"Haven't you even got an inkling of what he's up to?"
"I'm sure he's not the Master Mind, if that's what you mean."
"Then who is? Rubach? Civek? The chief of police? Or the bubble gum king, whoever he is?"
"Cheeky McFerson?" She laughed. "I went to grade school with him and if he's got a mind I never noticed it."
"McFerson? He's just a kid, isn't he?"
"His father died a couple of years ago and Cheeky's the president on paper, but the business office runs things. We call him Cheeky because he always had a wad of company gum in his cheek. Supposed to be an advertisement. But he never gave me any and I always chewed Wrigley's for spite."
"Oh." Don chewed the inside of his own cheek and watched the coastline. "That's Connecticut now," he said. "We're certainly not slowing down for customs."
A speck, trailing vapor through the cold upper air, headed toward them from the general direction of New England. As it came closer Don saw that it was a B-58 Hustler bomber. He recognized it by the mysterious pod it carried under its body, three-quarters as long as the fuselage.
"It's not going to shoot us down, is it?" Alis asked.
"Hardly. I'm glad to see it. It's about time somebody took an interest in us besides Bobby Thebold and his leftover Lightnings."