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He had to think urgently whether he should choose to parachute or look for a place to land. In this part of the Sahara, there were no dangerous wild animals, and the kilogram of pistol and cartridges might prove terribly heavy for the last few kilometers. The Spitfire had reached a speed of 680 kilometers per hour, probably a little faster than the plane in front of him, because he was getting closer as far as the eye could see, but not quite fast enough. Maybe it was the fact that he had someone to talk to, or maybe it was the way Melina managed to shadow his path. A hundred meters? He slept hard, thinking of Melina, because even though he realized it was silly, he had really grown fond of her and her voice. They were Messerschmitt 109s, and it was understandable that they should attack on the last stretch of road, for even with extra tanks of gasoline they still could not safely cover the distance from where they took off to where they expected to meet the convoys.