"Then let's take off. Snub Nose, give Blanco a hand with his safety belt. His hands are stiff."
The wiry little sergeant fastened Hall's belt. "A lot of good it will do you if we ground-loop, Major," he grinned.
This one was a Spaniard. Hall knew it at once. Young, no more than twenty-five, but very dry behind the ears. "Chico," he said, "if we crash and I get hurt I'll murder you."
"You terrify me." Snub Nose was laughing with the animal glee of sheer happiness in being alive. "But I like you. I brought a bucket along just for you when you get air-sick."
"That's enough out of you, General Cisneros!" the first pilot yelled into the microphone in his fist. "Come on up to the office and stop bothering your betters."
"Call me when you feel sick," the boy roared at Hall, his strong-timbred voice rising above the blasts of the engines. He went up forward, stood behind the pilots as the big plane taxied into position and took off.
"I examined the negatives last night," Segador said. "They are worth all they have cost. Were they very hard to get, Mateo?"
"Two lives. But one was a doomed life. It was not hard."
"Feel like sleeping?" Segador pointed to an inflated rubber pallet in the bomb bay.
"I could use a few hours of sleep," Hall admitted. He made his way to the pallet, covered himself with an army greatcoat.