"And fight?" said Dugan.
"Or have the pilot tried publicly and shot, with ourselves unable to explain it to his mother or his Congressman? Imagine the newsreel pictures. The world couldn't stand it, not the way things are going now."
Dugan stared straight ahead. "If they don't know what we know, but do know that we know a lot, they'll slow down. And if somebody gets in and botches things up for a while, they will know that we know. Their surprise will be gone. You agree, doctor, that they put it close to the Siberian coast so that their raiding aircraft — in the event of war — could throw heavy radioactive trash down on us even if they don't develop a bomb?"
Swanson's eyes lit up. "You figure it that way, too? That was my guess. If they did want to dump bomberloads of isotopes on us, they needed the plant near Vladivostok and the coastal airfields. But not too near. I suppose they have other cities farther back. But this one is the mischief-making place."
Dugan rose. "Can I take the pictures with me?"
"No," said Swanson. "I'll give you a map instead. It won't mean much, but you can always come back and look these over, right here."
"Thank you," said Dugan. "I may."
Swanson called the gate. They said goodbye to him. Sarah watched Dugan. Since his one break, when he had accidentally used the Japanese facial expression for commiseration she had found herself eyeing him protectively, making swift calculations as to how often he dared go off guard, even with herself. As they walked toward the gate she summoned up her courage and said:
"You did something wrong in there, Major."
He looked at her quickly, alert, smiling, not at all angry. With gay formality he asked, "What was it, Captain?"