Free The Devil—With Wings by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

head, trying to think of some way to change Forsythe’s mind. But his mind was a whirl of despair. He finally reached into the rear cockpit and hauled out a small kit. From it he took a wad of bandages and handed them to the white man.
    Forsythe tucked the gauze under his jacket.
    Bob Weston was moving away, pulling Patricia with him.
    â€œWait,” snapped Forsythe. “Come back!”
    Bob and Patricia came closer to him and the glinting goggles stared blankly at them through the night.
    â€œWeston,” said Forsythe. “You’ll wait for a little while—a few days—in Vladivostok. And if…and when I show up I can help you get your gold out of the country. Don’t get me wrong. I want none of it. But…you didn’t realize before that you were responsible for Miss Weston. You won’t forget that again?”
    Bob nodded wonderingly.
    â€œAnd one more thing!” barked Forsythe.
    Bob looked attentively as Forsythe sank down to sit on the catwalk. He wondered when he saw the black-garbed figure grinning at him.
    â€œGive me your cigarettes,” said Forsythe.
    Hastily Bob brought a package forth and handed them over. Forsythe lit one and inhaled deeply. The red spark throbbed as he pulled on it again.
    Suddenly Bob understood. He reached out his hand. Forsythe started to take it and changed his mind, shifting over to his left. And even then Bob felt the thick dampness which ran from the cuff to the back of the hand.
    Bob turned and Patricia stumbled after him, looking back. Lin looked forlornly at Forsythe and then trudged away. Ching dallied, hoping Forsythe would forget his order.
    â€œWhat are you waiting for?” roared Forsythe.
    â€œNothing,” whimpered Ching.
    â€œGet going. They need your help.”
    Ching turned very slowly and went around the wing. He stopped once, wanting badly to go back. But he did not dare.
    When he reached the bluff above the river, Ching turned once more. He could see a glowing dot of red pulsating beside the vague outline of the ship.
    Forsythe, sitting on the pack of his harnessed parachute, listened quietly. He had been hearing a far-off drumming sound for some time. It was distinct now, though still miles away.
    He stood up and glanced southeast at the glowing sky, painted pearl with the rising moon. Shinohari was on his way with a score of ships at his back.
    Forsythe ground the glowing coal of the cigarette into the dust and stepped wearily up to slide down into his pit. He kicked the engine into life and braked one heel to turn.
    Full gun he streaked southeast, exhausts flaring against the night.

CHAPTER TEN
    The Death of
Akuma-no-Hané
    T HE car had crossed the river, heavy-laden, though the cargo in the black wooden boxes was very small. Bob Weston was driving across the open plain, setting his course by a star as engineers will.
    Lin and Ching were kneeling on the back seat, looking upward and southward. They could see the pinpoint of red which was the attack ship’s flaming exhaust and they could hear the drumming roar of many engines far away but coming nearer. Sadness and death were in their dark eyes as they watched.
    Patricia turned to look at them and then followed their gaze. Her eyes were misty, sorrow lay heavily in her breast. “Ching. Did he… Is he doing that because the Japanese will think we are in the plane?”
    â€œYou didn’t know that all the time?” said Ching bitterly.
    â€œThen…then there isn’t any chance of his getting away from them?”
    â€œOne plane against twenty?” said Ching angrily. “Not a chance! He knew he could never fly away from here alive. He knew it! You did that to him!”
    Patricia looked startled.
    â€œYou know what I’m talking about,” said Ching. “He’s doing this to let you get away. They’ll never send a patrol to search for us after he’s shot down. They’ll think we all died with him. The