“I’ll take a constitutional down to the city, Apperson, and see where we sleep and eat, if any. Likewise where we get gas and oil, and how. I guess you’d better stay here. There’ll be the usual mob of people show up, I suppose.” “Quite so,” nodded Apperson, raising his yellow tinted goggles deliberately. “Ye’ll have transportation to get the hags into town, no doot.” “Uh-huh. I’ll be back in a couple of hours--by the time the sun gets right for pictures, anyhow.” He climbed out, lit a cigaret, and surveyed the cloudless sky with satisfaction. The mosaic would be taken from eleven thousand feet, and even a few cumulous clouds would mean great gaps in the pictures. It looked like a good working day. Apperson was busy in the back cockpit, unwiring divers articles he had packed away there. He could fit anything up to an automobile into the cockpit of a ship. Article after article materialized from the mystic depths, until it was a problem where the sergeant himself had ridden. Hemingwood took off his flying suit and made off without further ado. It was about three miles over the mountain to East Point, he estimated, and it would be a phenomenon if he did not meet a procession of cars, one of which would be delighted to turn around and give him a lift. He had proceeded up the dusty road for a half mile, and had just reached the crest of the hill when a horseman hove in sight. The one he had seen from the air, probably. He did not seem in a hurry, for the horse was ambling along at pretty much his own gait. Suddenly Hemingwood’s dark eyes lighted with interest and he became conscious that his face was undoubtedly spotted with oil. That was a woman on that horse, riding astride. Furthermore, she was a young woman. A big, white Panama hat, shaped like a man’s, shaded her face, and her costume consisted of khaki riding trousers, leather boots, and a white blouse. In a few seconds he was able to state with conviction that not only was the rider a young woman, but that she was also a most remarkably attractive specimen of her sex. And George Arlington Hemingwood was not a man who allowed opportunity to knock at his door without an answer. He stopped a few feet in front of the horse and smiled up at the girl. “I beg your pardon, but could you tell me the name of the town that seems to be at the end of this road?” Her piquant face, framed by the Panama and bobbed hair, dimpled slightly as she pulled up her horse. “Which end of the road?” she enquired. “The one I’m headed for--it seemed to be the biggest.” “East Point,” she informed him. “Did you have a forced landing?” “You talk like a flyer!” grinned Hemingwood. “No, I came down on purpose. I thought I was near East Point, but it’s hard to tell from the air. Particularly in such thickly settled country,” he added.