The sun was sliding down over the western lip of the world in a hurry when Dawson sat the Vultee down on the Sydney field after a trans-Australia flight from Broome. As soon as they taxied into the line and mechanics took over, a sergeant of the Military Police came hurrying over to them. For just a brief moment Dave's heart floated up to the region of his throat. It was just a wasted sensation, however. The M.P. was simply doing his duty of informing all pilots landing from other bases to report first to the operations office. Dave and Freddy legged out, collected their stuff, and went over to operations. They were obviously expected, for the officer on duty greeted them with a grin and a nod, and jerked a thumb at the motor transport building next door. "A car and driver are waiting, Captains," he said pleasantly. "Over there in front. He'll take you to Headquarters at once. Have a nice trip out?" "It wasn't too bad," Dave replied. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he added, "I suppose I'd be shot if I asked questions?" The operations officer chuckled and shook his head. "No," he said, "you wouldn't be shot. But you wouldn't get any answers, either. Because I don't know any. I can tell you this much, though, if it will help any. You two are the umpty-umph pilots since yesterday morning who have checked through here in a hurry to get to Headquarters. Looks like something big is in the wind, but I wouldn't know. Nobody tells us guys anything, anyway. Good luck, just the same, and--Well, for the love of Mike, Dawson! Did some sweet young thing in China try to steal your wings with her teeth? Man, those are chewed up, what I mean!" "No, Zero teeth, if you get what I mean," Dave grinned. "I'm a lucky guy, I guess." The operation officer's eyes widened, and he let out air slowly. "Did, huh?" he breathed. "Luck, and how, what I mean! Man, what I wouldn't give for a war souvenir like that! You're the second chap I've met whose life was saved by a bullet ricocheting off his wings. I know one fellow, too, who got saved by his cigarette case. No fooling, Dawson, you've really got something there. Well, anyway, scram along, kids, and a million in luck!" "Same to you, and in bunches, soldier," Dave grinned, and went outside with Farmer. "See what I mean, Freddy?" he said as they walked toward the motor transport building. "There's nice guys, and otherwise, in every man's army. You never can tell a fellow by the rank insignia on his shoulders." "Quite, oh quite," the English-born air ace murmured absently. "But I'm wondering why so many pilots have been ordered to Headquarters. I wonder." Dawson shrugged and headed toward a war-painted staff car with a corporal driver lounging against a front fender. "Search me," he said. "Could be that they have decided to wash out the Army Air Forces, and make ditch diggers of us all. Not a bad idea, after the flying I've seen _some_ guys do."