oozed self-appreciation. "Ha ha," repeated Whitlow, with little enthusiasm. "When one is whirled at one gravity, you see, the wall—the outside rim—of the Whirligig, becomes the floor for the men inside. Each day, they have spent up to ten hours doing nothing but deep knee-bends, and eating high protein foods. Their legs will be able to withstand any force of landing. If they can do deep knee-bends at thirty gravities—during which, of course, each of them weighed nearly three tons—they can jump from any height and survive. Good, huh?" Whitlow was worried as they clambered up into the stands. There seemed to be no one about but the two of them. "Who else is coming?" he asked. "Just us," said Webb. "I'm the only one with a clearance high enough to watch this. You're only here because you're my guest." "But—" said Whitlow, observing the heat-baked wide-open spaces extending on all sides of the reviewing stand and bull's-eye, "the men on this base can surely watch from almost anywhere not beyond the horizon." "They'd better not!" was the general's only comment. "Well," said Whitlow, "what happens now?" "The men that were in that Whirligig have—since you and I went to my office to chat—been transported to the airfield, from which point they were taken aloft—" he consulted his watch, "five minutes, and fifty-five-point-six seconds ago." "And?" asked Whitlow, casually unbuckling the straps of his brief case and slipping out his sandwich. "The plane will be within bomb vector of this target in just ten seconds!" said Webb, confidently. Whitlow listened, for the next nine seconds, then, right on schedule, he heard the muted droning of a plane, high up. Webb joggled him with an elbow. "They'll fall faster than any known enemy weapon can track them," he said, smugly. "That's fortunate," said Whitlow, munching desultorily at his sandwich. "Bud dere's wud thig budduhs bee." "Hmmf?" asked the general. Whitlow swallowed hastily. "I say, there's one thing bothers me." "What's that?" asked the general.
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