Below his feet, as they rested in their metal stirrups, an aluminum
plate silently slid back. An oblong of dim light blurred up through
the heavy plate-glass sheet it had masked.

Glancing down, the Master saw far, far below him a slowly rotating
vagueness of waters black and burnished, of faintly twinkling lights.
Lights and water drew backward, as the rotary motion gave way to a
southern course. The Master slowed the helicopters. A glance at the
altimeter showed him 1,965 feet. The compass in its binnacle gave him
direction.

"Pit number one!" he sharply exclaimed into the phone connecting
therewith.

"Yes, sir!" came back the observer's voice.

"Keep a sharp eye out for _Niss'rosh_! Remember, two red lights
showing there!"

"Yes, sir. I'll report as soon as I pick them up."

The Master, knowing his course thither should be S.E. by S., drew the
liner to that exact angle. Under his skilled touch at the wheel, the
compass needle steadied to the dot. The searchlight lanced its way
ahead, into the vague drift of the smoke arising from New York.

"Sight it, yet?" demanded the Master, presently.

"Yes, sir. Just picked it up. Hold hard, sir!"