Those and other tidbits of thought rambled through his brain and came off his lips as he guided his Hell Cat forward under the low-hanging overcast. This was the flight of flights for him. It was, because even if he won he would still lose as far as his own life was concerned. Even if he shot the Nazi spy down into the Pacific he himself would soon follow the rat down there. Not because he had been hit, or wanted to. Because he would have no choice. There would not be any gas left in his plane. And all the guts and courage in the world; all the fighting spirit and will-to-win determination that ever existed, cannot make an airplane stay in the air when the last drop of gas has been sucked into the engine. The age-old law of gravity comes into full force then, and down you go whether you like it or not. "Okay, I go down, so what?" he argued with his other self. "What does it matter, if I've already sent that rat down where he belongs? A fellow can't live forever, can he? All right, so why cry over it when your time comes? Didn't some great man once say that the most beautiful experience in life is death? Didn't...?" He cut off the rest with a slow shake of his head, pushed up his goggles, and drew his free hand across his eyes. "When a guy starts talking to himself this way, he must be going nuts," he grunted. "Boy! Do I wish old Freddy were here with me to steady me a little, like he's done so many times. Good old Freddy! I wonder where he is, now? Did he go back to the Trenton when the recall went out? Or is he...?" He stopped and swallowed hard. Sure, why not? Freddy had brains. Twice as many brains as he had about lots of things. It wouldn't be any miracle for Freddy Farmer to figure the situation out the same way he had, and to be doing the very same thing that he was doing right now. And as that thought built itself up stronger and stronger in his brain he searched the clear air about him again. But he saw nothing. If Freddy Farmer, too, was winging all out toward the Truk area, then he was somewhere up in those clouds. No sooner had he figured that one out than two brand-new thoughts rushed into his swirling brain to taunt him, and cause little beads of nervous sweat to form on his face. Supposing Freddy Farmer by some miracle had stumbled across that fleeing Nazi and slammed him down, just as a marksman such as Freddy could do? If so, then _he_ was simply flying to his death by drowning, or ultimate capture by the Japs, for no earthly good reason.