“Port.” That was the name Mary found herself giving to the place she had left. Why not? One left a port for a sea lane. Sea lanes were carefully guarded these days. Their fighter escorts were like destroyers. They guarded her air lane. And her plane’s load might, for all she knew, be more precious than a big ocean freighter’s cargo.
“Well,” she thought, “we’re fully halfway between America and China and they haven’t got us yet. We—”
Her thoughts broke off short. Had she spotted a plane flying low on the horizon?
As if to confirm her suspicion, her escort flew in close. She recognized the long, slim, sleek fighter flown by Ramsey. He dropped his right wing in salute.
The last plane in Ramsey’s fighter formation gave her a real shock. The pilot dropped the plane’s nose, then pulled it up short as if he were riding a bucking bronco.
“That,” she told herself, “is one of Dad’s tricks. But he can’t be in that two-seater. He’s taught the trick to one of his men, I suppose. I wonder?”
For a full hour after that she zoomed straight on.
“We’ll be in Persia in a few hours, dining in one of those rare Persian gardens.” For her Persia was Persia, the Persia of the golden moon. People could call it Iran if they chose. She was all for the beauty and romance that had been Persia.
There were fleecy, white clouds in the sky just as Ramsey had said. The members of their flying escort seemed to be playing a game of hide-and-go-seek among those clouds. Then, just as a thicker cloud shut her off from the light of the sun, they all vanished.