But the darkness dragged on and on until Dawson was ready to despair of ever seeing a dawn again. A numbness had settled in his left shoulder, except when he moved it. And when he did by accident, he had to shut his teeth tight to stop from crying out from the pain. A cold clammy sweat formed on his forehead, and the beads kept continually trickling down into his eyes to blur his vision, and caused him to imagine he saw all kinds of crazy things that didn't exist at all a split second after he had brushed the sweat from his eyes. Particularly he was seeing the lights of ships below. Or, at least, certain he was seeing them until he looked again. Of course, every time he "saw" the lights he knew perfectly well that any boat in that part of the Southwest Pacific, Yank or Jap, most certainly wouldn't be showing so much as a speck of light at night. However, what he imagined seemed so real that he was constantly sitting up straight and peering down over the right wing or the left. If dawn would _only_ come! If only there would come a thin pale line of light in the east to give him hope, if nothing else! If-- "I say, old chap!" Freddy Farmer's voice cut into his thoughts, and prayers. "Would you mind raising the shade and letting in a bit of light, what? I'm getting blasted fed up with this darkness. I swear we've had a solid week of it. I really do." "Me, too, pal," Dawson replied, and struggled to keep his suffering out of his voice. "It almost seems as if somebody blew out the doggoned sun. Boy, if--Hold it! Am I right, or am I right, Freddy? Could that be the first grey streak there to the east, huh?" "It not only could be, but it is!" the English-born air ace shouted happily. "Praise be to Allah! In a few moments now we should be able to get a look at where we are. I bet you anything you like that the New Guinea coast is just ahead of us, and that we'll see it soon." "No bet!" Dave called back. "That's one bet I wouldn't want to win. And how, I wouldn't want to win it!" As Dawson spoke the last a sudden thought came to him, and he caught his breath. The thought was: What if they didn't sight land within an hour or less after dawn? Supposing their drift during the night hours had been double or even triple what they had allowed for, and they were actually lost somewhere above the broad expanse of the Southwest Pacific? What if they were lost, and remained lost until the engine in the nose sucked up the last drop of high test, and then quit cold? There was a rubber raft in the MK-11, but Dawson knew in his heart that he would never survive a single day drifting helplessly on the sun-flooded waters. Yesterday, sure, or the day before--but not now. Not during this day that was now dawning. And so, please, God! Please!