The rough field lighted by the flares turned out to be a sandy patch between two highways and far from any lighted house. This much Don Winslow guessed as he set his wheels down with a gentle bump. When he had braked to a stop beyond the flares, both of them were suddenly blacked out, leaving earth and sky pitch dark.
“That’s so no chance-passing motor cop will see lights and start to investigate, I guess,” remarked Red Pennington, sliding back the plane’s sliding door. “We wouldn’t want our arrival noted on the San Francisco Police Blotter, would we, Don?”
“Hardly!” smiled the young commander, switching off the cabin light. “Out with you, now, shipmate! There’s a car headed this way across the field. Keep your hand on your automatic until we know who it is. If it should be a Scorpion reception party, we won’t go down without a battle!”
The lightless car skidded to a dusty standstill ten feet from the plane. Then only its head lamps flashed on, and into their blinding radiance stepped a well-built man in civilian clothes. Keeping both hands in sight, he faced the darkened plane and spoke.
“Commander Winslow, you and the Lieutenant may trust me without risk,” he said quietly. “I am Hammond, from the San Francisco Office, and here are my identification papers. This car is at your service along with anything else you wish to ask for.”
As Red was about to step out of the shadows, Don elbowed him back. It was still possible that a Scorpion machine gun was trained over the car’s rear door, ready to fire at the sound of his voice.
He must make sure, without showing himself. Shielding his mouth with a cupped hand, he threw his voice along the plane’s fuselage.
“Never mind the papers, Hammond,” he responded. “A few words will do to show you have been in communication with our friends.”
The car’s spotlight showed Hammond’s smile.
“Wise precaution, sir!” he approved. “How’s this for a set of passwords:—Captain Holding—beam radiophone—Count Borg—Haiti—'Penny’—Michael Splendor? Or do you want more?”