The words were no sooner off Freddy's lips than Air Marshal Manners came in through the compartment door. He tossed a brief case he carried on an empty bomb rack and looked at Dave.
"My pilot's suddenly gone sick," he said. "Take the controls, please, Dawson. Get us off as soon as possible, and get lots of altitude as you head for London."
"Yes, sir," Dave said, and got to his feet.
He took one step along the cat-walk leading forward, then stopped and turned. He knew what he was about to say was childish, foolish, and the uncensored ravings of a sorehead. But for all the gold in the world he could not have kept the words back. The seething pot of justified anger within him had suddenly boiled over on all sides.
"Do you mind, sir, if I crack us up taking off?" he said evenly.
Air Marshal Manners stiffened up straight, gave him a blazing stare, and opened his mouth to speak. He held back the words, though, and looked from Dave to Freddy and back again.
"I see," he said. "Thought you caught on. Yes, I mind very much your cracking us up, Dawson. Now, you get forward and get us up in the air before I turn you over my knee. Chase along, lad, now. Explanations later."
"Then you mean, sir—" Dave cried joyfully and stopped.
"I mean get us into the air!" Manners snapped. "And hurry it up!"
"One Lockheed on the way!" Dave shouted, and dashed forward to the pilots' compartment.