As the big plane circled, drifting slowly down, Mary leaned over to say in a deep, impressive voice:
“Janet, if we crash, and there’s a spark of life in you, get out quick and run, crawl, anything. Get away fast.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Janet stared. “If the ship gets on fire the gas tanks will explode and—”
“It’s worse than that,” Mary confided. “This ship is mined.”
“Mined!” Janet stared.
“It certainly is! And by our own people. This is one ship our enemies will never take apart piece by piece, nor its cargo either. In case of a crash, it will be torn to ribbons.”
“That—why, that’s terrible,” Janet’s voice was husky.
“Not as bad as it seems,” was the slow reply. “Only fire will set off the explosives. Bumping won’t do it. There’s a fuse, too. I know right where it is. No, they’ll never get the Lone Star or her cargo. And there’s nothing they’d like half as much to do. But they won’t get her. Never! Never.
“And now,” she breathed. “Here we go!”
As her ship glided down, even in this moment when her own fate seemed to hang in the balance, on the walls of Mary’s mind was painted a picture that would not soon be erased. It was as if her first glimpse of a tropical jungle, the waving palms, the slow, rolling black river, the native huts, the sloping hillside all bathed in a beautiful sunset, had been painted there by some great artist.