"To be sure. To be sure," General Webb muttered. He didn't much like tartness in responses, but the Secretary of Defense, unfortunately, was hardly a subordinate, and therefore not subject to the general's choler. Silly little ass! he said to himself. Rather liking the sound of the words--albeit in his mind--he repeated them over again, adding embellishments like "pompous" and "mousy" and "squirrel-eyed." After three or four such thoughts, the general felt much better. "_I_ thought the whole thing up, myself," he said, proudly. "I wish you'd stop being so ambiguous," Whitlow protested in a small voice. "Just what _is_ this project? How does it work? Will it help us win the war?" "_Sssh!_" said the general, jerking a quivering forefinger perpendicular before pursed lips. "Security!" He closed one eye in a broad wink and wriggled a thumb in the direction of the driver. "He's only cleared for Confidential material," said the general, his tone casting aspersions on the sergeant's patriotism, ancestry and personal hygiene. "This project is, of course, _Top Secret_!" He said the words reverently, his face going all noble and brave. Whitlow half-expected him to remove his hat, but he did not. * * * * * They drove onward, then, in silence, until they passed by a large field, in the center of which Whitlow could discern the outlines of an immense bull's-eye, in front of a tall, somewhat rickety khaki-colored reviewing stand, draped in tired bunting. "What's that?" asked Whitlow, relinquishing his grip on his brief case long enough to point toward the field. "_Ssssh!_" said "Smiley" Webb. "You'll find out in a matter of hours." "Many hours?" Whitlow asked, thinking of the ham sandwich. General Webb consulted a magnificent platinum timepiece anchored to his thick hairy wrist by a stout leather strap. "In exactly one hour, thirty-seven minutes, and forty-three-point-oh-oh-nine seconds!" he said, proudly. "Thank you," Whitlow sighed. "You're certainly running this thing--whatever it is--in an efficient manner." "Thank _you_!" General Webb glowed. "We like to think so," he added modestly. * * * * * Passwords, signs, countersigns, combination-locks and electronic recognition signals were negotiated one by one, until Whitlow was despairing of ever getting into the heart of Project W. He said as much to General Webb, who merely flashed the grin which gave him his nickname, and opened a final door. For a moment, Whitlow thought he was going deaf. The shrill roar of screeching metal and throbbing dynamos that pounded at his eardrums began to fuddle his mind, until General Webb handed him a small cardboard box--also stamped, like every door and wall in the place, "Top Secret"--in which his trembling fingers located two ordinary rubber earplugs, which he instantly put to good use.