knifing flame that the searchlights stabbed into the black heavens
as they probed and searched for the black bellies of the bombers. The
dull rapping of anti-aircraft shells beating against the heavy dome
above smashed back the roar of his motor. The ground boys would soon
spread a muck of fire and bursting steel over London.

"Tight, tight, we're coming into the notch," Allison's voice warned.

Red Flight swept north now in a steep, battering turn. The notch was
dead ahead.

"Shove in, Tommy. Don't try slicing a cable," Allison snarled. "Come in!
Come in! Here we go!"

The Spitfires slid closer together, bunched like darting swallows, their
flaming breath licking into the night. In a few seconds they would be
out where they could spread and go into action. For the first time,
since rubbing elbows with a Spitfire, Stan wondered how you bailed out
of the roaring monster if it broke up going 350 miles per hour. He slid
his thumb across the black gun button as he set his windbreaker's edge
on a line with Allison's aileron slit.

Blood pounded in his ears and a chill eagerness laid hold upon him. He
leaned forward and would have shouted. Allison and Tommy and the whole
British Broadcasting System would likely get the benefit of it if he cut
loose with a cowboy yell. He closed his mouth firmly and fixed his eyes
on the aileron slit ahead. The 1,000-horsepower Merlin engine was
throbbing, hurtling him up and into the night. He could feel the
assuring Brownings in the wings, ready to spew a hail of lead at the
enemy. He did not realize it but beads of sweat stood on his forehead.

He was glad he was coming out of the narrow channel of terror which was
charted anew each week. The notch was guarded by unseen, steel cables,
slender knives of spun death, waiting to slice through the wing of a
plane like a knife cutting through hot cheese. Or to come coiling down
upon any ship that struck them squarely. The hydrogen bloated monsters
that held the cables aloft swayed and tugged, sometimes swinging the
steel lines far out into the notch.

Out of this avenue the three Spitfires bored. When they were clear
Allison's drawl came in clearly:

"Pick yourself a bandit."

Two blades of silver light knifed upward. They swept back and forth,
then stopped, remaining straight up. This was a signal Allison
understood perfectly.

"Four bandits, quarter left," he snapped.

Before Stan could lay over, Allison's Spitfire was hurtling acr