Without wasting an instant, when he saw the silhouette of the spectre in the cloud, Don fired the Verey pistol set at the side of his airplane.
Arranged for the discharge of the Verey lights, the implement, fixed at one side of the fuselage, sent out into the air a bright, white flash.
The smoke bomb that Don used was such as pilots employ to show them wind direction. The light was almost instantly gone, being succeeded by the liberation of a dense volume of smoke that drifted in the light Summer breeze. But Don was not concerned with the smoke: he knew that watchful eyes had been ready to catch the flash, through the dark.
“They know, in the control room, that I got what I came for,” he told himself. “Now they’ll shut off the light and get everything put away before the control man returns from his late supper.”
With quick hands he set the controls to swing back, and made the return trip in as brief a space of time as the Dart’s power permitted.
At the runway, as he came to rest, Chick ran up.
“We got your flash!” he said, keeping his voice low. “Garry’s putting back the things. Let’s get the Dart back. You’ll have to explain the flight to the control man. He must have heard the take-off and landing.”
“Right. Well, Chick, one thing is settled, anyhow.”
“One thing? You mean——”
Don, unsnapping his helmet chin strap, put his lips close to Chick’s ear and spoke very earnestly.