chargers pumping and
air-rectifiers normalizing the enclosed pilot's seat.

"But what," he wondered, as he stopped the helicopters, "did he mean
by 'give a _last_ handshake'?"

He was soon to find out.

Behind him, in the fuselage, nestled the weird cluster of machinery
which was the Singe beacon. It certainly did not look imposing--a mass
of spidery tubes mazing round a bulky black box, which was, Lance
guessed, some new type of generator. Out of the top of the device
sprouted a funnel-like horn, from which, on the adjustment of the
beacon's control studs, shot the nullifying ray. Lance could not
suppress a shiver as he thought of the earth-shaking cataclysm that
ray would conjure from the infinitely high heavens.

At forty thousand feet he was above the storm clouds, whose pitchy,
vapor-drenched blackness effectively blanked out all sign of the
earth. He might have been flying in outer space. Keeping a careful eye
on his instruments, he set a course for Sola Ranch. He kept his speed
around three hundred, wishing to meet Hay exactly at nine.

But--would Hay be there?

How much did the Slavs know? How much had Ranth got through before he
stopped him?

A frown creased his brow. It was best not to puzzle over that
question. Best just to go ahead, and keep going.

* * * * *

At about three minutes to nine he set the plane's nose down through
veils of clammy cloud. This was mountainous country, sparsely
patrolled by Slav ships. Lance hovered cautiously over the firred
mountain tops, getting his directions, shooting wary eyes through the
magnifying mirrors in search of enemy scouts. He saw none. Satisfied,
he cut the Rahl-Diesels, gunned the helicopter props and dropped
lightly down on the stubbly field of Sola Ranch.

To left and right loomed the dim outlines of the lonely mountains.
Before the war, the owner of Sola Ranch had grown apples; this field
had housed a few horses. It made a perfect meeting place--secluded,
misty with the clinging mountain vapors, far apart from the war.

Lance felt like a prowling werewolf there, waiting for its ghostly
mate.

Rain was still splattering in desultory bursts, but distance muted the
rumbling salvos' of thunder. His watch told him it was one minute to
nine.

Now--what?

Hay, or a swooping squadron of Slav planes?

Lance stepped out of the cockpit into the rain, though holding himself
tensely ready to leap back again and soar away.