At forty thousand feet he was above the storm clouds, whose pitchy, vapor-drenched blackness effectively blanked out all sign of the earth. He might have been flying in outer space. Keeping a careful eye on his instruments, he set a course for Sola Ranch. He kept his speed around three hundred, wishing to meet Hay exactly at nine. But--would Hay be there? How much did the Slavs know? How much had Ranth got through before he stopped him? A frown creased his brow. It was best not to puzzle over that question. Best just to go ahead, and keep going. * * * * * At about three minutes to nine he set the plane's nose down through veils of clammy cloud. This was mountainous country, sparsely patrolled by Slav ships. Lance hovered cautiously over the firred mountain tops, getting his directions, shooting wary eyes through the magnifying mirrors in search of enemy scouts. He saw none. Satisfied, he cut the Rahl-Diesels, gunned the helicopter props and dropped lightly down on the stubbly field of Sola Ranch. To left and right loomed the dim outlines of the lonely mountains. Before the war, the owner of Sola Ranch had grown apples; this field had housed a few horses. It made a perfect meeting place--secluded, misty with the clinging mountain vapors, far apart from the war. Lance felt like a prowling werewolf there, waiting for its ghostly mate. Rain was still splattering in desultory bursts, but distance muted the rumbling salvos' of thunder. His watch told him it was one minute to nine. Now--what? Hay, or a swooping squadron of Slav planes? Lance stepped out of the cockpit into the rain, though holding himself tensely ready to leap back again and soar away. He stared around, and peered above. Was that a shadow?--a nightmare flying bird?--or a plane? He grasped a hand-flash, and rapidly signalled his identity. The next instant, it seemed, the shadow wavered, then fell earthward with great speed. Out of the gloom and rain it came--an enemy plane. It dropped down beside his scout. From its cockpit came a few swift flashes of light. Hay! * * * * * Lance ran eagerly over to the other plane, and out from its enclosed cabin stepped the man he had known as Praed. Wordlessly, they gripped hands. Hay's thin, straight face wore a smile, and he met Lance's eyes keenly. Lance stammered: "S-sorry, Captain Hay, about--about the way I treated you at the base. You see, I had no idea who you were." Hay cut short his apologies with a laugh. "Rot! I'd've been the same way myself." He glanced rapidly at Lance's plane. "Got it?" he questioned. "I'm a bit late; had a hell of a time getting here without arousing suspicion. We'd best hurry." Lance nodded. They hurried to the Goshawk. As they worked, carefully lifting out the Singe beacon, Lance, in crisp, short-clipped sentences, told his companion of Ranth, the spy. "You don't know how much he got through?" "No," said Lance. "No."