With her twin engines roaring full out, the Navy Lockheed R40-1, a "cousin" of the famous Lockheed Hudson bomber, shook the dust of the airport runway at Albuquerque, New Mexico, from her wheels, and went climbing up into the night sky on the last leg of the trans-continental flight to San Diego. At the controls was Dave Dawson. In the co-pilot's seat was Freddy Farmer, and between them and just aft in the navigator's seat was Colonel Welsh.

For quite some time now conversation between them had been at a very definite stand-still. At the start of the trip they had talked on this and that to help pass the time, but long before Albuquerque was reached all three of them had run down like clocks. There wasn't anything more to talk about, and each was quite content to sit with his own thoughts and hope for a speedy arrival at San Diego.

However, when Dave had lifted the Lockheed high enough to clear the mountains ahead by a good margin, he got fed up with the silence, and nudged Freddy in the ribs.

"Say something, pal," he said. "Tell me the story of your life, before the silence puts me to sleep. Don't be bashful. Colonel Welsh won't mind. Will you, Colonel?"

"Certainly not," the senior officer said with a chuckle. "Fact is, I'll bet it's mighty interesting, and well worth listening to."

"There you are, Freddy!" Dave cried. "Both the Colonel and I are all ears, and eager to hear about it."

"Very well," the English youth said. "If you insist. There isn't very much to tell, though. Up to May, Nineteen Forty, I led the usual English boy's life. You know, school, play, and all that sort of thing. But in May, Nineteen Forty—it was May Tenth to be exact—I met an American chap named Dave Dawson. Well, that was the turning point in my life. Downwards, you know. I've rued the day ever since. And there you are!"

"Ouch!" Dave cried. "A bull's-eye for the young man. And he has the nerve to say that after all I've done for him. He's—Hey! What's that?"

"What's what?" Freddy demanded as Dave spoke the last sharply.

The Yank born war ace took a hand off the controls and pointed off to the right.

"Over there," he said. "Thought I saw a flash of light. Guess it was a falling star."

"Probably was an airways beacon," Colonel Welsh spoke up. "There's one up that way a bit, I believe. That was all right, Farmer. Now it's your turn, Dawson. See if you can match it."

"Fat chance, but I can try," Dave said with a grin. "Well, up to that never to be forgotten May Tenth, when Hitler really started to try and drown the world in human blood, I too had led pretty much the average boy's kind of life. But May Tenth changed everything for me, too. In a different way, though. Up to then I had all kinds of ideas about fighting my way through life and maybe up to the top in whatever profession I chose to follow. No soap, though. That meeting with Farmer on May Tenth changed everything. Since then I've had to carry him on my back, and try to make the grade for two people instead of just for myself. However—"

"That is some kind of a light over there!" Colonel Welsh interrupted sharply. "And it isn't the flash from any beacon. Sort of a blue kind of light. Saw it for a second, just now, and it was slanting upwards."

"Could be another plane," Freddy Farmer opined. "Engine exhausts show blue in the dark, you know. Might be one of your transport planes."

Colonel Welsh glanced at his wrist watch in the glow of the cabin light, and shook his head.

"No," he said. "At least, not one of the scheduled planes. Besides, we'd see the red and green navigation lights."

On impulse Dave reached out his hand and switched off all of his own lights, save the wing-tip navigation lights. Then all three of them stared hard off to the right. For a full two minutes nobody spoke. The three of them simply strained their eyes at the vast array of night shadows in the heavens. But all that it got them was aching eyes.

"Nothing there evidently," Colonel Welsh eventually broke the silence. "Perhaps it was just a falling star, but I never saw a star fall up."

"Maybe it was some of that Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said with a chuckle. "I never heard of it being seen in this part of the country, though."

"Saint what?" Freddy Farmer echoed. "What in the world are you talking about? And what is it?"

"Saint Elmo's Fire," Dave said. "Didn't you ever hear of it, Freddy?"

"Would I be asking, if I had?" the English youth snapped. "Go on. Stop waiting to be encouraged to show all your knowledge. Just what is Saint Elmo's Fire?"

"Well, I can't give you a scientific answer to that one," Dave said. "But Saint Elmo's Fire is the name given to globular electric light often seen on the spars and rigging of ships at sea during a storm. And of recent years it has been seen on the wing tips of airplanes flying through electrically charged air. Frankly, I've never seen any of the stuff in my life. But I knew a pilot once who used to fly over the Andes in South America, and he said they used to see it often. Little bright balls of fire that seemed to roll right along the leading edges of the wing, and then disappear just when you thought they were going to bump into the gas tanks, or something. The first few times he witnessed such a display he lost a dozen years off his life. He said, though, that after a while he got used to it—even looked forward to it every time he took off."

"You're pulling my leg!" Freddy snorted.

"No, Farmer, that's true," Colonel Welsh said. "I've seen some Saint Elmo's Fire myself. And I can tell you that it scares the pants off you the first time you see it. Ever fly through a thunder storm, and see lightning playing around your wing tips?"

"Yes, I've seen that," Freddy admitted. "And I was sure I'd never live to land safely on the ground again."

"Well, then, you know how it feels to see Saint Elmo's Fire," the Colonel chuckled. "Only I think the Saint Elmo stuff gives you a worse scare when you see it actually come rolling along the wing toward you. But that light I saw just now wasn't shaped like a ball. More like a streak, or like the powdered tail of a comet. It was strung out in a—"

If Colonel Welsh finished the sentence, nobody heard it. At that moment the night skies shook and trembled with the savage yammer of aerial machine gun fire. And the cabin window not eighteen inches in front of Dave's eyes seemed to crack in a trillion places and then melt away into oblivion.

"My word!" Colonel Welsh cried. "What was that?"

Dave didn't bother to answer for a second or so. His heart had zoomed up his throat to jam hard against his back teeth, and his eyes had bulged out of their sockets like marbles on sticks. Instinct took split second charge of his movements, however, and almost before he realized what he was doing he had booted the Lockheed up over on left wing tip and was slicing down through the air. At practically the same instant he whipped out his free hand and switched off the navigation lights. Then as the craft went slicing down through the night sky, he dragged air into his aching lungs.

"Those were aerial machine guns!" he cried. "And whoever was working them was in earnest. Look at that window! Just a shade improvement on his aim and it would have been curtains for the three of us."

As the last left Dave's lips, he pulled the plane out of its wild sideslip and went curving up and around to the left.

"Aerial machine guns?" Colonel Welsh echoed in blank amazement. "You're crazy, Dawson!"

"Could be, and maybe!" Dave snapped. "But I've heard those sky choppers often enough to recognize them every time. And do you think an eagle or something flew into that window, sir?"

"No, of course not," the Intelligence chief grunted. "Sorry I sounded off. You're right, of course. But it doesn't make sense. Who the devil would want to take a crack at us?"

Dave shrugged in the darkness, and for a moment or so as the plane roared heavenward he strained his eyes for a glimpse of some other shadow cutting about in the air. He saw nothing, however, and then turned his head and spoke back over his shoulder.

"Maybe not us, sir," he said, "but I guess the Axis would be pretty tickled to see you put out of circulation. If you want my guess, some rat saw you take off with us. Maybe he used a hidden radio and sent word ahead. This mountainous country is a swell place to hide a plane, you know, sir."

"And those were exhaust plumes you saw!" Freddy Farmer cried. "The lad was probably climbing up to get around in back when you saw his exhaust plumes. Well, let the beggar come again. We'll—Good grief! This plane isn't armed!"

"No," Colonel Welsh said in a slightly hollow voice. "Guess they never figured it was necessary to arm these utility planes used to transport personnel about the country."

"If only the chaps in high places would stop figuring so much in this war!" Dave groaned.

"Quite!" Freddy Farmer echoed the truth bitterly. "But bemoaning the lack of common sense in the average High Command won't help us now. If the blighter comes back for another fling, Dave, you'll just have to—"

"Don't bother telling me!" Dave shouted. "Here he comes—from the left and up! Hang onto your seats!"

The last had hardly left Dave's lips before he was hauling the Lockheed straight up on its tail. Before the plane reached stalling speed, however, he kicked it over on wing and then sent it dropping nose first toward the black carpet below that was the ground. No sooner had he kicked the plane over on wing than he switched off both engines, and shoved the compensator throttle open wide, so that no carbon sparks or exhaust light of any kind would etch their path downward through the night.

Meanwhile the mysterious attacker had opened fire again, but Dave's quick action at the controls caused the unknown killer to miss by a wide margin. The flickering ribbon of tracers didn't even come close. And at the end of another three or four seconds the Lockheed was well on its way earthward and out of sight.

"See that bird as he banged on by us?" Dave cried, when he was able to talk again. "It looked to me like a small Beechcraft. Or maybe it was a Waco. But he's carrying two guns—and he wants us mighty badly. Heck, if there were only guns aboard this crate. I had a beautiful broadside bead on him."

"Yes, I saw his silhouette as he tore by," Freddy said through clenched teeth. "But I didn't recognize his type. I don't know the Yank planes very well, though. But I say, Dave! Watch our altitude, you know!"

"You're telling me!" Dave grunted. "I'm watching it plenty, and praying, too. There must be some of those mountains under us by now. I think we've got a couple of thousand feet to play around in, but no more than that. I'm flat gliding her as much as I can, but keep those eagle X-ray eyes of yours on the job, Freddy. And yell if you see a mountain peak looming up."

"Mountain peak!" Colonel Welsh cried excitedly. "For pity's sake, keep above them, Dawson. Start those engines and get us some altitude!"

"That would be risking more than this glide, sir," Dave told him. "That bird up there has been spotting us by our exhaust plumes, and aiming blindly. So long as we show no light at all he stands to lose us completely. But if we open up the engines and show exhaust light he's going to be able to take another crack. And—well, third time never fails, you know, and stuff. Our best bet is to try and lose him before we get too low. He has a ship that can travel, but if we get a little lead on him we'll be all right."

"But remember all those mountain peaks down there!" the Intelligence chief persisted. "One thing this plane has got is parachutes. Perhaps we'd better bail out and let the blasted ship crash. At least we'd save our own necks."

"Not me!" Dave barked without thinking. "Go ahead and bail out if you want to. You, too, Freddy. But I'm sticking with this ship if I possibly can. I don't want to see her bust up, if I can help it. Anyway, I'm going to give her all the breaks she's got coming."

"And of course I'm staying with you," Freddy Farmer said quietly. "I'm a blasted fool to put my precious neck in your hands. But there you are, anyway."

"No wonder you two are famous for pulling miracles out of a hat!" Colonel Welsh growled. Then after a short pause: "Very well! If Farmer trusts you that much, I suppose I might as well. But if you have to hit a mountain, for pity's sake try and pick out a soft one. I bruise very easily!"