nd co-pilot, respectively, of the
fateful plane that had brought him to Bootstrap.

He went over to their table. The pilot nodded matter-of-factly. The
co-pilot grinned. Both still wore bandages on their hands, which would
account for their remaining here.

"Fancy seeing you!" said the co-pilot cheerfully. "Welcome to the Hotel
de Gink! But don't tell me you're going to fly a pushpot!"

"I hadn't figured on it," admitted Joe. "Are you?"

"Perish forbid," said the co-pilot amiably. "I tried it once, for the
devil of it. Those things fly with the grace of a lady elephant on ice
skates! Did you, by any chance, notice that they haven't got any wings?
And did you notice where their control surfaces were?"

Joe shook his head. He saw the remnants of ham and eggs and coffee. He
was hungry.

There was the uproar to be expected of a basso-profundo banshee in pain.
Another pushpot was taking off.

"How do I get breakfast?" he asked.

The co-pilot pointed to a chair. He rapped sharply on a drinking glass.
A door opened, he pointed at Joe, and the door closed.

"Breakfast coming up," said the co-pilot. "Look! I know you're Joe
Kenmore. I'm Brick Talley and this is Captain--no less than
Captain!--Thomas J. Walton. Impressed?"

"Very much," said Joe. He sat down. "What about the control surfaces on
pushpots?"

"They're in the jet blast!" said the co-pilot, now identified as Brick
Talley. "Like the V Two rockets when the Germans made 'em. Vanes in the
exhaust blast, no kidding! Landing, and skidding in on their tails like
they do, they haven't speed enough to give wing flaps a grip on the air,
even if they had wings to put wing flaps on. Those dinkuses are things
to have bad dreams about!"

Again, a door opened and a man in uniform with an apron in front came
marching in with a tray. There was tomato juice and ham and eggs and
coffee. He served Joe briskly and marched out again.

"That's Hotel de Gink service," said Talley. "No wasted motion, no
sloppy civilities. He was about to eat that himself, he gave it to you,
and now he'll cook himself a double portion of everything. What are you
doing here, anyhow?"

Joe shrugged. It occurred to him that it would neither be wise nor
creditable to say that he'd been sent here to split up a target at which
saboteurs might shoot.

"I guess I'm attached for rations," he observed. "There'll be orders
along about me presently, I suppose. Then I'll know what it's all
about."

He