"Those aircraft construction materials you had shipped to Stockton,"
Lyle said quietly. "Building an experimental plane without
authorization is a federal offense. The fine's five hundred dollars.
You got five hundred bucks, Morrow?"
"I think so," Morrow replied cautiously.
"And you got a couple aeronautical engineers here who could whip up
some kind of little airplane, haven't you?"
"Suppose I have?"
"Well, whip up something! Just so it'll get off the ground--put a
motorcycle engine in it--and the Civil Aeronautics boys will have
something to take their hatchets to. Plant it out at that sawmill of
yours." Lyle's sombre eyes were laughing silently.
"So I'll pay a five-hundred-dollar fine?" Morrow asked perplexedly.
"Uh huh. And I can write a report that'll close this case."
"You--" Morrow broke off, staring at the calm, good-natured agent.
"The stuff you've got here is poison to today's world," Lyle said
quietly. "Maybe, in time, guys like me can change all that. Until we
do--" He left the rest unsaid.
Morrow let his breath out slowly. Then he extended his hand. The young
agent's grasp was firm, decisive.
"If you two're through yakking," Smitty growled, shoving past them,
"let's get outta here!" He mounted to the ship's hatch.
The two men followed him and the hatch folded shut, flush with the
sleek hull. Then, gravs humming, the black ship lifted from the field.
It dwindled rapidly into the upper darkness.