“Something’s happened to Welkfurn!” Kisner declared. “It’s one-thirty. He’s had plenty of time--something’s happened to him.” Conway stepped briskly out to where he could view the road that led to the balloon hangar, examined the road carefully, looking for Welkfurn’s car approaching. No car was in sight. He returned to the doorway of the hangar, waited briefly, then went out again. Still Welkfurn did not appear. “If he doesn’t hurry up, you can’t go!” Kisner muttered angrily. “He knows better than to delay like this.” Conway studied the sky in silence. He finally shook his head. “Say, Kis, call the jeweler; find out if Welkfurn’s been there! Why didn’t we think of that before?” Conway stood by and listened while Kisner called his number. He looked at his watch--one-thirty-seven. “Hasn’t been there?” he heard Kisner question. “Haven’t seen him? What the hell! Well, when he comes in there, tell him we’re waiting for that clock!” * * * * * Welkfurn left Conway and Kisner in a mood of anger with himself. He realized that the clock was necessary for the flight. He hadn’t thought of it before--a clock freezing in the air; but he could readily see, now that Kisner had explained it, that Conway ran a risk of death if his timepiece failed him on the flight. And Welkfurn knew Conway well enough to know that the balloonist would take off without the clock rather than postpone the trip. Well, he’d get it there in time. Conway wanted to take off at one o’clock, which gave Welkfurn a few minutes more than an hour to make the trip. He drove furiously toward Greenburg, holding the car at its greatest speed, slowing only slightly for the turns. He knew that he could make the trip, with luck, in fifty minutes--even less than that. He wanted a good margin of time on the return trip. Conway had always laughed at him for talking constantly and forgetting things; and he knew that the other man had been justified in doing so. Welkfurn had come some three miles toward Greenburg when he was startled by a blatant siren just behind him. He pulled carefully to the side of the road, holding his speed, to let the other vehicle pass; but the sound persisted. Then he saw, through the window in the rear, a motorcycle policeman riding close behind and to the side. He had a crazy impulse to cut suddenly across the road, to wreck the officer’s machine; but he realized the idiocy of that procedure and slowed angrily to a stop. The cop rode up alongside, rested his foot leisurely on the running-board of Welkfurn’s car. “Nice speedway here, ain’t it?”--acidly. “What’s the idea of stopping me?” Welkfurn barked in reply. “I’m going to town on official business; you can’t stop me like this! I’m in a hurry!” “Can’t stop ya? That’s too bad! You ain’t on the reservation now, buddy. Yer on the State highway, and yer speedin’ somethin’ awful!”