“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 suddenly 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 recognition.
“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 question, eithernot yet.