"If we only could!" Freddy Farmer breathed fiercely after a long moment of silence. "If we only could!"
"We can, and we've got to!" Dave said grimly.
"But there may be some of the beggars inside the plane, that we just can't see," young Farmer said slowly.
"Oh, so what?" Dave snapped. "Use the old brain, Freddy! Are you and I carrying water pistols? With this rumbling and shouting all over the place, you wouldn't hear a shot three feet from the ship. Those three mechanics are our only worry. Then, plus the distance to the plane, and the little item of getting it off, and getting altitude."
Freddy Farmer turned his head and looked straight into Dawson's eyes.
"Right you are," he said quietly. "Anything to stop them all from taking off. And even if we can't get enough altitude—"
Young Farmer stopped, then tried to continue, but all he seemed able to do was swallow rapidly. Dawson forced his own lips to pull back in a forced grin, and nodded.
"Yeah, Freddy," he said softly. "The least we can do, for Dartmouth's sake. If we can get enough altitude to give us a fighting chance for our own hides, then we slam the plane down into the middle of them, and go up with the whole works. Tough on us, but—but a lot of swell guys have died for far less, Freddy."
Freddy continued to look at Dawson without speaking. Then presently he simply smiled, and pushed up onto his hands and knees.
"Let's get on with the blasted thing, Dave," he said with all the calmness of voice of a man going down to the post office to buy a stamp. "Always did hate to sit around jawing when there was something that had to be done. So let's get on with it—one way or the other."