We were driven to the harbor in the same disreputable taxicab which had brought us to the consulate a few hours before. Time was a little past three in the afternoon as the seaplane roared down a lane in the swarm of junks, tramp freighters and warships of the Indonesian state. We hoped that we were not too well observed; there was no way of knowing until we arrived on Yat, and the learning might not be too pleasant. The flight northeast from New Macassar was uneventful. We passed over a blue tropical sea, dotted with island jewels. For a time the low coast of the great island of Celebes made a blue haze on the eastern horizon, and then we had the ocean to ourselves. At dusk there were still two hundred miles between us and Yat, a flight of about forty minutes. Pulling down the shades, lest the cabin lights reveal us to a chance Indonesian patrol, we busied ourselves with packing the portable radio equipment and putting on our watertight clothing. The last fifty miles were made on the deck--in fact, once or twice the hull actually touched a wave-top. The pilot extinguished the cabin lights and we peered ahead for a first glimpse of our objective. The sky was clear, but the moon would not rise until nine, so that the only indication we had that Yat was at hand was a slight deepening in the tropic night ahead and to the right, which the pilot said marked Mount Kosan, the ancient crater. But no sooner had we gotten this vaguely orienting information, than the flaps were lowered, the plane slowed to under 100 miles per hour, and we touched the water. The co-pilot opened the side door, and we crouched together peering out. The plane taxied over a choppy cross sea toward the shadow of the island, while we squinted through the salt spray. Presently the engines dropped to idle, and the rumble of surf became audible. "Practically dead calm tonight," said the co-pilot reassuringly. "Wind usually dies out at sunset. You won't have any trouble getting through. Just watch your step when you're ashore." "That's always good advice for sailors," remarked Baker. As the plane lost headway, the white line of surf and the silhouettes of cocoa palms took shape. Evidently the plantations came right to the water's edge at this point, a circumstance for which we were all thankful. I was just turning to Martin with some remark about this when the pilot called softly and urgently. "We're as close as we can drift safely. Jump, and good luck." "Righto, and thanks," came Baker's voice, and then a splash. I was next. I took a deep breath, and clutched my rubber covered bundle of radio gear. I leaped out into darkness. An instant later I was gasping for air beside Baker. Two more splashes in quick succession and then the engines picked up speed, the dark shape of the wing overhead moved off, and we were alone. * * * * *