“Then the roll of papyrus is still there and wasn’t burned up in that plane.” Mary heaved a sigh of relief.
“So that’s what happened?” said Scottie. “Their plane burned.”
“Yes, it burned.” Mary spoke slowly. No other questions were asked.
“The Colonel said if you didn’t bring my plane back in twenty-four hours,” Scottie laughed low, “that I could have yours.”
“And you said?” Sparky asked.
“I said it would be a fair enough trade but that guys like you and Mary always came back.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed. “We always come back—sometimes.”
“Mary,” said Sparky, “I’m going over our plane, every bit of it. People who open secret cargoes also put emery in engines, cut fuel pipes and all that. When we go over those peaks, everything has to be right.”
“It certainly does.” Mary was seeing again those cold, white slopes where a plane forced to land goes rolling down, down, down, to dizzy depths below.
“I’ll go get a cup of coffee,” she said dreamily.