“I have been considering that.” Suddenly the Wing Commander laughed outright. “Do you suppose your friend, the pie-eating Irishman, would care to work with you? I should like to have Allison become familiar with the ship, too. In that way we would have three men able to instruct others if we order more of these fighters.”
“I don’t know,” Stan said honestly.
“I could assign them to you, but I prefer to let you ask them,” Farrell said. Then he got to his feet. “You will report to 7-B at once.”
Stan grinned broadly. It would take him away from Garret, at least until the snooping Lieutenant was able to locate him again. He saluted and hurried out of the office.
Stan actually sneaked into the mess. He couldn’t afford to have this chance smashed by a cluck like Garret. The coast was clear. Only a few fliers were lounging about, with Allison and O’Malley among them. Stan crossed the room and sat down between his pals. He did not notice, in his excitement, that they seemed to be expecting him. The clock over the counter showed that in one minute Allison and O’Malley would go on duty. He wondered who would fill in for him in Red Flight.
“Sure, an’ you’ve been shunnin’ us,” O’Malley greeted him.
Stan came to the point at once. “How would you like to copilot a real ship, an American ship?” he asked, looking from one to the other.
“I’d prefer a glider,” Allison said with a wicked leer.
“How about you, Irisher?”
“I wouldn’t mind if me pal didn’t hog the controls all the blessed time.” O’Malley grinned.