"Flight to nowhere, eh? What the blasted blue blazes did he mean by that? Is this thing going to be fitted with wings, or something, I'd like to know?" It was Freddy Farmer who spoke the words. With Dave Dawson, and some two dozen Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots, he stood on the deck of an American destroyer steaming out of Sydney into the Tasman Sea at full knots. Just five hours ago they had met Colonel Welsh at H.Q., and--and learned nothing except that they were going on a flight to nowhere. Shortly after the Colonel had imparted to them that choice bit of "secret information," he had sent them on their way to enjoy the sights of Sydney for a few hours, and then to report to a certain Army pier at such and such a time. Well, they had seen most of the sights of Sydney in a restaurant where Freddy Farmer was at least happy, because the place was stocked with far more food than he could possibly eat at one sitting. And when it was practically coming out of his ears, they left the place and took a short walk about town. At the proper time they reported to the pier where a bunch of Army, Navy, and Marine Corps pilots were already gathered. Everybody was full of questions, but there wasn't a single answer in the whole crowd. Then presently a sleek, battle grey destroyer slid in and tied up long enough for the whole gang to be taken aboard. And now the destroyer was cleaving the night-blackened waters of Sydney Harbor and sending spray flying well back over the bridge. "Don't ask me, sweetheart," Dawson grunted, and stared down at the black waters swirling past the destroyer's hull. "Could be they're going to take us out and drown the lot of us. How do I know?" "Well, you could at least be helpful enough to make a sensible guess!" Freddy snapped. "Confound you Yanks, anyway! I never saw such mysterious business!" "Listen to the guy!" Dawson hooted. "You forget I've been to England, and served in the R.A.F. with you. For cat's sake, it usually takes a ton of TNT to get an Englishman to open his mouth long enough to admit that the sun is shining. Us Yanks mysterious? Pal, we're blabber-mouths compared with your British Intelligence Service. And don't argue with me, because I've had experience, I have!" "Rot!" the English youth growled. "But never mind, anyway. The point is, where are we going?" Dawson said nothing. He just leaned a bit more over the chain railing, and stared down at the water. "Well, can't you make a guess?" Freddy insisted. Dave started to shake his head, but on second thought checked himself. He turned and peered at Freddy in the gloom. "_I_ don't have to guess, Freddy," he said quietly. Young Farmer stiffened, caught his breath in a gasp, and leaned close. "What's that, Dave?" he breathed excitedly. "You know? You know where we're going?" "Yes, I know," Dawson murmured, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to know. "Sure, I know, pal."