"Yeah, yeah. Let's write the report up ourselves. That's real important, you know. The Government needs it."
He sat down at the typewriter, his heavy features twisted in hopeless bitterness and anger. He started typing, and then stopped for a moment.
"What was this kid pilot's full name, Williams?"
Williams checked the Government order sheet. "Hell," he said. "Strangely, it's the same as the doctor's, Dr. Alfred Burnett. Only the kid's name is Harold Burnett."
Donnelly sat, suddenly transfixed, staring at his typewriter. A peculiar look flashed across his face. Then he shook his massive head in an unbelieving gesture of agonized understanding.
"Hell, no," he muttered to himself. "It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. It just isn't possible. Burnett! Burnett!"
Swiftly he was on his feet and moving through the door after the vanished figure of the little doctor, his face a mask of grim remorse.
"It was merciful," he muttered. "Yes, it was merciful. It was the only thing Doc Burnett could have done."
Williams stared after Donnelly's disappearing figure in frank and open-mouthed amazement.
"Hey, Joe," he yelled. "Where the hell are you going?"