That night Charlent slept in a hotel far from the airfield—but it seemed to him that, in the warm darkness, he could still hear the Sundog’s whistle. He awoke several times, rigid with fear, convinced that some ghastly, irretrievable blunder had been committed, and that the megadeaths were coming …
Next morning he awoke early, glad to escape the night, and went to the airfield much earlier than necessary. As he walked below the vast umbrella of the tailplane he met Jackson, the flight engineer, and a local maintenance fitter.
“You were right, Charly,” Jackson said. “It must have been a bird—we found these in the horn balance hinge.”
He held out two large feathers, twisted and bent. Charlent took them cautiously—they were smeared with some sort of grease. As he looked down at them he became aware of the Sundog’s endless song, and in the depths of his mind myth-memories began to stir. He ran his fingers over the feathers again.
Were they covered with grease—or wax?