Dave Dawson with the Flying Tigers

by Robert Sidney Bowen

"Couldn't have been better, unless we'd spent it on dry land," Dave shot out of the corner of his mouth. Then, as the Chief of U. S. Intelligence came within earshot, he said, "Well, well, hello, sir! We certainly didn't expect to see you."

"No, Dawson?" the senior officer chuckled as he returned their salute, and then shook hands with them both. "Not disappointed, I hope? Got the flash you'd been launched from that cruiser, and so I flew right up to meet you. Well, you two have been mixing up in it again, as usual, eh?"

"Wasn't any of our doing, sir," Freddy Farmer grinned. "Sort of forced on us, you might say. Forced on Dawson, rather. He's quite a hero. Better than a story book hero, and all that. Why, Colonel, if it had not been for Captain Dave Dawson, we'd—"

"Okay, okay!" Dave interrupted. "The colonel is an old friend, Freddy. He knows us both. Skip it, pal. But, Colonel, is it all right to ask what brings you here?"

For a split second the Intelligence Chief stiffened. His thin face even paled slightly, and he shot a quick glance back over his shoulder.

"You didn't bring it?" he asked sharply. "You lost it, or were forced to destroy it?"

"We have it, sir," Dawson told him quietly, and started to reach for his tunic pocket. "We're to turn it over to you?"

"No, no, don't!" the colonel said quickly. "Not here. Just wanted to know that you have it, so I won't have to make other plans. Well, it's time to eat, I'd say. I've arranged with Customs, and the Military, so come along with me. I've got my car. You're putting up for the night at the Astor. Suite of rooms all reserved for you. So we might as well eat there. And I want to hear of your latest venture, with all the details, of course. But let's get going and—Well, what do you know! I haven't yet said that I'm glad to see you. However, I certainly am—much more than either of you may realize."

Some three hours later, Dawson leaned back in his chair in the Astor main dining-room, and vaguely wondered if his tunic buttons were going to stay on, or pop and go sailing across the room. It was his first made-in-America meal in many, many months, and without any prompting from Colonel Welsh he had started at the top of the menu card and gone right down the list. Freddy Farmer was still eating, but then, he was starting down the list for the second time.

"Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at anything you two pull off," Colonel Welsh suddenly broke the moment or two of silence. "But this latest is certainly tops for sheer nerve."