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It took Darmstadter a moment to understand what he meant. Then he did.

The needle on the signal-strength meter was now resting against the upper limit peg; there was no way to judge if they were moving ever closer to the transmitter. The signal-strength meter was accepting all the signal strength it was capable of.

When the altimeter indicated 12,000 feet, Canidy pulled his oxygen mask free from his face and rubbed his cheeks and under his chin with his fingers.

When Darmstadter removed his own mask, the fresh air passing through his nostrils and mouth seemed warm and moist. Dolan did not take his mask off.

Darmstadter wondered if this was a manifestation of the declaration he'd made earlier, "if it looks like it's working, don't nick with it," or if Dolan's con centration was on other things and he simply hadn't noticed they were at an altitude where it was safe to fly without bottled oxygen.

And then, suddenly, startlingly, they dropped out of the cloud cover. There was an ocean down there, and land to the front and the sides.

Canidy frantically searched through his aviator's briefcase and came up with a handful of eight-by-ten-inch glossy photographs. Dolan ripped his oxygen mask off.

"What was that you were saying, Dick, about 'right on the money' he asked.

"Jesus," Canidy said.

"And I was right on the edge of agreeing with David Bruce that they shouldn't let old men like you fly."

The two looked at each other and beamed.

"Take her down to the deck, and make your approach around that hill on the left," Canidy said.

"Hey," Dolan said, annoyed, "I'm driving."

But he lowered the nose of the B-25, until they were no more than a thousand feet off the choppy seas of the Adriatic, and made a wide sweeping turn around the hill Canidy had indicated.

When they crossed the rocky beach, they immediately encountered the steep hills of Vis; so an indicated altitude of one thousand feet, which was based on sea level, put them no more than two or three hundred feet over the side of the hill, and then the level valley on shore.

"Go strap yourself in," Dolan ordered.

"Quickly."

Reluctantly, Darmstadter made his way back to the leather-upholstered passenger chairs in the fuselage. He had just sat down, and was fumbling for the seat belt, when the nose of the B-25 lifted abruptly. Ignoring the seat belt, he pressed his nose against the Plexiglas.

There were fifteen or twenty people on a crude runway, their arms waving in a greeting.

Then Dolan stood the B-25 on its wing and began a one-hundred-eighty degree turn. As the plane leveled off, there came the sound of hydraulics as the flaps and gear came down, and the engines changed pitch.

Darmstadter got his seat belt in place just as the plane touched down.

There was a far louder than he expected rumble from the landing carriage, followed immediately by the change of pitch as the engine throttles were retarded.

And then the plane lurched as if something had grabbed it.

Instantly, Darmstadter's view through the Plexiglas disappeared in a gross distortion, and then almost as quickly the distortion seemed to be wiped away.

He realized that what had happened was that water, a great deal of water, had splashed against the window.

The plane was now braking hard. Darmstadter felt himself being pressed against the upholstery of the rear-facing chair.

And then it stopped for a moment, and then turned around. As Darmstadter unfastened his lap belt, the engines died. The silence, broken only by the faint pings and moans of cooling metal, was surprising.

"Vis International Aerodrome," Canidy called cheerfully from the cockpit.

"Connections to Budapest, Voodapest, Zoodapest, and all points east. Thank you for flying Balkan Airlines."

Chuckling, Darmstadter got to the access hatch in the floor behind the cockpit just after Canidy had dropped through it to the ground. Darmstadter jumped after him.