“O.K.,” Martinson said, rejoining them. “Tunnel’s blocked
at both ends. I talked to Ralph at the dispatcher’s; he was
steamingsays he’s lost four trains already, and another due
in from Buffalo in forty-four minutes. We cried a little about
it. Do we go now?”
“Right now.”
Martinson drew his automatic and squatted down on the
front of the truck. The little car growled and crawled toward
the -tunnel. The spectators murmured and shook their heads
knowingly.
Inside the tunnel it was as dark as always, and cold, with
a damp chill which struck through McDonough’s flight
jacket and dungarees. The air was still, and in addition to
its musty smell it had a peculiar metallic stench. Thus far,
however, there was none of the smell of fuel or of combustion
products which McDonough had expected. He found sud-
denly that he was trembling again, although he did not really
believe that the EEG would be needed.
“Did you notice those wings?” Martinson said suddenly,
just loud enough to be heard above the popping of the
motor. The echoes distorted his voice almost beyond rec-
ognition.
“Notice them? What about them?”
“Too short to be bomber wings. Also, no engines.”
McDonough swore silently. To have failed to notice a
detail as gross as that was a sure sign that he was even more
frightened than he had thought. “Anything else?”
“Well, I don’t think they were aluminum; too tough.
Titanium, maybe, or stainless steel. What have we got in
here, anyhow? You know the Russkies couldn’t get a fighter
this far.”
There was no arguing that. There was no answering the