Lyle chuckled, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "We're back to attitudes, then—right?" He looked up, his gaze suddenly intent. "I think I've got an answer to your question now, Morrow."
Morrow squinted at him. "What're you getting at, Lyle?"
"Those aircraft construction materials you had shipped to Stockton," Lyle said quietly. "Building an experimental plane without authorization is a federal offense. The fine's five hundred dollars. You got five hundred bucks, Morrow?"
"I think so," Morrow replied cautiously.
"And you got a couple aeronautical engineers here who could whip up some kind of little airplane, haven't you?"
"Suppose I have?"
"Well, whip up something! Just so it'll get off the ground—put a motorcycle engine in it—and the Civil Aeronautics boys will have something to take their hatchets to. Plant it out at that sawmill of yours." Lyle's sombre eyes were laughing silently.
"So I'll pay a five-hundred-dollar fine?" Morrow asked perplexedly.
"Uh huh. And I can write a report that'll close this case."
"You—" Morrow broke off, staring at the calm, good-natured agent.