"Do you think that's Bobby Thebold?" Don asked.
"Probably not. That was the last plane in the formation. Thebold would be the leader."
They went back past the crashed plane, surrounded by a growing crowd from town, and recrossed the bridge.
"Look at the water," the editor said. "Ice is forming."
"And we're still rising," Don said, "if my legs are any judge. Do you think there's a connection?"
Clark shrugged. He turned up his coat collar and rubbed his hands. "All I know is the higher we go the colder we get. Come on back to the shop and warm up."
They turned at the sound of engines. Two of the five remaining P-38's had detached themselves from their cover of the chutist and were flying around the rim of Superior—as if unwilling to risk another flight across the surface of the town that seemed determined to become a satellite of Earth.
When Don Cort reached the campus he was shivering, in spite of the sweater and topcoat Ed Clark had lent him. He asked a student where the Administration Building was and at the desk inquired for Professor Garet.
A gray-haired, dedicated-looking woman told him impatiently that Professor Garet was in his laboratory and couldn't be disturbed. She wouldn't tell him where the laboratory was.