“Good.” The reply was mechanical; the general was still looking down at the thin little form lying on the bed. “Is she awake at all?” he asked.
“No,” Markley answered. “We made certain of that. If she makes it, this period will just be a gap in her life.”
The general continued to look at the little girl. “I know that she is still alive — obviously. But what is the honest prognosis — has she any chance at all to recover?”
Markley was extremely cautious. “I’ll put it this way, sir: by all of the odds, even with normally good fortune on her side, she would be dead by now. But, as you can see, she isn’t. It is Dr. Lindegaard’s opinion that the disease has been arrested. We have the full details on the first reported case of human recovery from rabies. Up to this point, her history is paralleling that one.”
Miss Morgensen spoke up for the first time. “If you will allow me, General, I wish to say that if she lives, it will be because of Dr. Markley, and Dr. Bowditch, and what they did before we got here.”
The general looked at her and liked what he saw. “Thank you,” he said. “I would like to ask you a question, if the doctor doesn’t mind.”
Markley nodded his consent.
“Based on your own experience, Miss Morgensen, would you give this patient one chance, in say fifty, to survive?”
The Danish nurse met his inquiring eyes evenly and squarely. “Sir, since she has now come this far, I would give her better than that. I am a believer, sir; I expect her to recover.”
“Major Dashner?” the general asked.
“I believe, sir, that Dr. Markley is being very cautious, and very modest.”
The general lingered. “I presume that the chaplain has been in,” he said.
Grethe Morgensen answered that. “Every day, sir, usually at least twice. Both chaplains, as a matter of fact. The Catholic chaplain has said masses for her, and Major Valen has conducted special services in the chapel.”
“Well,” the general said after thinking for a moment, “if she’s got God on her side she’ll make it, and it looks as if she does.” He turned and left the room.
Outside Colonel Kleckner glanced at his watch, saw that there was plenty of time available, and asked: “What now, sir? Would you care to come over to headquarters?”
“Is there something pressing on hand?”
“No, sir, not to my knowledge.”
“Then perhaps we could go down to the flight line.”
The colonel’s staff car, with the warning light on top, pulled away from the hospital as a small blue flag bearing two stars fluttered in a socket next to the front bumper. The driver pulled up smoothly beside the personnel door to Hangar 8 and then, as he got out to open the car door, accidently touched the horn for a bare moment.
The general got to his feet and waited for his host to join him. Then, as his aide held the door open, he went inside.
The overhead lights were already on. In the center of the floor The Passionate Penguin gleamed with newness; not a single spot disfigured her shining surfaces. UNITED STATES AIR FORCE was lettered perfectly on the side of her fuselage. In front of her nose, in immaculate class-A uniform, her crew stood at attention in a dead-straight line. Every man’s hands were precisely at his sides, every man’s eyes were straight forward and unblinking, every man’s shoes had been spit-shined to perfection.
The general approached the very tall, quite slender, rather good-looking young lieutenant who was at the end of the line closest to the nose of the aircraft. As the general stopped before him, Ferguson snapped a salute on behalf of the crew. “Air Force B-17 three-six-zero ready for inspection, sir,” he reported in crisp military tones.
The general walked slowly down the line of men and examined each one. Lieutenant Corbin, whose wings identified him as the copilot, as did his position in line, was textbook perfect. Lieutenant Jenkins, knowing that he was somewhat overweight, held his stomach in and his shoulders back.
Sergeant Holcomb had creases in his trousers that would have served to cut the grass, had there been any at Thule. Sergeant Stovers stood with the pride of a professional. Sergeant Perry Feinberg, who had three days to go on his Thule tour, was massive; his usually mobile face was like granite. Atwater was crisp and self-conscious, trying to look at least a bit larger than his essentially small frame would permit.
The general came down the back of the line and, as he looked with an experienced eye, he could detect no flaw. When he had finished, he turned to Ferguson once more. “At ease, gentlemen,” he said. “Most satisfactory. Your name, Lieutenant?”
“Scott Ferguson, sir.”
“I’d like to meet the rest of your crew.”
“My honor, sir.” Ferguson stepped out of the rank. “Sir, may I present Lieutenant Corbin, copilot; Lieutenant Jenkins, navigator; Sergeant Holcomb, flight engineer; Sergeant Stovers, loadmaster—”
“Hell, Bill,” the general said.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Since you are the most careful and meticulous man around an airplane I have ever known, tell me,” the general said. “How good is this B-17?”
“The best goddamned airplane in the United States Air Force, sir.”
Ferguson presented Feinberg and Atwater, who shook hands a little formally.
“I’d like to go on board,” the general said.
“Yes, sir,” Ferguson responded. He glanced at the general’s wings, then led the way to the crew entrance ladder and stepped aside. The general went up the ladder and turned right into the bomb-bay area. He went slowly, making an intensive inspection of everything that he saw. He went back as far as he was able, checking the control-cable pulleys, the rear-door latch, every detail within his reach. “It could be that Sergeant Stovers was right,” he said.
“He spoke for the entire crew, sir.”
The general turned around and made his way up toward the flight deck. He checked the navigator’s station and noted the Bendix octant that was properly positioned under the deck. “Is that the original Mixmaster?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Does it work?”
“Perfectly, sir. Everything on board this aircraft, and every part of it, has been completely gone over and brought up to the highest standards.”
“I see.” The general went forward and looked down at the console. He remained there for over half a minute without moving, then he sat down in the left-hand seat. Since he was a command pilot, that was his prerogative. He surveyed the instrument panel in detail; then he studied the bank of switches above his head. Finally he gave his attention to the console. “I see that you’ve put in all modern avionics,” he said.
“Yes, sir. There is one original radio on board, and fully operational of course, but it was Colonel Kleckner’s opinion that she should be fitted with all necessary modern communications and navaids.”
“There isn’t any single sideband,” the general noted.
“No, sir, but it will go right here when we can get hold of a set to install. Otherwise, as you see, sir, she has dual OMNI, TACAN, DME, glide-slope readout and full ILS equipment.”
“What else would you like to install?”
“Weather radar, sir.”
“Would you be able to fit it if you had it — without a radome?”
“Yes, sir, that problem has already been solved. All we need is the set.”
“How about the tires?”
“Brand-new ones, sir; Goodyear sent them to us. More accurately, sir, they were sent to the aircraft herself. She accepted gratefully.”
The general felt the controls. “I can’t find anything wrong here,” he said.