What's the number on his turret: 6 ... 7 ... 67? Is that right? The 67 was nearly obliterated. The tank's armor was rust colored, mud and grease smeared, but somebody, at a depot or relay point, had slapped on yellow paint across one side and it was as though the machine sported a yellow crab, its pincers toward the prow.
So Chuck Hitchcock killed himself in a Brooklyn hospital! ... poor guy! Made it to the fire escape, blind as he was! Ten floors. God, to drop ten floors. Three seconds. Right on a paved driveway. He was out of his mind. Perhaps not. Dennison had Jeannette's note--dirty and crumpled--in his billfold. Had it for days, unable to reply. Where was he to get it mailed? In Berlin? What was there to say? What did she expect? Dear Jean: so sorry your brother bumped himself off! With those sightless eyes of his, what could he do? Not even Cyclops!
Better off.
With a jerk, 67 swung violently to starboard: its starboard tread left the highway, and the machine seemed to balance on one tread, race on one; then the highway shoulder crumbled and the bus spun over and over into a gravelled ditch, to stop bottom-up: the whole thing registering on Dennison, sucked inside his brain through his driving viewer.
"Tank over!" he bellowed, braking his machine gradually. He yanked Landel's arm, and shook it. "She'll catch fire," he bellowed. "Landel ... 67's in the ditch! Rolled over fast! Can we open her hatches?"
He was yelling at himself.
Landel was alert.
A tread of their tank sank and Dennison yanked her straight, centered her on the road, slowed, and brought her to a halt behind 67, smoke belching from the upended machine.
Sweat was running down his face and he wiped it off as he unstrapped his seatbelt.
The blow must have stunned 67's crew: Ben was there: his shoulder injury would cripple him: Carson was there ...