"Chances on what?" Freddy said as he walked into it with both eyes shut.

"The chances of coming out with the wrong baboon," Dave replied instantly.

Freddy Farmer swung but missed by a mile. Dave had caught up his bag and was out of his seat and heading forward. Five minutes later they had cleared customs and were standing on American soil. They stood there for a minute wondering if the party who was supposed to meet them had missed connections, and if they should go on into the Administration Building waiting room and kill time until he showed up. However, they had hardly started wondering when a neatly dressed man approached them with a smile. One look and you practically saw the map of England stamped on his ruddy face. He wore civilian clothes, but it was easy to see that he was more accustomed to a uniform.

"Flight Lieutenants Dawson and Farmer, eh?" he said, and extended his hand. Then, before they could do no more than nod: "I'm Captain Smith-Standers, attached to the military mission at Washington. The welcoming committee, and all that sort of thing. Have a nice trip, what?"

"A swell one, thanks, Captain," Dave said. "Sure seems good to get back. Of course, Farmer, here, was a little worried coming across. Not used to flying, you know. But we've got a million questions to ask you, Captain. And the first is—"

Dave stopped as the British officer shook his head and raised a restraining hand.

"Don't even bother to ask the first one, you chaps," he said with a laugh. "I'm blessed if I know what the answer is. I was simply ordered to pop up here and pop you two back to Washington. But I say, you mean you don't know why you're here, eh?"

"Quite!" Freddy spoke up. "We haven't the faintest idea. And I can tell you it's been driving us balmy wondering on the way across. Air Vice-Marshal Stoneham simply gave us our traveling vouchers and shooed us out of Air Ministry."

"Well, that's the way they do things these days," the Captain said with a shrug. "Very hush-hush, you know. But you'll find out everything presently, I fancy. I say, do you want something to eat before we push along? We've forty minutes or so before the plane leaves."

"Hey!" Dave yelped. "What do you mean, push along? Farmer, here, isn't going to have a look at New York?"

"Only from the air," the other said with a smile. "I'm to take you to Washington on the very next plane. Perhaps some other time, though. Let's get along, shall we?"

Dave looked at Freddy and shook his head sadly.

"We're either a couple of very important guys," he grunted, "or else somebody doesn't trust you on Fifth Avenue, even under my watchful eye."

"Or else it's to be a court martial, and I'm here as a witness against you!" Freddy snapped. "Which I sincerely hope!"

"Well, you two can carry on with that rot aboard the plane," the Captain said. "Come along. But tell me, how are things in London? Marvelous place, America, but how I wish I were back there. Feel just like I'd run away from the home chaps. Have the Jerries really been letting London alone? The War Office communiques are so blasted uninforming, you know."

That started the two R.A.F. youths off, and by the time they woke up to realize they hadn't asked Captain Smith-Standers a single other question about their status, they had landed at Washington, and were on their way by car to the British Embassy. There they met the Ambassador, and even had lunch with him and his subordinates. It was a very wonderful luncheon, and the conversation was highly interesting to them both. They were treated almost like returning heroes—rather, visiting ones. However, not one word was dropped that gave them so much as an inkling as to why they were in Washington. And although they were both fairly exploding inside with questions, they had sense enough to keep their mouths shut, and wait.

They had to wait until late in the afternoon. Then Captain Smith-Standers escorted them out of the Embassy and into a waiting car. It whizzed them halfway across Washington to a building that was perhaps the most unimposing of all the heaps of Government marble and stone in the whole city. He got out of the car with them, and walked with them up the flight of stone steps as far as the door. There he stopped, and extended his hand.

"Well, I fancy we part for good now, chaps," he said, and smiled at them out of eyes that held just a trace of awe and admiration. "Been wonderful meeting you, and all that sort of thing. Good luck, and worlds of it to you both."

"Sure, thanks," Dave gulped. "And the same to you. But look—what's this place, anyway? And what do we do now? I've seen better jails than this."

"Quite!" Freddy Farmer breathed. "Did we do something wrong at the Embassy? I say, can't you tell us anything?"

"Sorry," the British captain said with a smile and a shake of his head. "Fact is, there isn't anything I could tell you. I've been here before, though, and it's no jail. Wish the devil I was in your shoes. Well, I must trot. Go inside. You're expected. And—and good luck!"

Captain Smith-Standers shook hands with them again, saluted, though he still wore civies, turned on his heel and went down the steps to the car. Dave and Freddy watched the car drive away, then turned and stared at each other.

"Have you ever been cockeyed drunk, Freddy?" Dave suddenly blurted out.

"No, never," the English youth replied. "Have you?"

"No," Dave grunted.

"Then why do you ask?" Freddy demanded.

"Just wondering," Dave murmured, and reached for the handle of the door. "Just wondering if it makes you feel the way I do now. In sixteen million pieces, and every doggone thing upside down. Well, I suppose this is our next move, eh?"

"Fancy it is," Freddy replied with a shrug and a frown. "So open the blasted door, and let's go in."

CHAPTER THREE
Special Assignment

The first thing the two R.A.F. aces saw as they opened the door and stepped inside was a long badly lighted corridor. It was more of a lobby; the lobby of an office building that hadn't been used for quite some time. The second thing they saw was the figure of a man in civilian clothes who seemed to pop out of nowhere and advance toward them. He was a nice enough looking man, about middle age, and with just the faintest hint of the military about him. He fixed them both with a keen searching stare, then seemed to relax a bit, and smiled.

"Dawson and Farmer?" he murmured. And without waiting for either of them to so much as nod: "Come along with me."

They followed him over to an elevator bank, and into the nearest car. Without speaking a word, or even so much as looking at them, the man took them up six floors. Dave studied the man hard, and the result of his study netted him just one thing. The man wore a shoulder holster, and there was a gun in it.

At the sixth floor he stopped the car, opened the doors, and stepped out, crooking his finger. They went down a hall halfway to the rear wall of the building, and stopped before a door. The man pressed a button three times, then twice more, and then looked at them as the latch made a clicking sound.

"Go on in," he said. "They're waiting for you. Good luck!"

"Same to you," Dave grunted. "What is it, a new slogan for the war? Everybody's been wishing us good luck. But for what, for cat's sake? Do you—?"

"Inside," the man cut him off, but grinned. "I only work here. Good—No, make it 'happy landings,' for you two."

For a brief instant Dave had the wild impulse to stand his ground and get a few explanations before he took another step in this seemingly screwball journey that had begun outside Air Vice-Marshal Stoneham's Air Ministry Office. However, he killed the desire even as it was born, and after a quick side glance at Freddy, twisted the door handle and stepped inside.

He had no idea what he expected to find inside, and what he