost bumped into persons coming their way. And more than once their teeth clicked as they went down off a curbstone they didn't see until too late. Eventually, though, they turned into Kingsway and started along toward High Holborn where the theater was located.

After a couple of blocks, however, they ran into a detour. And after a block or so the detour ran into another detour. And some ten minutes after that Dawson nudged his shoulder against Freddy Farmer's.

"I don't want to imply anything, kind sir," he said, "but you do happen to know where the heck we are, don't you?"

"Of course!" the English youth snapped. "This is Serle Street close by Lincoln's Fields. Second right and then first left will bring us right out on High Holborn at Chancery Lane."

"Well, all those names make it sound as if you knew what you're talking about," Dawson murmured.

"Don't be silly!" Freddy snapped. "Would you get lost in a blackout in your precious New York?"

"Could happen, could happen," Dawson grunted. "But I'm just hoping it isn't happening here."

"No fear of that, my little man," Freddy assured him. "Take hold of Pater's hand, and he'll lead you."

However, Dawson refused to do that. Fifteen minutes later, as the pair came to a cross street, Freddy Farmer paused and rubbed a hand down the side of his face.

"Blast it, there shouldn't be a cross street here!" he muttered.

"Oh, oh!" Dawson groaned. "And my mother warned me, too!"

"Oh, shut up!" Farmer growled. "It's probably a new one they've made since I was here last."

Dawson didn't say anything. A small metal plate on the step post of the first building of the cross street caught his eye. He moved closer and snapped on his small pocket flashlight for an instant. When he came back to Freddy his voice was brittle.

"And how were things in 1810 when you were here last, pal?" he snapped. "That's when that post plate says that building was built. Made the street since the blitz, huh? Or was there a blitz in 1810?"

"Oh, good grief, Dave, I'm afraid—!" Freddy Farmer began.

"I'm not afraid we're lost!" Dawson cut in. "I'm dead certain, dope. Give me a shilling!"

"Why?" Freddy demanded.

"I'm going to toss it," Dawson said. "Heads we go to the right, tails we go to the left."

"But what about straight ahead?" Farmer asked.

"I've had enough of going straight ahead on this street!" Dawson growled. "For all you know it may go right off the edge of a cliff. But okay. If the shilling lands edge up we go straight ahead. Flash your beam on the sidewalk, Freddy."

Young Farmer did that. Dawson flipped the coin, which made a tinkling sound as it hit the sidewalk and bounced around. Finally it came to rest with the King's head showing.

"We turn right," Dawson grunted, and picked up the shilling. "And I'll just keep this as a little souvenir of the night's travels. Of all the—!"

"I'm sorry, Dave, blast it all!" Freddy Farmer groaned. "I guess the London streets aren't what they used to be."

"In more ways than one, pal!" Dave murmured. "But dry your tears, little fellow. It's okay. Maybe we'll bump into a taxi at the next corner, or one of your London Bobbies who can give us a bearing and put us on the beam."

If the two air aces had turned left at that cross street they would have met a patrolling Bobbie within the next two hundred yards. But they turned right, and in so doing walked straight into the beginning of their greatest battle with Death, and Satan's forces of evil and ruthless destruction!