It was full dawn at last. The recall signal had come and the helicopters were swooping home to Hap Arnold Field.
A bombardier named Novak, red-eyed and grumpy, was amusing himself on the homeward flight by taking practice sights on the stream of work-bound mechanics as they fluttered over Greaserville.
"Could pick 'em off like pigeons," he said sourly to his pilot, as he dropped an imaginary bomb on a cluster of a dozen men. "For two cents, I'd do it, too. The only good greaser is a dead greaser."
His pilot, just as weary, said loftily: "Leave them alone. The best way to handle them is to leave them alone."
And the pilot was perfectly right; and that was the way the world went round, spinning slowly and unstoppably toward the dawn.