"It can't be. The jacket was made in Japan, the boots in Mexico, the parachute in—"
"I know, I know," said the President. "But if they should trace it to us, we'll be a laughing-stock."
"They won't," the Secretary assured him.
Two days later, Blake was back, his manner jovial when he met in secret session once more with the two executives.
"Couldn't have gone more perfectly, gentlemen," he said, rubbing his hands together and bouncing on his toes. "We passed directly over Moscow, at a height of ten miles, on the stroke of midnight. The night was overcast and starless. Teddy was dropped through the bomb bay. I saw his parachute open myself. He's down there now, and we're sure to see signs any day now of the little cracks in the Iron Curtain."
"You had no trouble with the enemy?" the President asked, though the answer—since Blake was back alive—was obvious.
"None," Blake said. "The radar shield performed exactly as specified, sir. Not a blink of a searchlight nor a single ground-to-air rocket did we see. Perhaps, on hearing us pass by, they sent up an investigating plane or two, but we were long gone by then. That's the advantage of moving faster than the sound you make," he added pontifically.
"I still feel we've overlooked something," said the President. "In the back of my mind, a small voice keeps trying to remind me of something about the Russians, something that should have made me veto this whole scheme at the start."
Blake looked puzzled. "What about them, sir? If it's in regard to their psychology, I can assure you—"