Dave frowned and gave a little shake of his head.
“Naturally, you know best, sir,” he said slowly, after a moment or two. “As the saying goes, it’s not for the likes of me to tell you your business. But—well—I mean—”
The Yank born air ace floundered to a stop, and a faint flush stole into his face. Colonel Welsh stared at him for a moment, and then suddenly chuckled softly.
“I seem to remember a couple of times when you weren’t so polite to your senior officer, Dawson,” he said. “And I was the senior officer. I understand, but forget it, Dawson. All this is just between the three of us. So give it to me right from the shoulder. What’s wrong with my closing up this place as far as Intelligence work is concerned?”
“Everything, Colonel,” Dave told him bluntly. “Close up this place and open another, and you’ll lose the only contact you have with the enemy agent, or agents, working in Frisco. Of course you haven’t what you’d call a real contact with him now. He’s just a man Rigby saw for a split second before he got slammed on the head. But maybe we could make a real contact with him.”
“What’s your idea on how to do it?” the Chief of all U.S. Intelligence asked quietly. “And what would we gain by making a definite contact?”
Dave looked at him, and grinned faintly.
“Maybe this one is going to hurt, Colonel,” he said. “What made him come here in the first place?”
The senior officer stiffened slightly, and looked puzzled.
“What’s that?” he echoed. “Aren’t you making it a little complicated, Dawson?”