crumpler! For every crate I've busted up, you've—"

"No doubt Churchill got in touch with your President," the English youth went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "They often talk with each other by trans-oceanic phone, I understand. Perhaps right after Pearl Harbor, Churchill called up and said, 'I say, Mr. President! That chap, Dave Dawson—he's one of you Yanks, you know.' And your President said, 'Oh, yes, Dawson. Has that blighter crashed again, Mr. Prime Minister?' To which Churchill replied, 'Can't say, Mr. President. Haven't looked over the R.A.F. flight reports for the day yet. It's quite likely, though. But what I called about, Mr. President: Now that you're in this war, do you think you could take the little beggar off our hands? Our aircraft production is on the rise, but—'"

Freddy Farmer cut off the last as he suddenly realized that he was only talking to the Clipper's window. He swung around on his heel, gulped, and blushed to the roots of his hair. Dave Dawson and some dozen other passengers of the Clipper were standing there in a group smiling at him.

"It's the altitude, ladies and gentlemen," Dave said loudly. "On the ground he's really quite a nice guy. But go on, Freddy. I didn't mean to interrupt. Sorry."

His whole face on fire, Freddy Farmer took a step forward, fists bunched. Then he quickly relaxed, and grinned.

"Fancy I asked for it," he said. Then, with a grave bow at the other passengers, he added, "It's undoubtedly the truth, though. He has crashed more than any other pilot in the R.A.F. Just look at his face. Nothing but countless crashes could make it look like that. I ask you!"

"Okay, that evens up!" Dave cried, as everybody joined in the laugh. "But you sounded as if you were set for hours."

At that moment the steward came into the lounge and requested the passengers to take their seats while the landing was being made. As Dave dropped into his seat next to Freddy, a tingle of excitement quivered through his body, and his heart started whanging around in his chest like a broken piston rod. Back home! Back home to the good old U.S.A. He still could hardly believe that it was true. It was more like living out a dream—a wonderful, joy-filled dream. He was afraid that almost any second he would wake up and find himself back in his hut at some Royal Air Force Fighter Squadron in England, or Egypt, or India, or the Far East.

"But it's not a dream, it's true!" he heard his own voice mutter softly. "And that's just why it doesn't make sense! Why should it be true? Why did the Air Ministry send Freddy and me over here?"

CHAPTER TWO
Center Of The World

As the giant Pan-American Clipper went sliding down toward the landing basin off LaGuardia Field, that question sounded again and again in Dave's brain like a tolling bell. But each time he could think of no answer that seemed reasonable or logical. And each time he groped for the answer, he mentally kicked himself for not having taken the bull by the horns and found out a few things when he had the chance.

That chance had come just a few days ago; two days after he and Freddy had returned from their special assignment in the Singapore area of the war. They hadn't been appointed to any squadron upon their arrival in London. Fact was, they had been given a week's leave to enjoy themselves in the war-torn but still very much chin-up city. They did have fun for two days. Then came the order to report to a certain room at the Air Ministry. It turned out to be the office of Air Vice-Marshal Stoneham, in charge of Active Service Personnel.

For the first few minutes the high ranking Air Ministry official had inquired about their health, how they liked being back in London, and a lot of other things that were of equal "value" in waging a winning war. Then suddenly he had informed them that they were leaving the next day for the United States. It was with great difficulty that they kept from toppling right out of their chairs. And while each struggled to catch his breath and gain control of his tongue, the Air Vice-Marshal had gone on to say that they would fly to Lisbon by British Airways, and from Lisbon to New York by Pan-American Clipper. Upon arriving at New York they would be met by a member of the British Embassy at Washington who would escort them to the Nation's Capital.

"So there you are, Flight Lieutenants," the Air Vice-Marshal had finished up with a smile while they still tried to get their feet back on the ground. "You can pick up traveling vouchers and what-not on the way out. Good luck, and happy landings, and all that sort of thing. Certainly wish I were going along with you. Wonderful country, America. Of course it isn't England, but it's still quite all right, no end."

Perhaps fifteen seconds after that, Dave and Freddy found themselves accepting travel vouchers and other papers from a junior officer. And another couple of minutes after that they found themselves out on the street and headed back toward their hotel. Gosh, yes! He should have asked a few questions of that Air Vice-Marshal when he had the chance. But that had been the trouble. He hadn't had the chance. Things had happened with such startling suddenness and rapidity that—well, bingo, he and Freddy were on the Clipper flying west.

"I wish I hadn't even said it!"

Dave snapped out of his old thought trance and glanced at Freddy Farmer.

"Wish you hadn't said what?" he demanded.

The English youth sighed, made a face, and gestured with one hand.

"That bit about us coming over here to instruct American fledglings," he said. "The more I think of it, the more I'm afraid that it just might be true. That would be terrible, Dave. Not that I don't want to do everything possible to help, you understand. But instruct? I'd be perfectly rotten at that game. I'm sure of it!"

"Me too!" Dawson groaned as his heart started sinking again. "And it would just be my luck to get some student who didn't know a flat spin from a three dollar hat. But I'm sure it can't be that. Heck! Let's look at the bright side. Maybe they've sent us over here to take charge of American war flying."

"Hardly!" Freddy said with a chuckle. "After all, the United Nations really are very keen to win the war, you know. And with you—"

"Skip it!" Dave cut in. "I was only trying to make conversation."

"Don't bother," Freddy murmured, and looked out the window. "It's quite interesting enough to watch one of these big ladies come down and land. Phew! That LaGuardia Field is certainly a big place, isn't it?"

"Fair, just fair," Dave grunted. "It's really just one of our emergency fields, you know. Why, we've got airports over here that are so big that they serve breakfast at the start of the take-off and lunch when the transport passes over the far end of the field. And—"

"And glide from there to a landing on the next airport, eh?" Freddy Farmer grunted.

"You're learning too fast," Dave said with a grin. "I wonder who'll meet us."

"I wonder if he'll be able to tell us anything!" Freddy added. "For two pennies I'd refuse to budge an inch until I'm told what this is all about."

"Do that and you'll be told!" Dave said with a chuckle. "But not the way you think, sweetheart. Ah, nice! A sweet landing, that one. These Clipper captains sure know their onions when it comes to over-water flying. Well, there's the dock, and customs shed. And I wonder who in that crowd is our welcoming committee. Gee! I hope we can spend a little while in New York so I can show you off to the natives."

"Never mind the natives," Freddy said as the huge Clipper was mushed through the water toward the landing dock. "I'll be perfectly content to see the sights."

"And I'm just the guy who can show them to you," Dave said. "Right from the Battery up to the Bronx Zoo. No. Nix on the Bronx Zoo. Can't take chances."