Freddy laughed, even as he looked apprehensively over the sailplane's side. He said, "Yeah, or that other one. The Hungarians are the only people who can enter a revolving door behind you and come out in front." Joe said, "Well, that's what happened to the Russians." He pointed. "There's the reservation. We'll be cutting from the airplane in a moment now. Listen, were you able to find out who either of General McCord's glider pilots are?" [Illustration] "Yeah," Freddy told him. "Both are captains. One named Bob Flaubert and the other Jimmy Hideka." "Bob Flaubert?" Jeb growled. "He's an artilleryman. We've been in the dill together half a dozen times." Freddy was staring below, trying to understand the terrain from this perspective. While Joe was tripping the lever which let the tow rope drop away from the glider, the Telly reporter said, "Both of them used to fly lightplanes for sport. When you started this new glider angle, they must've seen the possibilities and took it up immediately. But you oughta be able to fly circles around them, they just haven't had the time for experience with planes without motors." "Bob, eh?" Joe said softly. "He saved my life once. Five minutes later, I saved his." Freddy looked at him quickly. "Zen!" he complained. "It's no time to be thinking of that. So now you're even with him. And you're both hired mercenaries in a fracas." "But I've got a gun and he hasn't," Joe growled. "Good!" Freddy snapped at him. They had cut away from the lightplane and Joe headed for the area which Cogswell had ordered him particularly to keep scanned. Jack Altshuler was a fox, in combat. His heavy cavalry had more than once swung a fracas. At the same time, he kept himself alert for the other gliders. It seemed probable, since the enemy forces had two, that they would use them in relays. Which meant, in turn, that it was unlikely Joe would find them both in the air at once. In other words, if he attacked the one, possibly shooting it down, then the other would be warned, would mount a gun of its own, and it would no longer be a matter of shooting a clay pigeon. * * * * * Joe turned to mention this over his shoulder to Freddy Soligen, just in time to catch the shadow above and behind him. "Holy Zen!" he snapped, kicking right rudder, thrusting his stick to the right and forward. "What the devil!" Freddy protested, looking up from adjusting a lens on his camera. Three or four thirty-caliber slugs tore holes in their left wing, the rest of the burst missing completely. Joe dove sharply, gained speed, winged over and reached desperately for altitude. The other--no, the _others_ were above him. He yelled back at the cameraman, "Put that Chaut-Chaut gun together for me. Be ready to hand me pans of ammo. And if you want blood and gore on that Tellylens of yours, get going!" It still hadn't got through to the smaller man. "What in devil's going on?"