Admiral Sarne's voice was as bitter as General Lloyd's. "How do we fight a machine capable of this?"
"Not by building a bigger and better machine," replied Lloyd in a completely helpless voice.
"So we are unarmed men fighting the best in modern war equipment," grumbled Sarne. "Look, Lloyd, let's get out of this circling race and land somewhere we can sit and talk and plan."
"Washington."
"I prefer—"
"Radar trace at max range, South," came the cry of Sarne's radar officer.
Then, as one, but in whichever direction was most convenient, the combined fleets turned sharply to the South. Throttles went home unaided. The planes jockeyed into a flight pattern and raced towards that single radar target that just missed being off the edge of the screen. The fleets deployed, spreading out into a vast screen that raced to intercept the lone plane.
"That," chattered the radio with a trace of satisfaction, "must be Narina Varada and Harry Vinson. You will—I trust—pardon me if I marshal my allied machines to intercept them. And if you don't pardon me, I'll do it anyway."
6