“I hadn’t figured on it,” admitted Joe. “Are you?”
“Perish forbid,” said the co-pilot amiably. “I tried it once, for the devil of it. Those things fly with the grace of a lady elephant on ice skates! Did you, by any chance, notice that they haven’t got any wings? And did you notice where their control surfaces were?”
Joe shook his head. He saw the remnants of ham and eggs and coffee. He was hungry.
There was the uproar to be expected of a basso-profundo banshee in pain. Another pushpot was taking off.
“How do I get breakfast?” he asked.
The co-pilot pointed to a chair. He rapped sharply on a drinking glass. A door opened, he pointed at Joe, and the door closed.
“Breakfast coming up,” said the co-pilot. “Look! I know you’re Joe Kenmore. I’m Brick Talley and this is Captain—no less than Captain!—Thomas J. Walton. Impressed?”
“Very much,” said Joe. He sat down. “What about the control surfaces on pushpots?”
“They’re in the jet blast!” said the co-pilot, now identified as Brick Talley. “Like the V Two rockets when the Germans made ’em. Vanes in the exhaust blast, no kidding! Landing, and skidding in on their tails like they do, they haven’t speed enough to give wing flaps a grip on the air, even if they had wings to put wing flaps on. Those dinkuses are things to have bad dreams about!”
Again, a door opened and a man in uniform with an apron in front came marching in with a tray. There was tomato juice and ham and eggs and coffee. He served Joe briskly and marched out again.