"For example," Smith retorted with equal sharpness, "what good does it do to surround ballistic missile plants with security regulations if the missile itself can be stolen right out of the air?" "Fantastic!" said General Sanders. "Nuts," said Amos Busch. Agent Cowles said nothing. John O'Hara Smith sank back against his pillow, panting a little. His high forehead glistened with sweat. When he gathered the strength to speak again, he directed his words to General Sanders: "General, these ICBM missiles being fired into the Atlantic Ocean from the coast of Florida.... Are you sure you know what's happened to all of them?" "I think so," the General answered calmly. "And what about your own X-15 project, General?" The question was almost a taunt. General David William Sanders had jumped with his paratroopers into France on a morning in June, 1944. He had risen in rank through the test of battle and the more excruciating ordeal of the Pentagon. He was a rock-jawed, six-foot, two-hundred pound man whom little could shock and nothing could deter. But he had never faced a challenge like the seconds of silence that followed Dr. Smith's mocking question. There was nothing he dared say, yet in saying nothing he was saying everything. FBI Agent Frank Cowles looked at him, then looked quickly away. Security Officer Busch studied his own hands as though discovering them for the first time. The tableau remained frozen and silent until the door opened and a doctor said, "That's all for today, gentlemen." The three men left without a word. Dr. John O'Hara Smith closed his eyes. On his pale lips was the suggestion of a smile. * * * * * When they were alone in the General's staff car, Amos Busch exhaled and said, "I'll be damned." "I gather," observed Cowles drily, "that something called an X-15 has turned up missing." "A week ago," sighed General Sanders. "Somewhere in the Mojave Desert near Lancaster.... It was a very elementary prototype--the actual X-15 won't be ready for another three years...." "Any idea what happened to it?" "It was on a routine test flight and ran out of the tracking screen--headed northwest.... We haven't found a splinter from it! But there's a lot of rough country around there." "Who knows it was lost?" "Just the local base and our headquarters staff. The Pentagon, too, of course." "And Dr. Smith," added Amos Busch, incredulously. The staff car detoured off the freeway to deliver Cowles to the Federal Building. "What do you make of this, Frank?" the General asked him. "I'm just supposed to be gathering information." "Oh, hell! We've been talking and you've been thinking--what?" Cowles grinned. "I've been thinking how lucky it is I don't have to make a decision about Smith!" "So?" "So we'll question him again tomorrow.... As long as he's willing to talk, the more he says, the better."