"Why?" Dave put the question. "Has anything happened, sir?"
"I can't say," Squadron Leader Trenton murmured, and stared at them with a troubled look in his eyes. "Just after you took off on this last show, I received a phone call from Air Ministry. You two are ordered to report to Air Vice-Marshal Saunders bright and early tomorrow morning. You'd better go up to London tonight so's you'll be sure and be at Adastral House (R.A.F. name for the Air Ministry) bright and early."
"Air Vice-Marshal Saunders?" Freddy Farmer repeated in an awed tone. "But why would he want to see us, sir?"
Squadron Leader Trenton smiled thinly as he gestured with his two hands on the desk.
"In this case, I still haven't any idea," he said. "Usually, though, it's for one of two reasons: to give you a very hot going over for breaking some rule and getting into trouble; or else to give you his personal congratulations as he tells you you've been recommended for a medal."
"Well, it surely can't be for either of those reasons," Dave said with a frown. "We certainly haven't bumped into any trouble, and we certainly haven't done anything to rate a medal. And—My gosh! Holy smokes! Do you suppose—?"
Dave gulped and didn't finish the rest. Squadron Leader Trenton gave him a keen glance.
"Do I suppose what, Dawson?" he prompted.
Dave had to swallow again before he could speak. A crazy thought had suddenly flashed through his brain, but just the same it had given him a cold chill.
"Do you suppose there's some new law?" he began. "I mean, could there be some new ruling that might force us to resign our commissions because we're both only seventeen, a year under the regulation age?"