"Boy, what a sitting duck target for our bombers, if only some of them would come over now!" he heard his own voice mutter. "But ten to one these rats made sure that neither the R.A.F. or the Eighth Air Force were headed this way before they so much as lighted a match. Anyway, so far, so good, for us!" As he spoke the last he turned his head, expecting to see Freddy Farmer climbing into the co-pilot's seat beside his. But the seat was empty, and there was no sign of Freddy Farmer. Cold fear gripped him, and he impulsively started up out of his seat to go back through the ship. By the time he was half out of it, though, young Farmer came into the compartment, panting like a winded bull. "Take her up, Dave!" Freddy gasped. "Doors all buttoned tight. And I dumped out both of the blokes. Let's get on with it quickly!" "_Both_ blokes!" Dawson gulped. "You mean--?" "A second chap popped up from the rear just as you shot that Hans," Freddy said. "I took care of him without using bullets. Afraid I broke the blighter's neck. Serves him right for trying to interfere. Fancy, though, meeting that Hans again. Small world as you often say, what? But don't sit there listening to my chatter, Dave! Take her up, or--or do something. My nerves won't stand for much more of this thing!" A nervous and sort of crazy laugh spilled off Dawson's lips as he turned front. "Release the wheel brakes, while I gun her, Freddy!" he said in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. "Here we go--somewhere!" By the time the last had left his lips the four engines of the Flying Fortress were singing a loud song of power, and the huge craft was moving over the ground and off toward the left so that it cleared the Liberator just in front. The roar of the engines was loud in Dawson's ears, but the roar didn't seem half as loud as the mighty pounding of his heart. Cold sweat formed on his forehead and trickled down his face. His hands gripping the controls became clammy, and his mouth was so full of "sawdust" that he could hardly breathe. In the next couple of seconds it seemed as though everybody on the field carrying a flashlight froze stiff for a brief instant, and then turned the beam of his light toward that trundling Fortress. To Dave's strained nerves those barbs of light looked like machine gun, or aerial cannon flashes, and had a burst of sudden death, in the form of fatal bullets, come crashing through the windshield or window glass he wouldn't have been in the least surprised. Inside of him a voice was screaming wildly that he and Freddy Farmer were doing something that just couldn't possibly be done. They were suicidal fools to so much as try it. If die they must, then let them feed the four engines every drop of high test they would take and taxi the Flying Fortress straight into the center of that curved line of heavy bombers. But try to get it in the air? Never! It just couldn't be done!