I nearly choked. That was supposed to be the very pinnacle of the top secret stuff. But she was right of course. Four of the earlier models had cracked up. No pilots in them at the time—radio controlled. But jobs designed to carry pilots nevertheless.
"Some pitchers have great big ugly-looking ears," I said.
She didn't seem to mind. She said, "Or maybe I'm really psychic as you said. Or maybe my Dad's being Chief at Airtech has something to do with it."
"Somebody oughta stitch a zipper across his big fat yap," I said. "And weld the damn thing shut."
"He told only me," she said softly. "And then only because of you. You see, Baby, he isn't like us. He's got old fashioned notions you and I've got strings tied around each other already just because you gave me a ring."
I stared at her.
"Crazy, isn't it? He isn't sensible like us."
"Can the gag lines, Doll," I said sourly. "The old bird's okay."
And that fetched a few moments of silence in the room—thick pervading silence. A silence to be broken at any fractional second and heavy—supercharged—because of it.
I said finally, "Somebody has to take it up. It might as well be me. And they've already asked me."