Enemy planes! A patrol of them!
"God!" jerked Lance. "Ranth's warning got through! Part of it, anyway!"
He leaped for his plane, shouting: "I'll hold 'em off! You get away quick!" and, through a veritable hail of lead, sprang into the cockpit.
Then, a cold pang at his heart, he sprang out again.
A bullet had caught Hay!
or a moment, the Slav fire ceased, while their planes zoomed up to start another death-dealing dive. And in that moment Lance was at Hay's side, where he had fallen.
"They—got me," whispered Hay, a stream of blood welling from his gasping mouth. "I'm—I'm going. C-carry me to—to your plane. I've still a—a little strength left. You take the beacon. I—I'll hold them—as—as long as—I can. Put through that beacon, boy! Put it though!"
His brain a maelstrom, Lance stared at the crumpled figure. It was the only way! He heard the motors above come roaring down again; desperately he carried the blood-choking Hay to his own plane; propped him limply at the controls. Bullets spat through a frenzy of noise. Weakly Hay started the Goshawk's Diesels, and weakly, into Lance's face, smiled, and beckoned him to leave.