Basil Hay had fought his last fight.
Ten minutes....
Lance hadn't expected that long. He'd thought Hay would die in a few seconds. The man was mortally wounded; could not last.
Nevertheless, minutes or seconds, he was entrusted with the Singe beacon, and it was his job and his will to put it through.
He'd climbed the Slav plane up to its ceiling, driven it till it simply refused to go higher, and then roared on towards San Francisco. Each second he expected to see others come hurtling after him. When they did not, he knew how really great Hay's will was. It was an inspiring example.
But his brain was tortured by a multitude of conflicting doubts. A patrol of Slav scouts had ambushed them. Just how much did the Slavs know, then, about the torpedoes?
He, Lance, had to guide the Singe beacon. Quickly he reviewed what Hay had told him.
"Light about five miles this side of Frisco. Anywhere in that territory would do, though. The beacon doesn't go up in a narrow ray; it spreads, diffuses."
Spreads, diffuses.
Hay had been clad in Slav uniform, and thus could, with a certain measure of safety, put the beacon machinery on the ground itself. But Lance was in American uniform; if he landed, he ran great risk of being noticed and attacked at once.