But there were a few that stared at him practically expressionless. Deep sunken eyes were fixed on his unwinkingly. Deep sunken eyes in faces that had a skin color of a sort of yellowish gray. The faces of men who, though alive in the body, were dead of soul. He did not have to look at them twice to know that they were Frenchmen. Frenchmen uprooted from their native land and transported to Germany to perform slave labor in Hitler's war factories. Then Dawson brought his cold stare back to the double-chinned man. "Yes!" he bit off in German, and drew a hand across his eyes. "Where am I? What is this place? Who are you?" "You do not know?" the puffy-faced one asked in surprise. "Then I will tell you at once. This is the Farbin Factory, Number Six. You are in my office, _Herr Leutnant_. I am the general manager. I am Herr Kurt Krumpstadt. When I saw that you were in difficulties I at once took personal charge." Dawson grunted, and then saw that his flying suit had been removed and placed over the back of a nearby chair. He looked at it and nodded again. "Yes, it comes back to me now!" he said in a harsh voice. "I had shot down several of the swine, and then my guns jammed. Many of them came at me, and I was forced to leave my plane." "_Ja, ja!_" Herr Krumpstadt cried eagerly. "We all saw you. It was wonderful. Never have I seen such bravery as you displayed." "It was good of you to come to my assistance," Dawson said to him in a flat voice. "Herr Kurt Krumpstadt, eh? I will remember that name. I have a friend who is high in the Party. I will tell him how quickly you gave assistance to a member of the Luftwaffe." Herr Krumpstadt almost wept with joy at hearing those words. "It was nothing, _Herr Leutnant_," he said. "It was a duty to be performed, and I performed it. But I am overwhelmed with gratitude that _Herr Leutnant_ will be so kind as to mention my little act to his important friend." "As soon as I meet him, which will be soon," Dawson grunted. Then, with a puzzled frown on his face, he said, "Farbin Factory Number Six? What do you make here, Herr Krumpstadt?" The German's beam of joy instantly faded, and he looked like some fat, oily creature that is suddenly cornered, and is very much afraid. Dawson glared at him, and snapped his fingers. "Well, are you deaf?" he barked. "Did you not hear a Luftwaffe officer's question? Or do you make nothing here? Well?" "Oh, no, no, no, _Herr Leutnant_!" the German fairly wailed, and raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "We used to make treads for the Fuehrer's tanks, but now it is something else. Something special. Something very secret. I do not know if it is permitted for me to tell even a hero of our wonderful Luftwaffe. I do not know."