After twenty minutes of drill I was a gunner of sorts, sprawled in the right-hand kneeling seat and intently scanning the onrushing orange haze which at last was beginning to change toward the bronze of evening. If something showed up in it I'd be able to make a stab at getting a shot in. Not that I knew what my gun fired--the voice wasn't giving away any unnecessary data. Naturally I had asked why didn't the voice teach me to fly the plane so that I could maneuver in case of attack, and naturally the voice had told me it was out of the question--much too difficult and besides they wanted us on a known course so they could plan better for the drop and recovery. (I think maybe the voice would have given me some hints--and maybe even told me more about the steel cubes too and how much danger we were in from them--if it hadn't been for the second voice, which presumably had issued from a being who was keeping watch to make sure among other things that the first voice didn't get soft-hearted.) So there I was being a front gunner. Actually a part of me was getting a big bang out of it--from antique Banker's Special to needle cannon (or whatever it was)--but at the same time another part of me was disgusted with the idea of acting like I belonged to a live culture (even a smart, unqueer one) and working in a war (even just so as to get out of it fast), while a third part of me--one that I normally keep down--was very simply horrified. Pop was back by the door with the box and 'chute, ready to make the drop. Alice had no duties for the moment, but she'd suddenly started gathering up food cans and packing them in one bag--I couldn't figure out at first what she had in mind. Orderly housewife wouldn't be exactly my description of her occupational personality. Then of course everything had to happen at once. The voice said, "Make the drop!" Alice crossed to Pop and thrust out the bag of cans toward him, writhing her lips in silent "talk" to tell him something. She had a knife in her burnt hand too. * * * * * But I didn't have time to do any lip-reading, because just then a glittering pink asterisk showed up in the darkening haze ahead--a whole half dozen straight lines spreading out from a blank central spot, as if a super-fast gigantic spider had laid in the first strands of its web. Wind whistled as the door of the plane started to open. I fought to center my sight on the blank central spot, which drifted toward the left. One of the straight lines grew dazzlingly bright. I heard Alice whisper fiercely, "Drop _these_!" and the part of my mind that couldn't be applied to gunnery instantly deduced that she'd had some last-minute inspiration about dropping a bunch of cans instead of the steel cubes. I got the sight centered and held down the firing combo. The thought flashed to me: _it's a city you're firing at, not a plane_, and I flinched. The dazzlingly pink line dipped down toward me.