Silence.
"There he is," someone said. A wavering trail of smoke was barely visible below, a thread of white, coming up fast, blown erratically by winds into a distorted tiny snake.
"Altitude ..." said Mitch's voice, "40,000.... Acceleration ... dropping."
The white snake wriggled up to their level, rose above them. Johnny could not see the silver head.
"Altitude ... 65,000.... I have a loud, very high buzz in my headphones. I'm going to—there, it's gone now, went out of my range."
His voice sounded wrong to Johnny, but he couldn't pin it down.
"Altitude ... 105,000. Beginning orbital correction. Beginning—beginning ... I can't—I'm—I'm—" The voice became unintelligible. It was pitched very high, like a woman's, and it sounded as if his teeth were chattering.
"Mitch," Johnny pleaded softly. "Mitch, baby. Dump it, boy, come on home, now. Dump it."
There was no more from the speaker. A confused babble broke out in the bomb-bay. The Sergeant fiddled with his dials frantically, spinning across wavelengths, trying to find a word. The confusion ceased when the speaker rattled again, seeming hours later.
"Uh, hello, Control, this is Red Three, do you read me?" One of the fighter flight.