they've quit; I'm not treating them to a
double-cross."

And he added as he went out of the room: "Buy it for me if you don't
want it yourself."

* * * * *

It was a two-place, open-cockpit plane that Smithy found had been set
aside for him. Dual control--the stick in the forward cockpit carried
the firing grip that controlled the slim blue machine guns firing
through the propeller. Behind the rear cockpit a strange, unwieldy,
double-ended weapon was recessed and streamlined into the fuselage.
The scout seemed quite able to protect itself in an emergency.

Beside the plane a tall, slender man in civilian attire was waiting.
He stuck out his hand, while the gray eyes in his lean, tanned face
scanned Smithy swiftly.

"I'm Culver. Understand I'm to be your passenger to-day. How about
it--can you fly the ship? Seven hundred and fifty DeGrosse
motor--retractable landing gear, of course. She hits four-fifty at top
speed--snappy--quick on the trigger."

Smithy shook his head dubiously. "Four-fifty--I'm not accustomed to
that. But you can take the stick, Mr. Culver, if I get in a hurry and
jump out and run on ahead. You see I'm used to my own ship, an
_Assegai_--special job--does five hundred when I'm pressed for time."

The lean face of Mr. Culver creased into a smile. "You qualify," he
said. "But keep your hands off the dead mule."

At an inquiring glance he pointed to the heavy, half-hidden weapon
that Smithy had noticed. "Can't kick," he explained, "--hence 'dead
mule.' It's the new Rickert recoilless; throws little shells the size
of your thumb--but they raise hell when they hit."

"Sounds interesting." Smithy climbed into the rear cockpit and
strapped himself in. "Show me how it works, then I won't do it."

* * * * *

A pistol grip moved under Culver's reaching hand and the strange
weapon sprang from concealment like something alive. The pistol grip
moved sideways, and the gun swung out and down, its muzzle almost
touching the ground. Smithy was suddenly aware that a crystal above
his instrument board was reflecting that same bit of sun-baked earth.
A dot of black hung stationary at the crystal's center.

"That's your target." Culver's voice held all the pride of a child
with a new toy, but he released the grip, and the ungainly gun swung
smoothly back to its hiding place.

He settled himself in the forward cockpit. "You will find a helmet
ther