Not too much. He nodded to Stein, who got up and went forward. After
he came back and sat down the plane slipped on one wing and
straightened on its new course. No one said anything more after that.
We hit Detroit about five thousand feet, the sun just coming up from
Lake Ste. Clair. Smith was right. Although I craned my neck I couldn't
see much. I picked up Gratiot, using the Penobscot Tower for a
landmark, and followed it to Mack, and out Mack. I could just pick
out the dogleg at Connors, and imagined I could see the traffic light
at Chalmers. I had to imagine hard. The way we were flying, the body
and the wing hid where I'd lived, where--the cigarette I had in my
fist tasted dry, and so did my mouth, so I threw it down and closed my
eyes and tried to sleep. Somewhere around Nebraska we landed for fuel.
* * * * *
Maybe it was Kansas. It was flat, and hot, and dry. The Old Man and
Stein and I got out to stretch. There was no shade, no trees, no green
oasis for the traveler. The olive drab tanker that pulled up to pump
gas into our wing tanks was plastered with "No Smoking" tabs, and we
walked away before the hose was fully unreeled. Off to our right was
the only shade, back of the landing strip, a great gray hangar glutted
with shiny-nosed, finny monsters. Out of the acrid half-pleasant reek
of high-octane, we stood smoking idly, watching the denimed air-crews
clamber flylike over the jutting wings. From the post buildings off to
the right jounced a dusty motorcycle. We watched it twist to a jerking
stop at our refueling ship, and the soldier that dismounted bobbed in
salute to the two pilots watching the gassing operation. Two motions
only they used; one to return the salute and another to point us out
in the shadow of the hangar. The soldier shaded his eyes from the sun
to peer in our direction, calculated the distance with his eye, and
then roared his motorcycle almost to our feet.
"Post Commander's compliments," he barked. "And will the gentlemen
please report at once to the Colonel's office?"
The Old Man eyed the motorcycle and the empty sidecar. He looked at
Stein.
"Better stay here," he said thoughtfully. "If I need you, I'll come
back." He climbed awkwardly into the sidecar, and the soldier, after a
hesitant acceptance, kicked the starter. The Old Man gripped the sides
firmly as they bounced away in the baking breeze, and Stein looked
absently at his watch. It was close to noon.
At twelve-thirty the gas truck rolled ponderously back to its den. At
one, our two pilots struck out across the strip for the post
buildings, shimmering in the heat. At one-thirty, I turned to Stein,
who had been biting his nails for an hour.
"Enough is enough," I said. "Who finds out what--you or I?"
He hesitated, and strained his eyes. The Old Man, nor anyone, was not
in sight. The post might have been alone in the Sahara. He chewed his
lip.
"Me, I guess." He knew better than to argue with me, in my mood. "I'll
be back. Ten minutes," and he started for the post. He got no further
than half the distance when an olive sedan, a big one, raced toward
us. It stopped for Stein, sucked him into the front seat, whirled back
past me to our plane standing patiently, and dumped out our two
pilots. A final abrupt bounding spin brought it to the hangar. The Old
Man leaned out of the back door.
"In, quick," he snapped.
I got in, and the soldier driver still had the sedan in second gear
when we got to our ship. One motor was already coughing, and as we
clambered into the cabin the starter caught the second. Both
propellers vanished into a silvered arc, and without a preparatory
warmup we slewed around and slammed back in the bucket seats in a
pounding takeoff. Stein went forward to the pilot's cabin, and I
turned, half-angrily, to the Smith. His face was etched with
bitterness. Something was wrong, something seriously wrong.
"What's up?" I asked. "What's the big hurry?"
He flicked a sidelong glance at me, and his brows almost met. He
looked mad, raving mad.
"Well?" I said. "Cat got your tongue?" I noticed then that he was
fraying and twisting a newspaper. I hadn't seen a newspaper for what
seemed years. Stein came back and sat on the edge of the seat. What in
blazes was the matter?
Smith said something unprintable. That didn't sound right, coming from
that refined face. I raised my eyebrows.
"Leak," he ended succinctly. "There's been a leak. The word's out!"
That was a surprise. A big one.
"And it's thanks to you!"
"Me?"
He flipped the newspaper at me. I caught it in midair, and there it
was, smeared all over the face of the Kansas City _Sentinel_. Great,
black, tall shrieking streamer heads: