Whitlow, despite his misgivings, found that he, too, was on his feet, staring skyward at the tiny dots that were detaching themselves from the shining bulk of the carrier plane. As he watched, his heart beating madly, the dots grew bigger, and soon, awfully soon, they could be distinguished as man-shaped, too. "There's-- There's something wrong!" said the general. "What's that they're all shouting? It _should_ be 'Geronimo' ..." Whitlow listened. "It sounds more like 'Eeeeeyaaaaa'," he said. And it was. The sound grew from a distant mumble to a shrieking roar, and the next thing, each man had landed upon the concrete-and-paint bull's-eye before the reviewing stand. Whitlow sighed and re-buckled his brief case. The general moaned and fainted. And the men of the Whirligig, all of whom had landed on the target head-first, did nothing, their magnificently muscled legs waving idly in a sudden gentle gust of desert breeze. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ November 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.