that he shouldn't expect maximum
conditions.

A glance at his watch showed that slightly less than a half-hour had
elapsed since the phone call. It would be another half-hour before
Brad reached the probable contact point beyond the fishing grounds,
and it would take the Cub only about twelve minutes to reach it. There
was no use in starting just yet. He sat down on the grass under the
wing of the Cub and hurriedly stood up again. The dew already had
fallen and the grass was wet.

Scotty chuckled. "Something bite you?"

"Thought we could sit it out for a little while," Rick explained. "But
it's too wet." He knew he couldn't sit still, anyway. He wanted to get
into the air, to get the feel of things. "Crank 'er up," he requested.

He slid into the pilot's seat and placed the camera beside him.
Scotty walked around to the front of the plane and started the engine.
Then, as Rick warmed it, he untied the tie ropes, removed the wheel
chocks, and got in. "Relax," he advised.

"I'm trying to," Rick returned. "Buckle in. Here we go." He fastened
his seat belt and Scotty did likewise.

The grass landing strip stretched ahead for a distance that seemed
much shorter in the moonlight. Rick glued his eyes to the point where
it ended and pushed forward on the throttle. He wouldn't need lights
for the takeoff. The plane shuddered and he released the brakes. The
tail came up and the Cub rolled, picking up speed rapidly, then lifted
smoothly from the grass. Airborne!

The horizon was clearly defined and Rick breathed a sigh of relief. No
trouble in flying level now. Their only bad moment would come in
landing. He climbed to almost a thousand feet, then set a course for
Whiteside. He wanted to get a look at the airport approaches by night.
In a short space he saw the field beacon and then the red boundary
lights. He throttled back and let the nose drop, crossing the field at
less than two hundred feet. It looked easy. The tension left him and
he flew easily, automatically. He had been flying the Cub for so long
that it behaved like part of him, without conscious effort. He climbed
steadily in a shallow turn until his altimeter read two thousand feet
and he was heading out to sea. Far below, Spindrift Island was a dark
extension of the land, almost completely framed by silvery, moonlit
water.

"Pretty," Scotty said.

Rick nodded. He knew his mother and father were listening to the
plane's drone down there. They wouldn't sleep