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They moved their bodies as they stared out the windows, so that by no possibility could any part of the plane mask something that they should see. As they searched, the co-pilot spoke evenly into the microphone at his lips: "He wouldn't carry more than four rockets, and he's dumping his racks and firing equipment now. But he might have a friend with him.
In less than an hour, the onrushing moon filled the screens. And with scarcely a quiver of excitement the Nebula circled it swiftly and landed. Wolden and Ato, acting as pilot and co-pilot, set The Nebula down with as much ease as a housewife putting a fine piece of china upon the drainboard. There was no fuss and no noise.
The co-pilot said angrily: "I'll get him a chute." He indicated Joe, and said furiously, "They've been known to try two or three tricks, just to make sure. Ask if we should dump cargo before we crash-land!" The pilot held up the microphone again. He spoke. He listened. "Okay to dump stuff to lighten ship." "You won't dump my crates," snapped Joe. "And I'm staying to see you don't!
The plane's co-pilot leaned back in his chair and stretched luxuriously. He loosened his safety belt and got up. He stepped carefully past the column between the right- and left-hand pilot seats. That column contained a fraction of the innumerable dials and controls the pilots of a modern multi-engine plane have to watch and handle. The co-pilot went to the coffeepot and flipped a switch.
Other men handed up the hose. Joe was moved to comment, but the co-pilot was reading the new flight instructions. It was one of those moments of inconsistency to which anybody and everybody is liable. The two men of the ship's crew had it in mind to be infinitely suspicious of anybody examining their ship.
They were coming at better than five hundred knots ten miles a minute and the transport was heading for them at its top speed of three hundred knots. The transport and the flight of jets neared each other at the rate of a mile in less than four seconds. The co-pilot said crisply: "Silver Messner with red wing-tips.
One by one, the jets chugged, then roared to life. The officer talked to the pilot and co-pilot for a moment. He came down the aisle toward Joe. Mike the midget regarded him suspiciously. The plane stirred. The newly arrived officer said pleasantly, "The Navy Department's sent me out here, Kenmore, to be briefed on what you know and to do a little briefing in turn."
I know you're Joe Kenmore. I'm Brick Talley and this is Captain no less than Captain! Thomas J. Walton. Impressed?" "Very much," said Joe. He sat down. "What about the control surfaces on pushpots?" "They're in the jet blast!" said the co-pilot, now identified as Brick Talley. "Like the V Two rockets when the Germans made 'em. Vanes in the exhaust blast, no kidding!
The engineer had moved up from his control panel and was sitting beside the co-pilot. At 8:30 it was time for a radio position report and the co-pilot, Tom Tompkins, leaned down to set up a new frequency on the radio controls. Robert Mueller, the engineer, was on watch for other aircraft.
He and all the others regarded the ship and Joe and the co-pilot with disfavor. They worked on jets, and to suggest that men who worked on fighter jets were not worthy of complete confidence did not set well with them. The co-pilot noticed it. "They think I'm a suspicious heel," he said sourly to Joe, "but I have to be.
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