McDonough slipped inside the door, and swung his BEG
components onto the chart table. Light was pouring into the
briefing room from the tiny office, dazzling after the long
darkness. In the briefing room the radio biinked a tiny red
eye, but the squadron’s communications officer hadn’t yet
arrived to answer it. In the office, Martinson’s voice rumbled
softly, urgently, and the phone gave him back thin un-
intelligible noises, like an unteachable parakeet.
Then, suddenly, the adjutant appeared at the office door
and peered at McDonough. “What are you waiting for?” he
said. “Get that mind reader of yours into the Cub on the
double.”
“What’s wrong with the Aeronca? It’s faster.”
“Water in the gas; she ices up. We’ll have to drain the
tank. This is a hell of a time to argue.” Martinson jerked
open the squealing door which opened into the hangar, his
hand groping for the light switch. McDonough followed him,
supporting his sling with both hands, his elbows together.
Nothing is quite so concentratedly heavy as an electronics
chassis with a transformer mounted on it, and four of them
make a back-wrenching load.
The adjutant was already hauling the servicing platform
across the concrete floor to the cowling of the Piper Cub.
“Get your stuff set,” he said. “I’ll fuel her up and check the
oil.”
“All right. Doesn’t look like she needs much gas.”
“Don’t you ever stop talkin’? Let’s move.”
McDonough lowered his load to the cold floor beside the
plane’s cabin, feeling a brief flash of resentment. In daily
life Martinson was a job printer who couldn’t, and didn’t,