“That will make it nice,” said the sergeant. “Practically no trouble at all. Shoot ’em down like clay pigeons right out of those thick clouds.” To him one toy balloon shot out of those clouds meant very little just then.
“Here they come,” the gunner with the earphones announced. “They’re headed right this way.”
“Probably got one of those cute little maps with an X marking the spot!” the sergeant grumbled. Then his voice rose. “All right, you guys. Get set to do your stuff. They’re practically over us now.”
Tense seconds ticked themselves away, and then the girl who had been working and looking toward the clouds said:
“They’re beginning to circle now, at an altitude of three thousand feet. They’re off to the right a quarter of a mile.”
Her figure stiffened. One of the privates thought she looked like Washington at Valley Forge. He drew a long sharp breath.
“Coming in closer,” she said ten seconds later. “Now an eighth of a mile away. They’re coming down slowly. About twenty-five hundred up now—and almost directly over us.”
“Gee!” the first gunner exclaimed. “Why don’t we have a try at them?”
“How many more times will they circle?” she asked, turning to the sergeant.
“Well, now,—” The sergeant’s voice sounded dry. “You can’t almost always tell. Three is a perfect number. You might count on that.”