Pritchard made no response.
"Tom was a right good boy, and a hard man to beat once he had the chance to get his feet under him. Remember the time big Hayes hit him?"
There was no answer. Greene sat relaxed, one foot on the rudder bar and an index finger curled indolently around the jet firing toggle.
"Boy, old Hayes let him have it before Tom was set. Just like you clipped him yesterday."
"I thought you'd say that." Pritchard's voice was even. "You an' the rest of the boys want to be sure I don't forget that, don't you?"
"I wasn't meaning a thing, chief," complained the other. "Hell, we understand. Tom made a mistake and—and—well...."
"You can pass the word," said Pritchard softly, his eyes remaining hard on the vista ahead. "You can pass the word that I haven't forgotten the last thing Tom McManus had from me. Nor am I likely to—"
He grabbed the mike. "Cut, Sturgis, cut! Cut and glide—after me."
Greene, following instructions meant for him, too, snapped the jet toggle closed. The high-pitched thunder that had been chasing them across the sky was chopped off into utter silence.
"What you got?" he managed to say and then Pritchard's hip swung against him, neatly bowling him off the seat as the tall hunter thrust his feet toward the rudder bar.