Tod sat down in his chair and thought a long, long time. Then he reached over and pushed the b.u.t.ton on his desk.

"Yeah, Doctor?" asked Filmore, stepping into the room with a batch of telegrams and brokerage orders under his arm.

Dr. Tod opened the desk safe and began counting out bills. "Filmore. I'd like you to get down to Port Elizabeth, North Carolina, and buy me up five type B-limp balloons. Tell them I'm a car salesman. Arrange for one million cubic feet of helium to be delivered to the south Pennsy warehouse. Break out the hardware and give me a complete list of what we have-anything we need, we can get surplus. Get ahold of Captain Mack, see if he still has that cargo ship. We'll need new pa.s.sports. Get me Cholley Sacks; I'll need a contact in Switzerland. I'll need a pilot with a lighter-than-air license. Some diving suits and oxygen. Shot ballast, couple of tons. A bombsight. Nautical charts. And bring me a cup of coffee."

"Fred has a lighter-than-air pilot's license," said Filmore.

"Those two never cease to amaze me," said Dr. Tod.

"I thought we'd pulled our last caper, boss."

"Filmore," he said, and looked at the man he'd been friends with for twenty years, "Filmore, some capers you have have to pull, whether you want to or not." to pull, whether you want to or not."

"Dewey was an Admiral at Manila Bay, Dewey was a candidate just the other day Dewey were her eyes when she said I do; Do we love each other? I should say we do!"

The kids in the courtyard of the apartment jumped rope. They'd started the second they got home from school.

At first it bothered Jetboy. He got up from the typewriter and went to the window. Instead of yelling, he watched.

The writing wasn't going well, anyway. What had seemed like just the facts when he'd told them to the G2 boys during the war looked like bragging on paper, once the words were down: Three planes, two ME109s and a TA152, came out of the clouds at the crippled B24. It had suffered heavy flak damage. Two props were feathered and the top turret was missing. Three planes, two ME109s and a TA152, came out of the clouds at the crippled B24. It had suffered heavy flak damage. Two props were feathered and the top turret was missing.One of the 109s went into a shallow dive, probably going into a snap roll to fire up at the underside of the bomber. I eased my plane in a long turn and fired a deflection shot while about 700 yards away and closing. I saw three hits, then the 109 disintegrated. I eased my plane in a long turn and fired a deflection shot while about 700 yards away and closing. I saw three hits, then the 109 disintegrated. The TA152 had seen me and dived to intercept. As the 109 blew up, I throttled back and hit my air brakes. The 152 flashed by less than 50 yards away. I saw the surprised look on the pilot's face. I fired one burst as he flashed by with my 20mms. Everything from his canopy back flew apart in a shower. The TA152 had seen me and dived to intercept. As the 109 blew up, I throttled back and hit my air brakes. The 152 flashed by less than 50 yards away. I saw the surprised look on the pilot's face. I fired one burst as he flashed by with my 20mms. Everything from his canopy back flew apart in a shower.I pulled up. The last 109 was behind the Liberator. He was firing with his machine guns and cannon. He'd taken out the tail gunner, and the belly turret couldn't get enough elevation. The bomber pilot was wigwagging the tail so the waist gunners could get a shot, but only the left waist gun was working.I was more than a mile away, but had turned above and to the right. I put the nose down and fired one round with the 75mm just before the gunsight flashed across the 109.The whole middle of the fighter disappeared-I could see France through it. The only image I have is that I was looking down on top of an open umbrella and somebody folded it suddenly. The fighter looked like Christmas-tree tinsel as it fell.Then the few gunners left on the B24 opened up on me, not recognizing my plane. I flashed my IFF code, but their receiver must have been out.There were two German parachutes far below. The pilots of the first two fighters must have gotten out. I went back to my base.When they ran maintenance, they found one of my 75mm rounds missing, and only twelve 20mm sh.e.l.ls. I'd shot down three enemy planes.I later learned the B24 had crashed in the Channel and there were no survivors.

Who needs this stuff? Jetboy thought. The war's over. Does anybody really want to read The Jet-Propelled Boy The Jet-Propelled Boy when it's published? Does anybody except morons even want to read when it's published? Does anybody except morons even want to read Jetboy Comics Jetboy Comics anymore? anymore?

I don't even think I'm I'm needed. What can I do now? Fight crime? I can see strafing getaway cars full of bank robbers. That would be a needed. What can I do now? Fight crime? I can see strafing getaway cars full of bank robbers. That would be a real real fair fight. Barnstorming? That went out with Hoover, and besides, I don't want to fly again. This year more people will fly on airliners on vacation than have been in the air all together in the last forty-three years, mail pilots, cropdusters, and wars included. fair fight. Barnstorming? That went out with Hoover, and besides, I don't want to fly again. This year more people will fly on airliners on vacation than have been in the air all together in the last forty-three years, mail pilots, cropdusters, and wars included.

What can I do? Break up a trust? Prosecute wartime profiteers? There's There's a real dead-end job for you. Punish mean old men who are robbing the state blind running orphanages and starving and beating the kids? You don't need me for that, you need Spanky and Alfalfa and Buckwheat. a real dead-end job for you. Punish mean old men who are robbing the state blind running orphanages and starving and beating the kids? You don't need me for that, you need Spanky and Alfalfa and Buckwheat.

"A tisket, a tasket, Hitler's in a casket.

Eenie-meenie-Mussolini, Six feet underground!"

said the kids outside, now doing double-dutch, two ropes going opposite directions. Kids have too much energy, he thought. They hot-peppered a while, then slowed again.

"Down in the dungeon, twelve feet deep, Where old Hitler lies asleep.

German boys, they tickle his feet, Down in the dungeon, twelve feet deep!"

Jetboy turned away from the window. Maybe what I need is to go to the movies again.

Since his meeting with Belinda, he'd done nothing much but read, write, and go see movies. Before coming home, the last two movies he'd seen, in a crowded post auditorium in France in late '44, had been a cheesy double bill. That Nazty Nuisance That Nazty Nuisance, a United Artists film made in '43, with Bobby Watson as. .h.i.tler, and one of Jetboy's favorite character actors, Frank Faylen, had been the better of the two. The other was a PRC hunk of junk, Jive Junction Jive Junction, starring d.i.c.kie Moore, about a bunch of hepcats jitterbugging at the malt shop.

The first thing he'd done after getting his money and finding an apartment, was to find the nearest movie theater, where he'd seen Murder, He Says Murder, He Says about a house full of hillbilly weird people, with Fred McMurray and Marjorie Main, and an actor named Porter Hall playing identical twin-brother murderers named Bert and Mert. "Which one's which?" asks McMurray, and Marjorie Main picked up an axe handle and hit one of them in the middle of the back, where he collapsed from the waist up in a distorted caricature of humanity, but stayed on his feet. "That there's Mert," says Main, throwing the axe handle on the woodpile. "He's got a trick back." There was radium and homicide galore, and Jetboy thought it was the funniest movie he had ever seen. about a house full of hillbilly weird people, with Fred McMurray and Marjorie Main, and an actor named Porter Hall playing identical twin-brother murderers named Bert and Mert. "Which one's which?" asks McMurray, and Marjorie Main picked up an axe handle and hit one of them in the middle of the back, where he collapsed from the waist up in a distorted caricature of humanity, but stayed on his feet. "That there's Mert," says Main, throwing the axe handle on the woodpile. "He's got a trick back." There was radium and homicide galore, and Jetboy thought it was the funniest movie he had ever seen.

Since then he'd gone to the movies every day, sometimes going to three theaters and seeing from six to eight movies a day. He was adjusting to civilian life, like most soldiers and sailors had, by seeing films.

He had seen Lost Weekend Lost Weekend with Ray Milland, and Frank Faylen again, this time as a male nurse in a psycho ward; with Ray Milland, and Frank Faylen again, this time as a male nurse in a psycho ward; A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; The Thin Man Goes Home A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; The Thin Man Goes Home, with William Powell at his alcoholic best; Bring on the Girls; It's in the Bag Bring on the Girls; It's in the Bag with Fred Allen; with Fred Allen; Incendiary Blonde; The Story of G.I. Joe Incendiary Blonde; The Story of G.I. Joe (Jetboy had been the subject of one of Pyle's columns back in '43); a horror film called (Jetboy had been the subject of one of Pyle's columns back in '43); a horror film called Isle of the Dead Isle of the Dead with Boris Karloff; a new kind of Italian movie called with Boris Karloff; a new kind of Italian movie called Open City Open City at an art house; and at an art house; and The Postman Always Rings Twice. The Postman Always Rings Twice.

And there were other films, Monogram and PRC and Republic westerns and crime movies, pictures he'd seen in twenty-fourhour nabes, but had forgotten about ten minutes after leaving the theaters. By the lack of star names and the 4F look of the leading men, they'd been the bottom halves of double bills made during the war, all clocking in at exactly fifty-nine minutes running time.

Jetboy sighed. So many movies, so much of everything he'd missed during the war. He'd even missed VE and VJ Days, stuck on that island, before he and his plane had been found by the crew of the U.S.S. Reluctant Reluctant. The way the guys on the Reluctant Reluctant talked, you'd have thought they missed most of the war and the movies, too. talked, you'd have thought they missed most of the war and the movies, too.

He was looking forward to a lot of films this fall, and to seeing them when they came out, the way everybody else did, the way he'd used to do at the orphanage.

Jetboy sat back down at the typewriter. If I don't work, I'll never get this book done. I'll go to the movies tonight.

He began to type up all the exciting things he'd done on July 12, 1944.

In the courtyard, women were calling kids in for supper as their fathers came home from work. A couple of kids were still jumping rope out there, their voices thin in the afternoon air:

"Hitler, Hitler looks like this, Mussolini bows like this, Sonja Henie skates like this, And Betty Grable misses like this this!"

The Haberdasher in the White House was having a p.i.s.s-a.s.s of a day.

It had started with a phone call a little after six A.M. A.M.-the Nervous Nellies over at the State Department had some new hot rumors from Turkey. The Soviets were moving all their men around on that nation's edges.

"Well," the Plain-speaking Man from Missouri said, "call me when they cross the G.o.dd.a.m.n border and not until."

Now this.

Independence's First Citizen watched the door close. The last thing he saw was Einstein's heel disappearing. It needed half-soling.

He sat back in his chair, lifted his thick gla.s.ses off his nose, rubbed vigorously. Then the President put his fingers together in a steeple, his elbows resting on his desk. He looked at the small model plow on the front of his desk (it had replaced the model of the M1 Garand that had sat there from the day he took office until VJ Day). There were three books on the right corner of the desk-a Bible, a thumbed thesaurus, and a pictorial history of the United States. There were three b.u.t.tons on his desk for calling various secretaries, but he never used them.

Now that peace has come, I'm fighting to keep ten wars from breaking out in twenty places, there's strikes looming in every industry and that's a d.a.m.n shame, people are hollering for more cars and refrigerators, and they're as tired as I am of war and war's alarm.

And I have to kick the hornet's nest again, get everybody out looking for a d.a.m.n germ bomb that might go off and infect the whole U.S. and kill half the people or more.

We'd have been better off still fighting with sticks and rocks.

The sooner I get my a.s.s back to 219 North Delaware in Independence, the better off me and this whole d.a.m.n country will be.

Unless that son of a b.i.t.c.h Dewey wants to run for President again. Like Lincoln said, I'd rather swallow a deer-antler rocking chair than let that b.a.s.t.a.r.d be President.

That's the only thing that'll keep me here when I've finished out Mr. Roosevelt's term.

Sooner I get this snipe hunt under way, the faster we can put World War Number Two behind us.

He picked up the phone.

"Get me the Chiefs of Staff," he said.

"Major Truman speaking."

"Major, this is the other Truman, your boss. Put General Ostrander on the horn, will you?"

While he was waiting he looked out past the window fan (he hated air-conditioning) into the trees. The sky was the kind of blue that quickly turns to bra.s.s in the summer.

He looked at the clock on the wall: 10:23 A.M. A.M., eastern daylight time. What a day. What a year. What a century.

"General Ostrander here, sir."

"General, we just had another bale of hay dropped on us . . ."

A couple of weeks later, the note came: Deposit 20 Million Dollars account # 43Z21, Credite Suisse, Berne, by 2300Z 14 Sept or lose a major city. You know of this weapon; your people have been searching for it. I have it; I will use half of it on the first city. The price goes to 30 Million Dollars to keep me from using it a second time. You have my word it will not be used if the first payment is made and instructions will be sent on where the weapon can be recovered. Deposit 20 Million Dollars account # 43Z21, Credite Suisse, Berne, by 2300Z 14 Sept or lose a major city. You know of this weapon; your people have been searching for it. I have it; I will use half of it on the first city. The price goes to 30 Million Dollars to keep me from using it a second time. You have my word it will not be used if the first payment is made and instructions will be sent on where the weapon can be recovered.

The Plain-speaking Man from Missouri picked up the phone.

"Kick everything up to the top notch," he said. "Call the cabinet, get the Joint Chiefs together. And Ostrander . . ."

"Yessir?"

"Better get ahold of that kid flier, what's his name? . . ."

"You mean Jetboy, sir? He's not on active duty anymore."

"The h.e.l.l he's not. He is now!"

"Yessir."

It was 2:24 P.M. P.M. on the Tuesday of September 15, 1946, when the thing first showed up on the radar screens. on the Tuesday of September 15, 1946, when the thing first showed up on the radar screens.

At 2:31 it was still moving slowly toward the city at an alt.i.tude of nearly sixty thousand feet.

At 2:41 they blew the first of the air-raid sirens, which had not been used in New York City since April of 1945 in a blackout drill.

By 2:48 there was panic.

Someone in the CD office hit the wrong set of switches. The power went off everywhere except hospitals and police and fire stations. Subways stopped. Things shut down, and traffic lights quit working. Half the emergency equipment, which hadn't been checked since the end of the war, failed to come up.

The streets were jammed with people. Cops rushed out to try to direct traffic. Some of the policemen panicked when they were issued gas masks. Telephones jammed. Fistfights broke out at intersections, people were trampled at subway exits and on the stairs of skysc.r.a.pers.

The bridges clogged up.

Conflicting orders came down. Get the people into bomb shelters. No, no, evacuate the island. Two cops on the same corner yelled conflicting orders at the crowds. Mostly people just stood around and looked.

Their attention was soon drawn to something in the southeastern sky. It was small and shiny.

Flak began to bloom ineffectually two miles below it.

On and on it came.

When the guns over in Jersey began to fire, the panic really started.

It was 3 P.M. P.M.

"It's really quite simple," said Dr. Tod. He looked down toward Manhattan, which lay before him like a treasure trove. He turned to Filmore and held up a long cylindrical device that looked like the offspring of a pipe bomb and a combination lock. "Should anything happen to me, simply insert this fuse in the holder in the explosives"-he indicated the taped-over portion with the opening in the canister covered with the Sanskrit-like lettering-"twist it to the number five hundred, then pull this lever." He indicated the bomb-bay door latch. "It'll fall of its own weight, and I was wrong about the bombsights. Pinpoint accuracy is not our goal."

He looked at Filmore through the grill of his diving helmet. They all wore diving suits with hoses leading back to a central oxygen supply.

"Make sure, of course, everyone's suited with their helmet on. Your blood would boil in this thin air. And these suits only have to hold pressure for the few seconds the bomb door's open."

"I don't expect no trouble, boss."

"Neither do I. After we bomb New York City, we go out to our rendezvous with the ship, rip the ballast, set down, and head for Europe. They'll be only too glad to pay us the money then. They have no way of knowing we'll be using the whole germ weapon. Seven million or so dead should quite convince them we mean business."

"Look at that," said Ed, from the copilot's seat. "Way down there. Flak!"

"What's our alt.i.tude?" asked Dr. Tod.

"Right on fifty-eight thousand feet," said Fred.

"Target?"

Ed sighted, checked a map. "Sixteen miles straight ahead. You sure called those wind currents just right, Dr. Tod."

They had sent him to an airfield outside Washington, D.C., to wait. That way he would be within range of most of the major East Coast cities.

He had spent part of the day reading, part asleep, and the rest of it talking over the war with some of the other pilots. Most of them, though, were too new to have fought in any but the closing days of the war.

Most of them were jet pilots, like him, who had done their training in P59 Airacomets or P80 Shooting Stars. A few of those in the ready room belonged to a P51 prop-jot squadron. There was a bit of tension between the blowtorch jockeys and the piston eaters.

All of them were a new breed, though. Already there was talk Truman was going to make the Army Air Force into a separate branch, just the Air Force, within the next year. Jetboy felt, at nineteen, that time had pa.s.sed him by.

"They're working on something," said one of the pilots, "that'll go through the sonic wall. Bell's behind it."