With its twin engines thundering out a mighty song of power, the R.A.F. Lockheed Hudson bomber cut a straight and true path westward at some eight thousand feet above the long rolling grey-green swells of the North Atlantic. Higher up, a billion twinkling stars looked down on a crazy world at war out of a cloudless night sky, and served as a billion guiding beacons to that lone aircraft pointed dead on for the Newfoundland coast.

Stretched out comfortably in the empty bomb compartment of the Lockheed, Dave Dawson absently lifted a hand and pressed it against the upper left part of his tunic. Underneath the cloth he could feel the sealed envelope tucked safely away in the inside pocket. A moment later he let his hand drop down into his lap and sat scowling faintly at the rack of signal flares on the port side of the compartment. Then, suddenly, as though he could actually feel it, he turned his head to meet Freddy Farmer's curious stare. The English-born air ace nodded and grinned.

"I've been combing my brains, too, old thing," Freddy said, "wondering what in the world that envelope contains. Blasted odd that it should be turned over to us for delivery. And to your Secretary of State, no less."

"Yeah, screwy, all right," Dawson grunted. "Funny thing, though. The way it was handed to us, it makes me feel as though I were smuggling something into the States. You haven't got enough fingers on your two hands to count the number of aircraft that are flying back and forth across the Atlantic these days. And not a few of them are strictly courier planes, too. So why wasn't this sent by one of the usual courier planes, I ask you?"

Freddy Farmer sighed and shook his head.

"You can ask me," he grunted, "but I haven't the faintest idea what's the correct answer."

"And you can say that again for me!" Dawson muttered. "Unless it's because—Oh nuts! I'm just letting the old brain go for a stroll."

"Unless what, Dave?" the English youth prompted. "I know, I know! It's probably another one of those crazy hunches of yours. But some of them have come pretty close to the real thing in the past. So what's this one about?"

"Come close, huh?" Dawson snorted, and gave Freddy a hard look. "Plenty of them have smacked the nail right on the head. And you know it, pal. But anyway, the only reason I can see why they handed this to us is because they didn't want it to go by the usual method."

"Obvious!" Freddy Farmer snapped. "A ten year old child could reason that out, silly! I thought you had a hunch on why they didn't want it to go the usual way. And while you're on the subject, just who do you mean by they?"

"For a little guy you can sure ask plenty of big questions!" Dawson growled. "Sweet tripe! How do I know? They could be most anybody. Maybe the Yank Embassy in London. Maybe Yank G.H.Q. in London. And maybe the Queen of Sheba, too! How do I know? I had lots of questions I wanted to ask the group captain back there at Croydon, but after taking a look at his face, I could tell it wouldn't get me to first base. Maybe he knew, but it was my hunch he wasn't going to tell us."

Dawson paused a moment to lick his lips and shrugged.

"So who sent it is anybody's guess, and I'm not even bothering to guess," he continued. "But about it not going through the usual channels, here's what I think. The powers that be were afraid it would be spotted, maybe even swiped, or lost. Maybe they knew that somebody was wise to the fact that this was headed for Secretary Hull. So to throw whoever it was off the beam, they sneaked it out to Croydon to be taken across and delivered by us. Who would guess that a couple of guys going to the States on leave would be carrying a letter to the Secretary of State? See what I mean?"

"Yes, that's a possibility," Freddy Farmer grunted with a frown. "But here's a funny thing, Dave. I didn't exactly plan to pop on down to Washington to say hello to Colonel Welsh. Did you?"

"To tell the truth, I hadn't even thought of it yet," Dawson replied. "Of course, if we should be passing through D. C. I sure would drop in to see the colonel. But it was just one of those things I'd probably do while on leave."

"But Group Captain Bainsworth seemed to think that was just what we were going to do," Freddy argued. "And right after we reached New York."

"Yeah," Dawson grunted, and looked at his English pal. "Or else it was a left-handed order, and we're just catching on now."

"And that's a possibility, too," Freddy Farmer said with a grave nod. "But—blast it!—we're supposed to be going on leave, and to forget the confounded war for a spell—if we can. Which we won't, of course. But there should be a law against filling up a chap going on leave with mystery. There really should!"

Dave opened his mouth to speak. Instead, though, he bent his head and faked a cough while he wiped the grin from his face. When next he looked at Freddy, his eyes were bright and eager.

"Know what, Freddy?" he said. "I just thought up a way to find out all the answers. Yes sir! And it's foolproof. We can't miss!"

"Really, Dave?" the English youth echoed excitedly, and leaned forward a little. "How?"

Dawson winked very confidentially, and started to slip a hand inside his tunic.

"A cinch way!" he said in a stage whisper. "And are we dumb not to have thought of it until now! Tell you what, pal! We'll rip open the envelope and see for ourselves. I bet you all the stored up coffee in Brazil that it will be mighty interesting, too!"

Freddy Farmer sat up straight. The blood drained from his face, his jaw sagged, and a look of utter horrified amazement came into his eyes.

"Good grief, Dave!" he gasped out. "Are you mad? Are you absolutely balmy? Open that envelope? When it's addressed to Secretary of State Cordell Hull? Good grief, Dave! Why—why—why, they could shoot you for a thing like that. And besides, it was entrusted to us. For Heaven's sake, Dave, don't you dare open—"

The English youth broke off short and choked and sputtered over his own words as he saw the broad grin spread over Dawson's face.

"Boy! Do I get a kick out of the way you can change expressions on that mug of yours!" Dave laughed. "Okay, sweetheart. Just for you I'll let the envelope stay right where it is. But, pal, did you rise in a hurry to the bait that time! Boy, oh boy!"

Deep red flooded Freddy's face, and he could only go on sputtering for a moment or two longer.

"You no-good blighter!" he finally got out. "You almost had me believing you for a moment. Blast you! For sixpence I'd take that envelope away from you, and make sure that nothing happened to it!"

"Well, of course you could try, pal!" Dave grinned at him. "But maybe they wouldn't like us to make a wreck out of this bomb compartment. So let's skip it, huh? Besides, I think I'll go forward and ride with Squadron Leader Hixon for a while."

"Do that, by all means!" Freddy Farmer snapped at him. "And observe him closely. Perhaps he can teach you something about flying. Nobody else has been able to, though, Lord knows, they tried hard enough and long enough!"

"Smacko!" Dave chuckled, and pushed up onto his feet. "I walked right into that one. So that evens us up. See you later, pal."

"Much later, if I get my wish!" Freddy snorted, and squirmed around to a more comfortable position. "Now, run along, my little man. I've got important things to think about."

Dawson let the conversation hang on a nail right there, and went forward and into the pilots' compartment. The co-pilot's seat was empty, and he caught Squadron Leader Hixon's eye in the rear view mirror, and cocked a brow.

"Mind if I ride with you for a bit, sir?" he asked.

The pilot grinned, nodded, and jerked his head at the empty seat.

"Do that, Dawson, please," he said. "Been on the point of calling somebody up here to help me keep awake. Blasted uninteresting flights, these. Too much water, and too little anything else. But I fancy you're just as keen to get it done with as I am, what?"

"It will be swell to get back home, and how!" Dave grunted, and slid into the empty co-pilot's seat. "I've got a million things I want to do, but I probably won't have the time to do even half of them. Time flies too darn fast when you're on leave."

"How right you are!" the Squadron Leader echoed. "A chap no sooner settles down to have a bit of sport and fun than it's time to pack up and catch a train or bus back to the drome. But war's like that, of course. Good times go by in a hurry. And—well, flights like this one seem to take years and years."

"Well, dawn's busting over the horizon, anyway," Dawson consoled him. "And it looks like we'll have sunshine and blue sky for the rest of the trip. That—"

The Yank air ace cut himself off short, leaned forward and peered out through the window glass on his side.

"See something?" Squadron Leader Hixon inquired casually.

Dawson didn't reply for a moment. He thought he saw something on the surface of the water a few miles ahead and a couple toward the north. It seemed to disappear from view, however, when he strained his eyes. Then, suddenly, he saw it again, and his heart leaped up in his throat to hit hard against his back teeth. Without taking his eyes off the distant object, he reached and rapped Squadron Leader Hixon on the arm.

"Take a look up ahead there, and a couple of degrees to the north, sir!" he cried out. "That looks to me like a submarine on the surface. Yes, it is. But I can't tell from here whether it's one of theirs or one of ours."

"By Jove, you're right, Dawson!" the Squadron Leader's voice boomed close to Dave's ear. "A sub, right enough. And not making headway, either. It's—Oh, blast our luck!"

"What do you mean?" Dawson shot at him.

"Not a U-boat," the pilot said with heavy disappointment in his voice. "Can tell from the shape of the conning tower. It's one of our undersea boats. Should know I'd never have the luck to come across one of Hitler's U-boats on the surface like that. I'm—I say! Seems to be a bit of trouble, what? They've sighted us and sent up a signal."

Dawson didn't make any comment for the moment. His gaze was fixed on the submarine awash on the surface, and he saw the red distress flare arc up into the air from the conning tower bridge. Squadron Leader Hixon had changed course and was drilling the Lockheed Hudson down across the sky straight toward the motionless submarine. In a matter of seconds Dave was able to see the groups of men on the bow and stern decks. And as a second and a third red distress flare arced upward, he saw the men on deck start waving their hands wildly. And a split second later he saw a thin column of smoke come up out of the conning tower hatch.

"Trouble is right!" he grunted. "Must be a fire inside, which forced them all up top-side. Nothing we can do for them, though, is there, sir? This Hudson can't land in the water to pick them up."

"Certainly can't!" the pilot grunted with a frown. "Too many of them, anyway, even if we could. The chaps are just out of luck, too. My orders are for radio silence, regardless. I can't even send out a flash to any of our navy boats that may be close by."

"That is tough!" Dave groaned, and watched the trickle of smoke come up out of the conning tower hatch. "But we could change course, sir. I mean circle around a bit and perhaps spot one of our patrol destroyers, or something. Then we could drop a note giving them the location of these poor devils."

"Yes, of course we can do that, and will," the pilot said. "A good suggestion, Dawson. First, though, we'll slide down over them for a closer look. There's just the chance that it isn't as bad as we think. Maybe they just want to give us some kind of a message, and that fire aboard is really under control."

"Well, here's hoping, and how!" Dawson breathed as the Lockheed went sliding down lower and lower. "There's only one thing worse in my book than fire in the air, and that's fire on the water."

"And aren't you right!" the Squadron Leader echoed, tight-lipped. "Well, here goes for a better look at the chaps."

"What a sweet spot to be in, I don't think!" Dawson grunted. "A fire right under their feet, and about four miles of ocean under the fire. I hope—Hey! What gives?"

Dawson hardly realized that he had choked out the last. As a matter of fact, the words he spoke were simply automatic, for in the next split second his brain was in a mad whirl. The forward gun of the submarine had suddenly spat red and orange flame upward. And in practically the same instant the starboard engine of the Lockheed exploded in a thunderous roar of sound, and a sheet of vivid red flame went sweeping back over the wing!