The hills were really ridges of rock, rearing their sharp, bleak heads into the air—a trap for any unwary flyer. To crash on those inhospitable crags would have meant the end for plane and pilot.

Tim lifted the Good News until his wing tips were brushing the massed clouds. Six hundred and fifty was the highest he could go without burying himself in the clouds and flying blind, something which he did not relish.

Tim throttled down to half speed as he reached the first ridge of the Flint hills. He cleared the tops of the crags by two hundred feet and was congratulating himself when another ridge loomed ahead of his spinning prop. The second one bulked higher and beyond he could see a third which buried its head in the low-hanging clouds.

Tim slid over the second ridge and then swung sharply to the right. Perhaps he wou. . . Read More