He pretended to be untangling his chute straps, preparing to go through the round-eyed hell. Jordan on the top blister. Smith left, here. White right--and the unknown man beside him. No visible rank. Coveralls--insignia worn or torn off. Bearded like a submariner or the men he had relieved on Guadal. Hawk nose, brown eyes--extraordinarily intelligent, too--firm mouth, a gentle, definitely civilian look. Never saw him before. This, the colonel realized, was obviously impossible. He'd trained the crew, himself--picked each man, with special help from Headquarters--and met all the passengers weeks ago--old Sopho last--but, still--weeks ago. Each member of the company--cleared, checked, quadruple-checked, traced by G2 back through every childhood peccadillo, back through generations. Truman himself couldn't have got a man on board without the colonel's okay--his invitation and acquaintance. He felt sick and feeble; he clung to the ladder under the tunnel mouth and staggered as the B-29 dived ponderously through a downdraft. Some last-minute thing, he decided; certainly the impossible passenger did not appear to be dangerous. One could not look at him and think of sabotage at the same time. These bloody, accursed, God-damned scientists! Very Important Person--he looked every inch a VIP--a VIP in science, not military affairs. No bearing to speak of--and that kindly smile at the corners of that mouth. Last-minute stuff. It would be assumed the colonel knew--but his four-way check had slipped. When he returned to base--chevrons would fall. Lieutenants, captains, majors would drop back a grade. _See who he is._ The colonel went over to Smith, squatted. "Skipper!" Smith said, returning the smile, the Air Force treasure. The ship thrummed. Buzzed. Hummed. Ate air. Hurried toward the enemy islands. Colonel Calm feigned to look from the blister. He supposed he saw, in the gray below, the corrugations of the Pacific, and above, the pearly heavens, the solid stretch of wing, the streamlined engine-housing. They were there, at least. "The man with White. His name. Can't think of it." "Chris." "Chris what?" Smith seemed embarrassed. "All I know. He came through the tunnel half an hour ago. 'Call me Chris,' he said. And he said, 'Mind if I sit?'" The smile was a mask. He could keep it on his face even now. Eyes lighted up by the battery of will, corners crinkled, lips relaxed, a human twitch of the nose--man-loving, disdainful of blood and death, enemy and calamity. He could. _Came through the tunnel._ The man had not been in the control cabin, to begin with. No bearded man. No--Chris. The colonel turned on his bent toes, the stranger watching. Should he jump the guy? Tell Smith to dive in with him? Go back for a pistol and shoot from the tunnel? The man smiled pleasantly. Colonel Calm stood up, went round the post and track--the high barber's chair--and the gear and machinery that subtended the gunner in the top blister.