8
It could have been morning; it could have been night; the light on
the airfield was such as seeps across the northern pole in winter.
Engines hiccupped and caught fire within themselves. Gouts of blue
fire streamed from their steel nostrils and human figures warily aimed
extinguishers as they crouched under the great wings. One B-29--a
special craft--sucked up its ladder.
"Good luck!" a thin voice called.
The slam of a hatch replied. The plane snorted, bellowed, vibrated
against its chocks, and lurched about. Like a house on casters--like a
house-sized aluminum insect, it moved in the opalescent murk.
There was a pause.
At Flight Control, the ground officers of the Twentieth Air Force made
a last check. It was not sergeant's work, or lieutenant's. Brass looked
at the weather maps--high brass read the bulletins, squinted into
the instruments, followed the meterological balloons, talked through
telephones. Anxious brass at the hangar interrogated the mechs--studied
the quadruple checks, the four-colored V's ranged after a list of
thirteen hundred and eleven critical parts of a very heavy bomber. In
the officers' mess, captains, young majors, young lieutenant colonels
filled their trays, walked to the tables, sat, listened while the juke
box sang--