Listened not to the song but to the quartet of motors on the gloomy, loud field. Above the coughing and the clamor, the roar and thump of other engines--came the long run, tightening nerves. "There she goes!" "War's over." "Shut up! And who told you, lieutenant, anyhow? And what?" The ship--wider than she was long and just under a hundred feet from tailfin to bombardier's glass snout--gained altitude. Below, the island sank in the sea of air--palms, runways, warm, damp tropical odor of mold, hangars and administration buildings, flags. There was now only the sky and the Pacific.... They would--someday--laugh at the B-29 even while they admired her, and more especially, the men who flew her. Schoolkids in a museum of the far centuries--walking along plush ropes--examining the early aeronautical exhibits. "What a clumsy contraption! How dangerous! They used to explode in the air, you know. They could only fly about five thousand miles--bumped along at three hundred an hour. Hour, mind you! What on earth did they do to pass the time in such tight quarters? They fought with guns--yeah--those tubes. Central fire control, they called it--they could shoot eleven pairs at once. Shoot? A chemical explosion that pushed streamlined bits of metal from the tubes at low velocities--fast enough, though, to kill a man--or bring down such a crazy craft. Who'd think--one just like that--took the first real missile--?" The bright kids-to-be, perhaps. Their galleons and triremes. She took off--the then-perfect air-frame, slick and silver --a multiplicity of engineering feats. She climbed. Five thousand. Eight. "Okay. Pressurize." The ears, hearts, lungs of sixteen men lost the feel of altitude and swiftly accepted the bubble of air that now flew in a metal skin. Colonel Calm turned over the controls to Major Waite. The colonel's famous fighting smile flashed upon the proud navigator, the flight engineer, the idle bombardier, and the co-pilot. "You know the course, major." The course, he meant, to the enemy. The major had set plenty of cities on fire in his time. His brief time; he was twenty-six. Twenty-six years old and he'd flown courses that had burned out, smothered, smashed, and otherwise eliminated something on the order (he figured, being a man of mathematical bent) of three billion hours of human life. Expunged on that milk run. (You take the average life expectancy in enemy cities, multiply by days in a year and hours in a day, and multiply that by two further factors: average fatalities in a raid and number of raids led by Major Waite. Three billion man-woman-child hours, conservatively).