“Don’t you?”
“You bet!”
“Then for goodness’ sake hurry and take her up top before she gets hysterics waiting. Her plugs will be all foul with impatience if she has to idle much longer!”
Billy shot a startled glance at the girl.
“Gosh,” he said, “you know ships, don’t you?”
“I love them,” said Jennie.
“Well,” said Cobb, “this little bus will stand a lot of affection, sure.”
He slipped on his helmet and was fumbling with the chin strap as he turned to circle the ship’s wing. Jennie laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“Let me fix that for you,” she offered.
The gesture had the untaught spontaneity of twenty years of innocence. There was no art in it, nor coquetry. It was the purest act of friendliness. Which is probably why it was so deadly. Billy Cobb, submitting, looked down at Jennie’s earnest face, her tightly pursed lips, the little wrinkle of concentration between her slender brows; he felt the small fingers working strap and buckle at his throat; and a new religion reared its altar in his heart.