As the Colonel struggled for words, Dave leaned forward a little, arms resting on his knees.
"This isn't the plane you flew last night," he said.
The redhead grinned all the more and shook his head.
"Nope," he said. "And that makes you a bright little boy—Flight Lieutenant Dawson. And that was nice flying last night. I thought that second time I had you cold. I guess you're as good at the controls as I've heard tell you were. Or was this English kid, Farmer, doing the flying?"
Dave didn't reply. He suddenly felt as though his seat had been jerked out from under him, and as if his brain were tumbling down through space. This redhead knew his name, and Freddy's, too? An eerie chill swept through him, and he impulsively looked at Colonel Welsh. The chief of U. S. Intelligence's face was bright with dumfounded amazement. He in turn was staring speechlessly at the redhead. The man with the gun dragged down a corner of his mouth in a scornful gesture.
"Why so surprised, Colonel?" he asked. "Did you think you were the only smart one in this war?"
"You won't feel so smart when you're facing a firing squad!" the Colonel clipped out. "And that's where you're headed. Both of you!"
"Well, what do you know!" the pilot cried out, and turned around just long enough to give the Colonel a horse laugh. "Maybe you ain't got it yet, Colonel, who's holding the gun. Snap out of it. I know it's tough, but there's nothing you can do about it. Don't be a sap and make us let you have it. We just want to keep you on ice for a while. That's all."
The Colonel seemed to swallow his wrath, because when he spoke again his voice was normal, and almost friendly.
"All right, we'll be smart," he said. "But where are we heading? And why are you keeping us on ice, as you call it? What good is it going to do you?"