"Yeah. About six inches wide at the most. I opened a window and shot it up to the flight deck. Say—did you know some hijackers stole all three of our 'copters?"
"Stole all three of...." Smith's voice dwindled away. When no one else broke the silence, he forced himself to resume. "Yes, I knew. What I would deeply appreciate, Robert, is your telling me how the hell you knew!"
He finished yelling. Westervelt thought that he looked at least as bad as Lydman. Anyone twenty feet away would have completely misjudged them.
"Just as I said," answered Lydman with his tight calm. "I shot this ladder to the roof and climbed up."
"You climbed up? Outside the building?"
"Of course, outside," said Lydman, for the first time showing a trace of snappishness. "I couldn't stand it inside."
He looked around at them again, surprised that there was the slightest hesitation to accept his statement.
"We'll have to redesign that ladder, though," he said. "It's a mite too fine—cuts the hell out of your hands!"
He held out his palms. Across each were several welts. One, on his right hand, had apparently resumed bleeding stickily since Lydman had come in. He fumbled out a handkerchief with his other hand and blotted it.
Smith held his hands to his head.