"But I've got half an hour of gas left, sir!" came Freddy's voice through the panel speaker unit. "Give me fifteen more minutes, sir. Maybe by then I can get the blasted wheels up, and come in on my belly. She's really a pukka ship, save for the blasted landing gear, sir. I don't want to have to hit the deck and burn up for a total loss if I can possibly help it. Just fifteen minutes more, sir?" Dawson saw the squadron C.O. scowl, bite his lower lip, and then shrug. "All right, Farmer, if you insist," he spoke into the R.T. "Do what you can, but only for fifteen minutes. We can always get another Lightning. But an experienced combat pilot is something else again. Fifteen minutes, Farmer. And I'm looking at my watch." "Right you are, sir!" came Freddy Farmer's cheerful voice. "I'll see if I can't do something with this cranky blighter." "For _only_ fifteen minutes!" the C.O. had the last word. "And I mean just that!" It seemed that Freddy Farmer was content to let his commanding officer have the last word. At least the English-born air ace made no further comment. Dawson waited for a couple of seconds, and then stepped back from the Operations Office door, and fixed his gaze once more on the plane that was circling the field at cruising speed. "Don't be a dope, pal!" he breathed softly. "The Old Man wasn't trying to kid you. Pilots _are_ worth more than planes. And though you wouldn't catch me telling it to your face, sweetheart, you're worth more than all the Lockheed Lightnings they ever made. So don't be a dope, little man. But definitely, don't be a dope!" Seconds ticked by and became minutes, and the minutes increased in number, but still two of the Lightning's wheels stayed put in their down position, while the third continued to stick fast in its recess. As the end of the fifteen minute period drew near, young Farmer took his plane up for a little more altitude, and began kicking it about the sky, no doubt in a last desperate effort to shake loose whatever was jamming the stuck wheel and get it down into landing position. "No soap, Freddy!" Dawson grunted, and gave an unconscious shake of his head. "That crate just doesn't like you, or something. It's stuck, and--" At that instant he cut himself off short as he heard the C.O. call Farmer on the R.T. "Time's up, Farmer! Too bad, but I guess there isn't anything you can do. Get altitude to the east of the field, head the plane toward the Channel, and bail out." "Yes, sir, very good, sir," Dawson heard Farmer's slightly choked reply. "I guess the blasted thing still--Wait a minute, sir! The retractable gear is working. I can get the two wheels up. Can you see me, sir? They're up, and they're staying up. I can come in on my belly now, sir!"