“And have a good rest,” said Sparky. “We may go over the big top yet today. That all depends.”
While she was drinking her coffee, Mary was joined by the Captain who had helped her save the secret cargo from the would-be hijackers. “Sparky tells me that you chased that woman spy to her death,” he said. Mary nodded. “I just wanted to tell you,” he went on, “that while you were gone, I did a little investigating. That woman flew to a small airport owned by a rich native, about forty miles from here. She must have motored over here, though her car wasn’t found. Had an accomplice, no doubt.
“A man I got on the phone,” he went on, “tells me she checks with a native Indian woman who studied in America but who soured on Americans for some reason or other, and so went into spying. Looks as if you and Sparky have done the country a great favor.”
“I—I’m glad,” Mary swallowed hard. “But for my part I’ll do my bit some other way after this.”
Two hours later Mary was wakened from a dream in which she was riding on an ocean liner gliding rapidly down a swiftly moving mountain stream.
“Mary! Mary!” It was Sparky, calling outside her tent. “I’m sorry, but orders have come through by radio. We are to start within the hour!”
“Okay. I’ll join you at the canteen for our last cup of java in Burma.”
“Here’s hoping.” Sparky was away.
“It’s not too promising,” he was telling her a half hour later, talking between gulps of steaming hot coffee. “The barometer is falling. A storm is on the way, but the big shots figure we can make it. This time of year it storms for weeks once it gets a good start and it seems our cargo is vital to some great mission.”
“Sparky,” Mary drawled sleepily, “the next time you and I fly together we’ll insist on having a cargo of toothpicks, crackers, chewing gum, and non-essentials.”