_Invisible Fate_
THE NEW SUN had been up for a couple of hours and its pure golden rays
played tag on the wings of the Vultee as the two seater attack craft
droned steadily onward. Long ago Dave had tired of watching the deep
blue Caribbean roll by beneath him. He had also tired of spotting the
little groups of cays that stuck up out of the water here and there. An
hour ago they had skirted the most eastern tip of Nicaragua, and now
they were thundering straight down the world toward Panama. An hour at
the most and they would be sliding down to a landing on the Air Corps
Base at Colon, on the Caribbean side of the Canal.
An hour at the most. Dave sighed, pushed up his goggles and dug knuckles
into his tired eyes. It had been a pretty monotonous trip. Just drilling
along in the dark of night well off shore of the Central American
countries, so that they wouldn’t be mistaken for enemy aircraft and get
a few anti-aircraft shells tossed up at them. Just drilling along with
nothing to break up the flight and make it more interesting. Of course,
in his heart that was the last thing Dave wanted. Or Freddy Farmer,
either, for that matter. Still, it was nice to imagine that it would
help a little if a Messerschmitt or two should come streaking out of
nowhere with all guns blazing. Nothing so soul-satisfying as smacking a
couple of Nazis before breakfast.
Dave pulled the string on his crazy, rambling thoughts, and shifted his
position in the seat.
“You still there, Freddy?” he called out. “Or was that air bump a ways
back you jumping out?”
“It wasn’t,” Freddy replied. “But I’ll admit I’ve been toying with the
thought. Too bad this isn’t a seaplane. Then we could at least land down
there and have a swim.”
“And maybe a shark or two for company?” Dave laughed. “No thanks, pal.
Those things can go a whole lot faster than I can. When it comes to
swimming down there, I like it fine up here. Well, say something! Keep
the conversation going before I fall asleep, and we _do_ land down
there--in a heap.”
“Keep the conversation going yourself!” Freddy growled back at him. “I’m
quite content just to listen to the sound of your voice. Though, of
course, I’ve heard much better voices, not so much like pebbles rattling
around in a tin can.”
“Bum!” Dave snorted. “For that I should keep my trap shut and let you go
quietly screwy by yourself. But seeing it’s you, I won’t. What do you
know about the Panama Canal, Freddy?”
“A fair amount, I fancy,” the English youth replied. “I studied
geography in school, you know.”
“Oh!” Dave echoed. “Then you _did_ go to school? I’ve often wondered.
Fine, then. Tell me this, student. Supposing you entered the Canal at
the Colon end? Where would you be headed?”
“For the Pacific,” was the instant reply. “Or, to be exact, for the Bay
of Panama.”
“Nuts to you!” Dave barked. “I mean, what direction?”
“What direction?” Freddy echoed. “The bloke must be mad, and completely
off his topper. Why, west, of course!”
Dave twisted around in the seat and made a face.
“See?” he cried. “No brains, as I’ve always said. Or at least, what goes
in there doesn’t stay for long. Stand in the corner for a while, my
little man. Then take a good look at those map charts of yours back
there.”
“Eh, what?” Freddy grunted.
“What I said,” Dave replied. “Take a gander at those map charts back
there. Then come around front, here, and beg me to let you remain in the
classroom.”
“Rot!” Freddy muttered. “You’re talking crazy rubbish, and I fancy--”
The English youth’s voice trailed off, and it became obvious that he was
studying his map charts of the Canal and surrounding area. Dave took a
quick look back to make sure, then turned front and waited for the
explosion. It came at the end of perhaps twenty-five seconds.
“Good grief!” the words burst forth from the English youth’s lips.
“Why--why, I always thought--!”
“You, and a few million other people!” Dave said with a laugh as Freddy
stumbled. “The Panama Canal does _not_ run from east to west. It’s from
west to east. Or if you want to get technical about it, the Canal runs
from the northwest to the southeast. It’s the cockeyed bend in the
Republic of Panama that makes it that way. Remember that little item,
Freddy. It may help you to be the life of the party some day.”
“Thank you, no!” the English youth grunted. “But that certainly is
amazing! I mean, it’s certainly something new I’ve learned.”
“Stick around,” Dave chuckled. “I’ll get you educated, if it kills me.
But pass over one of those charts, will you? One you’re not using. I
want to have a look at it myself.”
Freddy Farmer did as he was asked. Dave took the chart tacked to the
board, rested it against the top of the joy stick and began to study it.
Perhaps two minutes later a white light seemed to explode in his head.
He let out a wild yell, lurched in the seat, and unconsciously sent the
Vultee nosing down into a crazy power dive. Freddy Farmer’s voice in his
ears was a scream.
“Dave, good grief! What’s happened? Are you all right? What’s the
matter?”
Dave’s eyes were bulging out, and his heart was hammering furiously
against his ribs as he recovered from the sudden dive and brought the
Vultee back onto even keel.
“I knew it, I _knew_ it!” he choked out.
“Knew what?” Freddy cried angrily. “For Heaven’s sake, what’s got into
you?”
“Another hunk of the mystery puzzle, Freddy!” Dave shouted as he twisted
around in the seat. “Remember how I said we should both keep chewing
over poor Tracey’s four words that sounded like Albuquerque? Well,
that’s just what he meant, Freddy. But _not_ Albuquerque, New Mexico!”
“No?” the English youth cried breathlessly, and leaned way forward so
that he could see the map chart Dave Dawson held in his hands. “Then
what did he mean?”
“He said 'southern Albuquerque_s_'!” Dave cried. “Get it? _Plural!_
That’s what he meant--_right there_!”
As Dave spoke the last he touched a fingertip to a point on the map
chart. It was a group of tiny islands about a hundred and twenty-five
miles due east of the central east coast of Nicaragua. And right
underneath the group of tiny dots was printed: