"There's a chance of a dud--?"
"Some. Partial dud, anyhow."
The colonel seemed agitated. "In that case, wouldn't they get the
secret?"
The old man had a goatee. He reached for it. "Yes. Yes, they might.
And spend the next twenty years trying to put one together."
Colonel Calm continued down a narrow passage and opened a small door.
Freckles Mahoney was taking his ease at the breeches of his tail
guns--rocked back--staring at the vault where the powdery light was
least. Daydreaming of a gum-chewing, short-haired, underbreasted
Kalamazoo High School babe--and keeping his eyes peeled.
The door shut.
The colonel nerved himself for the return passage. Worse than being
born--so far as he could remember. Dragging a placenta of parachute
and harness through an aluminum canal with an atomic bomb beneath. He
gave the three gunners his smile and they did not know it was--this
time--a smile of fighting himself. At any rate, he thought, after one
more crawl through eternity he could stay in the control compartment,
forward. Unless Sopho wanted him.
He took hold of the ladder, sighted through the black tube to freedom's
eye at the far end--and his blood turned to water.
Three men besides the gunners?
He felt horror between his shoulder blades--gun, knife, and worse. He
checked crew and passengers.
He pretended to be untangling his chute straps, preparing to go
through the round-eyed hell. Jordan on the top blister. Smith left,
here. White right--and the unknown man beside him. No visible rank.
Coveralls--insignia worn or torn off. Bearded like a submariner or the
men he had relieved on Guadal. Hawk nose, brown eyes--extraordinarily
intelligent, too--firm mouth, a gentle, definitely civilian look. Never
saw him before.
This, the colonel realized, was obviously impossible.
He'd trained the crew, himself--picked each man, with special help
from Headquarters--and met all the passengers weeks ago--old Sopho
last--but, still--weeks ago.
Each member of the company--cleared, checked, quadruple-checked,
traced by G2 back through every childhood peccadillo, back through
generations. Truman himself couldn't have got a man on board without
the colonel's okay--his invitation and acquaintance.
He felt sick and feeble; he clung to the ladder under the tunnel mouth
and staggered as the B-29 dived ponderously through a downdraft. Some
last-minute thing, he decided; certainly the impossible passenger
did not appear to be dangerous. One could not look at him and think
of sabotage at the same time. These bloody, accursed, God-damned
scientists! Very Important Person--he looked every inch a VIP--a VIP in
science, not military affairs. No bearing to speak of--and that kindly
smile at the corners of that mouth.
Last-minute stuff.
It would be assumed the colonel knew--but his four-way check had
slipped.
When he returned to base--chevrons would fall. Lieutenants, captains,
majors would drop back a grade.
_See who he is._
The colonel went over to Smith, squatted.
"Skipper!" Smith said, returning the smile, the Air Force treasure.
The ship thrummed. Buzzed. Hummed. Ate air. Hurried toward the enemy
islands.
Colonel Calm feigned to look from the blister. He supposed he saw, in
the gray below, the corrugations of the Pacific, and above, the pearly
heavens, the solid stretch of wing, the streamlined engine-housing.
They were there, at least.
"The man with White. His name. Can't think of it."
"Chris."
"Chris what?"
Smith seemed embarrassed. "All I know. He came through the tunnel half
an hour ago. 'Call me Chris,' he said. And he said, 'Mind if I sit?'"
The smile was a mask. He could keep it on his face even now. Eyes
lighted up by the battery of will, corners crinkled, lips relaxed, a
human twitch of the nose--man-loving, disdainful of blood and death,
enemy and calamity. He could.
_Came through the tunnel._
The man had not been in the control cabin, to begin with.
No bearded man.
No--Chris.
The colonel turned on his bent toes, the stranger watching.
Should he jump the guy?
Tell Smith to dive in with him?
Go back for a pistol and shoot from the tunnel?
The man smiled pleasantly.
Colonel Calm stood up, went round the post and track--the high barber's
chair--and the gear and machinery that subtended the gunner in the top
blister.
"Hi," the colonel said.
"Wonderful--a ship like this!"
"I've forgotten your last name."
"Chris."
"Oh. I don't believe I've had the pleasure--?"