Squadron-Leader Bigglesworth walked purposefully across the tarmac. It was a cold, grey, November morning, and the mist was drifting across the desolate airfield. Biggles clambered onto the wing of the waiting Jupiter and lowered himself into the cockpit.
"Weather looks dicey," observed Ginger drily.
"The sooner we get off the better," murmured Algy, "I'd rather see this bally fog from topsides."
"Shut up, the pair of you," snapped Biggles, "and hand me the substances." "Oh, you're not going to smoke, are you Biggles?" queried Algy.
"It's such a bally awful smell," added Ginger ruefully.
Biggles took some resin from the First-Aid box, and working away with his pen-knife, soon had enough to fill a generous joint. He lit up briskly, and slam-ming the Jupiter into full throttle, taxied into the drifting mist, through the hangar, the W.A.A.F. Canteen, a car park, a Social Centre, a model agency and an art-book publisher's delivery depot.
Suddenly he was airborne. Algy breathed a sigh of relief and eased himself out of the co-pilot's seat.
"Oh, it's so hot in here," Algy declared evenly.
He began to unzip his flying jacket and soon stood naked in the faint glow of the altimeter.
Ginger blushed hotly.
Algy returned his blush curtly.
Biggles also turned red and blushed and threw the twin-engined Jupiter into a tight turn over the airfield.
"Does my body offend you, Biggles?" queried Algy sharply.
Biggles said nothing. His drug-ravaged features showed no glimmer of emotion. His lips were set, his dilated pupils looked neither to right nor left, his hands gripped the joystick.
Suddenly out of the clouds, directly ahead of them, Ginger glimpsed the red flash of the Heinkel fighter.
"Look it's von Richthofen," he cried excitedly.
"Get your clothes on, Algy," murmured Biggles curtly.
"Shan't," returned Algy, teasingly
"He's coming at us out of the sun!" yelled Ginger anxiously.
"Put your bloody trousers on, Algy," repeated Biggles grimly.
But it was too late, von Richthofen came nearer and nearer. Soon he was in the cockpit.
"My God we're done for," screamed Ginger.
"Aha! all ready are vee!" shouted von Richthofen, tearing off his flying suit.
Soon the little Jupiter monoplane powered by two 770 h.p. Cyclone engines was rocking from side to side, as the dastardly German wreaked his awful revenge on the drug-crazed British lads. . .
