"They'd better not!" was the general's only comment.
"Well," said Whitlow, "what happens now?"
"The men that were in that Whirligig have—since you and I went to my office to chat—been transported to the airfield, from which point they were taken aloft—" he consulted his watch, "five minutes, and fifty-five-point-six seconds ago."
"And?" asked Whitlow, casually unbuckling the straps of his brief case and slipping out his sandwich.
"The plane will be within bomb vector of this target in just ten seconds!" said Webb, confidently.
Whitlow listened, for the next nine seconds, then, right on schedule, he heard the muted droning of a plane, high up. Webb joggled him with an elbow. "They'll fall faster than any known enemy weapon can track them," he said, smugly.
"That's fortunate," said Whitlow, munching desultorily at his sandwich. "Bud dere's wud thig budduhs bee."
"Hmmf?" asked the general.
Whitlow swallowed hastily. "I say, there's one thing bothers me."
"What's that?" asked the general.