"And do I hope that's the truth!" he cried. "Didn't see anything as we went to the plane, did you?" "Not a sign," Freddy replied. "I don't think any of them even looked at us. Maybe he figured he'd done the job good on me, and that only five planes would take the air." "Well, the rat knows different now!" Dave grated, and turned front. "He knows there are six ships up here, and that we're in one of them." As Dave spoke the words he let his gaze wander from plane to plane in the formation. Oddly enough, a lump formed in his chest, and there was an empty feeling in his stomach. He had met and talked with every member of that patrol in the air. Kidded with them, played cards, and done all of the things one does with one's shipmates. It was hard, terribly hard to believe that one of them, possibly two, were earning blood money from Berlin or Tokio. Every one of them had struck him as being a swell guy. A swell guy, or one of the best actors that ever stepped on a stage. It didn't seem possible that savage hatred for the United States, for the whole civilized world, was flying along in the formation. It just didn't seem possible. Could he be wrong? Could both Freddy and he be all wet in their deductions? Had Freddy actually been slugged by accident, perhaps by a blundering mechanic carrying something heavy? Had he got scared at what he'd done, and dragged Freddy under that wing and taken to his heels? And had Freddy made a mistake about his wearing pilot's garb? Could it have been simply that? Those and countless other questions churned around in Dave's head as he stared at the other planes in the formation droning northward over the seemingly endless sky blue waters of the Pacific. Whether the answers that came to mind were right or wrong, he had no way of telling. Only time would tell that. In a short while the formation would spread out so as to cover as great an area as possible. Then would be the time for the murderer of Commander Jackson and Lieutenant Commander Pollard to make his move, whatever it was going to be. However, when the Indian and her destroyer escort disappeared from view down over the lip of the southern horizon, and the patrol planes were spread out in wide line formation, nothing happened. Each plane continued droning along its prescribed course, its pilot and gunner keeping a constant lookout for telltale shadows under the water below them that might be Japanese submarines. And as the minutes piled up on one another, nothing continued to happen. Fresh doubts and fresh worries tugged at Dave's brain. Then, as a sudden thought came to him, he turned his head and stared thoughtfully at Freddy Farmer. The English youth grinned, opened his mouth to say something smart, but checked himself as he saw the little lines of worry on Dave's forehead. "What now?" he asked. "Did you forget something back on the ship? Or is this another hunch? Know what I've been thinking?"