That bright winter’s day passed all too soon. At times Jeanne thought of asking Vivian to accompany her to the top of the ridge and down to the little lost lake, but always she was busy with household duties. Night found the request lingering unexpressed on her lips.
“Darkness fell on the wings of night.”
Lamps were lit, kerosene lamps that gave forth a steady yellow glow. Pulpwood logs, gathered from the shore where they were stranded, roared and crackled in the great stove.
Jeanne sat dreaming by the fire. Not all her dreams were happy ones. One thought haunted her: she must take Vivian to that little lost lake. What would she see? What would she?
Jeanne was asking herself this question when her thoughts were caught and held by a conversation between the young airplane pilot who had flown them to the island and Sandy MacQueen, the reporter.
“I’d think you could write a whole book about mystery planes,” the pilot suggested.
“Mystery planes?” Sandy sat up straight.
“Yes,” the pilot replied. “Planes that have flown away into the blue and just vanished. There have been several, you know.” His tone was earnest. “During the war there were aces of the air that vanished. What happened? Did they grow sick of the terror of war and just fly away?
“There have been several in recent years,” he went on. “One started for Central America, the X.Z.43. Nothing was ever heard of it. One headed for Japan, the B.L.92. And then there was the D.X.123. Queer about that!”
“The D.X.123!” Jeanne whispered the words. She wanted to scream them. She said nothing out loud, just sat there staring. D.X.123! Those were the letters and figures she had seen down at the bottom of the lost lake. Or, had she seen them? Had she just imagined them? Had she seen them in a paper and was this only an after-image?