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Updated: August 20, 2024
Tompkins, the co-pilot, never saw it because Mueller was too astounded to even utter a sound. But Mueller had a good look. The body of the object was shaped like a bullet and gave off a "pale, luminescent blue glow." The stubby tail, or exhaust, was marked by "spurts of yellow flame or light." The size? Mueller, like any experienced observer, had no idea since he didn't know how far away it was.
Joe's father owned it, and some day Joe might head it, but he couldn't hope to keep the respect of the men in the plant unless he could handle every tool on the place and split a thousandth at least five ways. Ten would be better! But as long as the feeling at the plant stayed as it was now, there'd never be a security problem there. If the co-pilot was telling the truth, though .
The pilot did things to the levers on the column between the two pilots' seats. He said curtly: "Arm the jatos." The co-pilot did something mysterious and said: "Check." All this took place in seconds. The pilot said, "I see something!" and instantly there was swift, tense teamwork in action. A call by radio, asking for help. The plane headed up for greater clearance between it and the clouds.
He saw the remnants of ham and eggs and coffee. He was hungry. There was the uproar to be expected of a basso-profundo banshee in pain. Another pushpot was taking off. "How do I get breakfast?" he asked. The co-pilot pointed to a chair. He rapped sharply on a drinking glass. A door opened, he pointed at Joe, and the door closed. "Breakfast coming up," said the co-pilot. "Look!
The mechanic made very neat fabric patches over the two holes, upper and lower. He began to go over the fuselage. The pilot turned away. "I'll go talk to Bootstrap," he told the co-pilot. "You keep an eye on things." "I'll keep two eyes on them," said the co-pilot. The pilot went toward the control tower of the field. Joe looked around.
After all, four rockets had exploded deplorably near the ship. If one fragment had struck, others might have. "Nothing big, anyhow," the co-pilot told him. "We'll know presently." But examination showed no other sign of the ship's recent nearness to destruction. It had been overstressed, certainly, but ships are built to take beatings.
"Airfield off to the right," said the co-pilot. "That's for the town and the job. The jets there's an air umbrella overhead all the time have a field somewhere else. The pushpots have a field of their own, too, where they're training pilots." Joe didn't know what a pushpot was, but he didn't ask.
"No kidding," Joe assured him. "In World War Two the only spy scare in the village was an FBI man who came around looking for spies. The village cop locked him up and wouldn't believe in his credentials. They had to send somebody from Washington to get him out of jail." The co-pilot grinned reluctantly. "I guess there are such places," he said enviously. "You should've built the Platform!
Of course the pilot and co-pilot the only two other people on the transport plane knew their stuff. Every imaginable precaution would be taken to make sure that a critically essential device like the pilot gyro assembly would get safely where it belonged.
Probably be a good lead, this business. Only just so many people could know what was coming on this ship, and what course it was flying, and so on. Security will have to check back from that angle." A shadow fell upon the transport ship. A jet shot past from above it. It waggled its wings and changed course. "We've got to land and be checked for damage," said the co-pilot negligently.
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