Rick wondered. Surely they weren't looking for foot-prints. Both the salt pans and the field were perfectly dry. He wasn't particularly afraid of the flashlight. He would wait until they were close to the palm grove, then move laterally away from them and lie flat on the ground. The light couldn't pick him out from any great distance.
The men walked slowly down the edge of the salt pans until they reached the place where Rick had left the pans and entered the field, then, as surely as blood-hounds, they followed the route he had taken.
He stared, amazed. How had they tracked him? Then, suddenly, he knew. Makahiya! The sensitive mimosa! The field was covered with it. And where he had walked, the mimosa's leaves were rolled up tightly!
Rick turned and ran through the grove, trying to be silent. He used a beacon from nearby Manila Airport as a guide, and in a moment he saw red lights on the other side of the grove. It was the field. They were boundary lights.
He saw instantly that he was in a bad spot. The only way to go was straight ahead, across the open airport. He would be seen instantly when his pursuers emerged from the grove, and from then on it would be a foot race. There was nothing else to do but go on. He climbed over the airport fence and started for the lights of the administration building a mile away.
To conserve his strength and wind he kept his pace to a dogtrot. He crossed one paved strip and cast a look behind in time to see the pursuers climb the fence. A yell told him he had been seen. He started to zigzag, anticipating a bullet. His spine tingled and there was a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades. But when the shot did come it was such a wide miss that he did not even give an instinctive duck.
Somewhere down the line a big plane was getting ready to take off, the pilot was checking his magnetos, revving up his engines. He searched for lights as he ran and saw them over a mile down the field. It was a Strato-cruiser, probably bound for America. Then he saw the runway ahead and realized that it would be a race to see whether or not he got across before the plane reached that point. The lights told him that the plane was already moving. He lengthened his stride.
He had a choice. He could stop and wait until the big plane passed, or he could run for it and hope to beat it. If he stopped, it would give his pursuers a chance to catch up.
He ran faster, still breathing easily. But there were signs that his wind was giving out. He cast anxious glances down the field. The big plane was rolling, its engines roaring. He tried to gauge the point where it would be air-borne, but it was too hard. It should be in the air by the time it reached him, but he couldn't be sure. The runway was only yards ahead now. He sprinted.
The plane roared down at him. Then he was on the runway, realizing that he would not be across in time. In sudden terror he threw himself flat, just as the big plane lifted. The wheels were only a few feet above him as it passed over.