It was a few moments before Colonel Fraser of British Intelligence began talking. He sat staring unseeingly down at his bandaged left hand as though he were choosing the words he would speak. Presently, though, he lifted his head and looked at Dave and Freddy.

"Adolf Hitler's greatest goal in life is to crush the British Empire completely," the Colonel began speaking. "No matter what other battles or minor engagements his troops and his air force may win, they are but steps toward his great goal—the defeat of England. However, in order to defeat England, Hitler must invade and conquer these British Isles. He cannot bring us to our knees from across the Channel. He has got to come over here and beat us into submission. Invasion of England! Those words are on the tongue of every German today."

The colonel paused and pulled a battered pipe from his pocket and a pouch of tobacco. He started to fill the pipe, then stopped and glanced questioningly at Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. The high ranking R.A.F. officer smiled and nodded his head.

"Certainly, Colonel," he said. "Go right ahead and smoke."

The Intelligence officer smiled his thanks for permission and lighted up his pipe.

"Yes, invasion of England is the German password today," he said when the pipe was going. "And ever since Dunkirk and the fall of France the Germans have been preparing for the great attempt. We have been preparing, too—preparing to meet that invasion and throw it back into the Channel. I do not have to tell you of the preparations we have made. You've seen them countless times from the air, and you have no doubt seen them on the ground. Also, like every other man in uniform in England, you both have been constantly on the alert and ready to answer an invasion attempt alarm. Well, the attempt was not made right after Dunkirk. It was not made in the month of July. Nor was it made during the month of August. Why?"

Colonel Fraser paused to tamp down the tobacco in his pipe with a fingertip.

"Why?" he repeated. He shrugged and made a little gesture with his pipe. "I do not know," he said. "No one in England knows. As a matter of fact, I'm quite sure that only Hitler knows. Of course we can guess at a thousand reasons why the attempt has not been made, yet. But it is possible that they might all be wrong. This much we do know. It has not been made, yet. And this is something we can also be equally positive is true. The desire to invade and conquer England has not left Hitler's mind for a single second. The instant he believes that all is ready, he will give his generals the order to invade us. I mean, by that, to attempt to invade us!"

The colonel gave some more attention to his pipe and then continued.

"Naturally, we haven't been so foolish as simply to prepare in every possible way we can, and then sit back and wait for him to strike. The R.A.F. Bombing Command has been blasting away at Nazi invasion bases on the French, Belgian, and Netherlands coasts night after night, as you both well know. The Navy has been on constant patrol seeking for signs of invasion. It is not known by many people, but we have even done a little invading of our own. Small detachments of sapper troops have slipped ashore in France under the cover of darkness, and made short raids as far inland as Lille. And as you two well know, the R.A.F. has made countless photo and reconnaissance patrols over the occupied countries. And lastly, but by no means least, British Intelligence agents have been sent into the occupied countries, and they have been working day and night, too, in an effort to ferret out scraps of information regarding Hitler's invasion plans. Now!"

The Intelligence officer paused for breath, or perhaps for emphasis.

"Now, this is what I'm leading up to," he said. "The raids we've made, the pictures we've taken, the reports of pilots, and the reports of my own Intelligence agents indicate very strongly that the invasion attempt will be made soon. Perhaps in a couple of weeks, and perhaps in a couple of days. This month, September, the tides and the weather will all be in Hitler's favor. Frankly, I would be willing to stake my life that the attempt will be made sometime this month, but I have no idea whether it will be near the first of the month, or near the last, or even in the middle. That date, however, is something we have absolutely got to find out. And that is why I am now speaking to you two chaps."

A quivering sensation like a charge of high voltage electricity shot through Dave. A thousand questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he held them in check.

"If there is anything I can do, sir," he said quietly, "I most certainly want to do it."

"And so do I!" Freddy exclaimed with deep feeling. "No matter what it is, sir."

"I told you, Colonel," Air Vice-Marshal Saunders spoke up. "I told you you could count on Dawson and Farmer."

The Intelligence officer seemed not to hear. He sat staring at the two youths. Dave had the strange feeling that the man was staring right into his brain and reading the thoughts there. A moment or so later the Colonel gave a short nod of his head and continued.

"No matter what Hitler tries, we'll beat him at it," he said. "If the invasion attempt comes tonight, we're ready, and we'll beat him. That, however, is not the way we want to beat him. We want to beat him before he's hardly got started; to smash him before he's even come within sight of our shores. In order to do that, though, we must know the exact date set for the attempt. That date can be learned. In fact, I almost learned it one day last week. I didn't because a German Messerschmitt pilot shot down and killed the man who was bringing that information back here to me in England!"

The colonel suddenly stopped and seemed to have trouble with his throat. He swallowed a couple of times, then half turned and shot a faint frowning glance at Air Vice-Marshal Saunders. Dave looked at the R.A.F. officer just in time to catch the glint of deep sympathy and feeling that flickered through his eyes. Then Colonel Fraser went on speaking again.

"I spoke of sending my Intelligence agents to the occupied countries. Well, some of them have been there since the war started. A few of them have been there all their lives—were born there, in fact. Intelligence and Secret Service agents are not always recognized citizens of the country they serve, you know. The agent of whom I speak now is a Belgian. All during the last war he fought side by side with British soldiers to free his country from Germany's grip. He is too old to fight as a soldier in this war, but he is fighting again to free his country from Germany's iron grip—Hitler's iron grip. He is doing his fighting in the dark and under cover, but more often than not that kind of fighting is more dangerous than fighting in the open. Every second of the day and night his life is in danger. He never knows when the hand of the German Gestapo may drop on his shoulder. He does not even expect the courtesy of being captured as a spy, in fact. He fully expects to be shot in the back the moment the Nazis realize who he is. But that constant danger does not stop him fighting for one single instant. He loves Belgium, the real Belgium, and he will gladly give his life to help England free Belgium of the Nazi chains of indescribable tyranny. I could talk all day of the things that man has already done for England's cause, but I won't. Just let me say that he has done enough to win the Victoria Cross a dozen times over."

The colonel took a moment to light his pipe, which had gone out. He puffed smoke toward the ceiling, and smiled faintly.

"That man has gathered more valuable information for me," he said, "than the whole British Intelligence Service put together. And, strange as it may sound, I have never met him personally. I hope some day to have that great honor, but somehow I rather doubt that I will. Anyway, he is the one man who can tell us when the invasion attempt will be made. Now, wait! I can tell from the expression that just this instant came into your faces, that you're wondering why he hasn't sent the information along to me. Well, he has tried to, several times. The last time was only last week. However, though I hate the very thought of the Nazis, I do not consider them as blind, stupid fools. They are ruthless and barbaric, but they are also very brainy, and are cunning and fiendishly clever beyond words. Naturally, they wish to keep their invasion attempt date a secret just as much as we wish to find it out. And so they are leaving no stone unturned to see that it remains a secret. To give it to you straight from the shoulder, five of my best agents have contacted this Belgian, but not one of them has returned to England alive. Every one has been caught in the invisible web the Nazis have thrown about Europe."

A cold lump suddenly formed in Dave's stomach, but he sat perfectly motionless and kept his eyes on Colonel Fraser's face. After a moment the cold lump gradually disappeared. He could guess now why he and Freddy had been summoned to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders' office. There was a job to be done—a job with danger and death constantly hovering about. But after the first start the truth had given him, he no longer felt fright or even slight uneasiness. He felt only the desire to serve humanity and civilization to the last ounce of his strength, and to the last drop of his blood. If the world and civilization went down under Hitler's heel, then life would not be worth the living. He felt that way as he returned the colonel's steady gaze. And the quiet rigidity of Freddy sitting in the chair next to his told him that his English pal felt exactly the same way.

"I can see you two are getting the point," Colonel Fraser suddenly shot at them. "I want to be fair with you, so I ask you this question. Do you want me to continue, or would you rather return to active duty at your squadron?"

"We want you to continue, sir," Dave said, speaking for himself and Freddy.

"Yes, quite," Freddy added. "What can we do to serve, sir?"

The Intelligence officer smiled briefly; then his face became hard and stern, and there was a ringing note in his voice as he spoke.

"There is only one way in and out of Europe, today," he said. "That's by air. This Belgian I spoke of lives in Antwerp. The address is Sixteen Rue Chartres. That street is down by the docks on the right bank of the Scheldt River. He was a marine engineer in his day, and the last I knew he was working for the Germans occupying the city, doing the odd jobs his age would permit. He is close to seventy. He is blind in one eye, and he is not over five feet six inches tall. His hair is grey, of course, and he has a beard. All this I'm saying I'll repeat in detail later. I'm just running over it briefly, now, to give you some picture of the man I hope you can find. Not only hope, but pray you will find.

"But to get on with this: I am convinced that it is sheer suicide for any of my agents to try and contact this Belgian. Antwerp, like every other occupied city of importance, is policed day and night by the Gestapo and German counter-espionage agents. Therefore a man would create suspicion no matter how well he might be established in the city. And remember, I said the only way in and out is by air. This highly important job has got to be tackled by one or more pilots. Now—and don't take offense, you chaps—a couple of Belgian peasant boys would be less likely to be noticed by the Germans than grown men. And if those two Belgian peasant boys could fly a plane, then so much the better. You follow me, eh?"

"Right with you, sir!" Dave blurted out enthusiastically. "And Freddy and I both happen to speak the languages, too."

Colonel Fraser laughed.

"Don't worry," he chuckled, "I had checked on that little detail before I asked the air vice-marshal, here, to send for you. Yes, you both are boys—though doing the job of men, believe me—and you both are pilots, and you both speak the languages that will be necessary. And, perhaps the most important thing, you have the courage and the spirit that will keep you going until the job is done. Let me say right here, though, I can't spread the danger angle too thick. It is a mighty dangerous job. To give it to you from the shoulder again, everything will be in the Germans' favor, not in yours. If either of you is caught—well, no power on earth will be able to save you. The Nazis will shoot too quickly for that."

The Intelligence officer stopped speaking in order to let the true meaning of his words sink home.

"We know how to shoot a bit ourselves, sir," Freddy spoke up in a steady voice. "So I guess you might say that evens things up some, you know."

"We'll take our chances against any Nazi with itching trigger fingers," Dave said grimly. "But I suppose you've got a definite plan of action for us, sir? I mean—"

Dave cut himself off as the Intelligence officer nodded his head abruptly.

"Certainly," he said. "As you know, the Bomber Command is making raids deep into Germany night after night. Well, tonight you two will go along in one of our bombers, as passengers, you might say. It will be in a bomber of a formation heading for Berlin. They will head for Berlin on a flight route that will take them close to Antwerp. At a certain point you and Farmer will bail out. You'll be dressed as refugee peasant lads, of course, but as the plane will pass over high, you'll have oxygen masks and chest tanks for the parachute drop. When you land you will bury your parachutes and masks, and make your way to Sixteen Rue Chartres."

Colonel Fraser shrugged and gestured with his pipe, which had long since gone out again.

"That ends the first part of the plan," he continued. "The instant you bail out, you will be on your own. You may even lose touch with each other coming down in the darkness. But Sixteen Rue Chartres is your goal. And the man you are to get in touch with is known as Pierre Deschaud. He will give you the information we must have. He knows the date, I'll—I'll stake my life on that. He will give you the information, and he will do what he can to help you get back to England. There are several air fields at Antwerp. That we know, of course, from daily photos we have taken. We also know that two or three squadrons of the German Luftwaffe are stationed there. Pierre Deschaud will help you steal one of the planes for your flight back to England."

Colonel Fraser stopped abruptly, got out of his chair and began to pace the room. Suddenly he stopped in front of them.

"Any questions?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Freddy spoke up before Dave could open his mouth. "There was one thing you didn't mention. We may know who Pierre Deschaud is when we meet him, but how is he to know who we are? Isn't there some code word or sign he would recognize? After all, we could be anybody, as far as he's concerned, perhaps even Nazis trying to smoke him out."

The stern look suddenly left Colonel Fraser's face. Beaming, he leaned over and patted Freddy's back.

"Good lad!" he said with sincere feeling. "That's just the question I wanted you to ask. Didn't tell you because I wanted to see if you'd think of bringing it up. Yes, there is a code word. It is Houyet. Remember that. Houyet! That's the name of the little village in which Deschaud was born almost seventy years ago. When he hears you say that, he'll know that you come from me. And now, I've said enough for a while. We'll meet again before tonight and go over every little item in detail. I do, however, want to say this. I am a colonel, and chief of British Intelligence, but it is chaps like you, chaps with your courage, and your will to fight against no matter what odds, who will win this war for England and the rest of the decent part of the world. I salute you for accepting this dangerous mission, and I also salute you because I know in my heart that you will win through. And so, until later in the day, gentlemen."

A minute more and Colonel Fraser had taken his departure. Dave and Freddy stood silently staring at each other; grimly reading each other's thoughts—two separate thoughts that really blended into one. Here was a real chance to serve, and they would not flinch or falter for a single instant.

"Well, Dawson and Farmer," Air Vice-Marshal Saunders suddenly broke the few moments of silence, "England is counting on you again. And like Colonel Fraser, I, too, know that you will come through. I, too, salute you."

Dave's heart looped over with pride as the vice-marshal clicked his heels and saluted smartly. Dave and Freddy solemnly returned the salute, and their hearts were close to bursting with the thrilling joy of that moment.

"And now," the air vice-marshal said as he lowered his hand, "I want to tell you something that may help if the going should get hard. It's something that proves the trust and belief that Colonel Fraser has in you—something that will make you come through, if only for his sake. You recall he spoke of almost receiving that information last week? Of how the man flying it back to England was trapped and shot down by a Messerschmitt pilot?"

"Yes, sir," Freddy said as Dave nodded.

"That man was only twenty years old," Air Vice-Marshal Saunders said, "just a few years older than you chaps. He could fly a plane, but he couldn't serve in the R.A.F., or in any of the active fighting branches of the service, because of physical reasons. He was part cripple. He tried to serve England as an Intelligence agent. He did valuable work for which his memory will long be honored. He gave all he had, his life, for England. His name was Richard Fraser. He was Colonel Fraser's only son. For his sake, as well as for England, you must succeed."

Dave had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could speak.

"Dick Fraser," he murmured more to himself. "That's a swell name, and I bet he was a swell fellow, too. You bet we'll succeed, sir. If it's the last thing we do, we'll find this Pierre Deschaud and come back with the information England needs."

Freddy Farmer cleared his own throat and nodded vigorously.

"You have our word on that, sir," he said evenly. "We won't let you down. We won't let England down!"

"Amen!" Air Vice-Marshal Saunders whispered softly.