Truly, Hay's fight there in the wet clouds above Sola Ranch was an inspired one. He fought almost by instinct alone, instinct twenty years of piloting had planted deep in his veins. He fought for Lance--for America. His eyes, glazing rapidly, could not distinguish the roaring phantoms that laced around his lone plane, but uncannily his bursts of fire went home again and again, while theirs ripped aimlessly over the Goshawk's hell-driven snout. Of course it could not last. Gallant spirit alone kept Basil Hay taut at his controls. Spirit alone thrust back the ever-increasing surge of black oblivion that pounded at his heart and brain. Spirit alone sent the pitifully outnumbered plane corkscrewing in peerless maneuverings that baffled the on-passing Slavs and thrust four of them to the sodden ground in flame. Spirit that would not surrender--but had to. They could never have conquered Basil Hay in a plane. An ambushing bullet that caught him off guard did that. And finally Hay fell. But he had kept them for ten full minutes. Ten minutes--each one a lasting, mute testimony to his unquenchable, unyielding spirit. He flung a last salvo from his hot machine-guns, then, heart numbing, jerked back the control-stick and careened high. He slumped down. The plane paused, wallowed crazily for a moment, and then roared earthward, "Carry on!" formed faintly on its dead pilot's bloody lips. Basil Hay had fought his last fight. Ten minutes.... Lance hadn't expected that long. He'd thought Hay would die in a few seconds. The man was mortally wounded; could not last. Nevertheless, minutes or seconds, he was entrusted with the Singe beacon, and it was his job and his will to put it through. He'd climbed the Slav plane up to its ceiling, driven it till it simply refused to go higher, and then roared on towards San Francisco. Each second he expected to see others come hurtling after him. When they did not, he knew how really great Hay's will was. It was an inspiring example. But his brain was tortured by a multitude of conflicting doubts. A patrol of Slav scouts had ambushed them. Just how much did the Slavs know, then, about the torpedoes? He, Lance, had to guide the Singe beacon. Quickly he reviewed what Hay had told him. "Light about five miles this side of Frisco. Anywhere in that territory would do, though. The beacon doesn't go up in a narrow ray; it spreads, diffuses." _Spreads, diffuses._ Hay had been clad in Slav uniform, and thus could, with a certain measure of safety, put the beacon machinery on the ground itself. But Lance was in American uniform; if he landed, he ran great risk of being noticed and attacked at once. Lance saw immediately that there was only one way out. It was sure death, but Hay had expected death, and so must he. His lips set in stern resolve. It meant good-by--farewell to the girl he'd left behind, farewell to life, farewell to everything--but not for a second did he debate the course he would take.