ith the motors. They've got a little too much
power, maybe. Sometimes--occasionally--they explode."

"Jet motors?" asked Joe. "Explode? That's news!"

"A strictly special feature," said Talley drily. "Exclusive with
pushpots for the Platform. They run 'em and run 'em and run 'em, on
test. Nothing happens. But occasionally one blows up in flight. Once it
happened warming up. That was a mess! The field's been losing two pilots
a week. Lately more."

"It doesn't sound exactly reasonable," said Joe slowly. He put a last
forkful in his mouth.

"It's also inconvenient," said Talley, "for the pilots."

The pilot--Walton--opened his mouth.

"It'd be sabotage," he said curtly, "if there was any way to do it. Four
pilots killed this week."

He lapsed into silence again.

Joe considered. He frowned.

A pushpot, outside the building, hysterically bellowed its way across
the runway and its noise changed and it was aloft. It went spiraling up
and up. Joe stirred his coffee.

There were thin shoutings outside. A screaming, whistling noise! A
crash! Something metallic shrieked and died. Then silence.

Talley, the co-pilot, looked sick. Then he said: "Correction. It's been
five pushpots exploded and five pilots killed this week. It's getting a
little bit serious." He looked sharply at Joe. "Better drink your coffee
before you go look. You won't want to, afterward."

He was right.

Joe saw the crashed pushpot half an hour later. He found that his
ostensible assignment to the airfield for the investigation of sabotage
was quaintly taken at face value there. A young lieutenant solemnly
escorted him to the spot where the pushpot had landed, only ten feet
from a hangar wall. The impact had carried parts of the pushpot five
feet into the soil, and the splash effect had caved in the hangar
wall-footing. There'd been a fire, which had been put out.

The ungainly flying thing was twisted and torn. Entrails of steel tubing
were revealed. The plastic cockpit cover was shattered. There were only
grisly stains where the pilot had been.

The motor had exploded. The jet motor. And jet motors do not explode.
But this one had. It had burst from within, and the turbine vanes of the
compressor section were revealed, twisted intolerably where the barrel
of the motor was ripped away. The jagged edges of the tear testified to
the violence of the internal explosion.

Joe looked wise and felt ill. The young lieutenant very politely looked