Double Eagle(科幻战争)-第11部分

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Another　one。　No；　two。　One　red；　one　mauve；　sweeping　in　towards　the　transport　with　the　engine
fire。　The　massive　Onero　had　been　holed　badly；　weeping　torrents　of　fuel　mix　out　into　the　air。
“No　you　don’t…”　she　hissed。　She　cut　round；　crunched　by　negative　G；　grunting　out　of　her
defensive　“grip”　posture。　The　angle　was　bad；　but　she　let　go　anyway。　A　long；　pumping　stream　of
lascannon。　The　red　Razor　lost　part　of　its　starboard　wing　and　went　into　a　savage　spin；　falling　away。
The　mauve　one　broke　off；　turning　down　and　out　at　the　limit　of　pilot　tolerance。
Then　it　exploded。　One　large　blast　that　skewed　it　around　in　the　sky；　then　two　smaller　ones　that
shredded　what　was　left　of　it　into　metal　dust。
Milan　Blansher’s　Bolt　ripped　past　under　her。
Four…Two　had　joined　the　fight。
Theda　MAB　South；　10。07
A　curious　hush　had　fallen　across　the　Operations　rotunda。　Eads　was　the　only　flight　controller　who
had　birds　in　a　fight。　Maintaining　their　own　watches；　the　other　controllers　were　looking　his　way。
Darrow　felt　like　they　were　in　the　spotlight。　The　deck　officer　had　come　over　to　stand　at　Eads’s　side。
“Status？”
“Four…One　and　Four…Two　have　engaged。　Sixteen　confirmed　hostiles。　Four　hostiles　now　show　as
killed。”
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There　was　a　murmur　around　the　room。
“Relief　flight　situation？”　asked　the　deck　officer。　His　name　was　Banzie；　a　short；　jocund　man　in　a
high…collared　uniform　of　Imperial　purple。
“Two　tankers　lost。　One　damaged。　Three　escorts　downed。”　Eads’s　voice　was　frail　and　distant。　He
was　looking　ahead　of　him　into　open　space；　the　data　swirling　in　his　mind。　His　hands　crept　over　the
console　displays；　correcting；　rewriting。　The　placement　officer　at　the　modar　screen　in　front　of　Eads’s
station　was　making　constant　adjustments　to　the　glass　with　her　stylus。
Darrow　realised　why　the　air　in　Operations　was　kept　so　cold。　There　was　no　chance　of　getting
dozy　or　slack。　No　chance　of　drowsiness　clouding　judgement。
“Assessment？”　Banzie　asked　Eads。
“Tight。　Anything　in　range？”　Eads　replied。
“Requesting　assist！”　Banzie　cried　out　to　the　room。　“Quickly；　now！”
“I　have　the　44th　Wing；　six　machines；　fourteen　minutes　away；”　a　controller　called　out　from　a
nearby　console。
“No；　Deck。　Too　far；”　Eads　muttered。
“The　101。　Four　machines；　returning　over　the　Northern　Makanites。　Three　minutes；”　called
another　from　across　the　chamber。
“Tolerance？”　asked　Banzie。
“They’ve　been　up　for　two　hundred　minutes；　and　have　engaged　once　already。　If　we　instruct；
they’ll　have　about　five　minutes　of　fight　in　them。”
“Anyone　else？”　Banzie　urged。
Nothing　closer　than　fourteen　minutes。
“Controller？”　Banzie　asked。
“Another　Lightning　just　bought　it；　sir；”　said　Eads。　“And…　can’t　confirm；　but　we　may　also　have
lost　one　of　Umbra。　Requesting　commit。”
Banzie　nodded　and　looked　up；　his　voice　rising　to　drill　instructor　volume。　“Instruct　commit！
Bring　them　in；　please。”
Darrow　looked　over　at　the　flight　controller　on　the　other　side　of　the　chamber　as　he　began　feverish
activity。　“101；　101；　this　is　Operations。　You　have　an　instruction　to　commit。　Please　confirm　plot。”
There　was　an　answering　swirl　of　vox　noise。　The　placement　officer　in　front　of　the　controller
began　scribing　quickly　and　expertly　on　the　reactive　glass　display。
Then　Darrow　heard　the　controller　say；　“Copy　that；　Apostles。　I’m　sure　that　they’ll　be　happy　to　see
you。”
The　Apostles！　Holy　Throne！　Darrow’s　heart　began　to　race。　He　looked　back　at　Eads。　Beads　of
sweat　were　trickling　off　Eads’s　brow。
“Confirmation；”　he　said。　“We’ve　lost　one　of　Umbra。”
Over　the　Lida；　10。08
“Where’s　Clovin？　Where’s　Clovin？”　Jagdea　yelled　into　the　vox。　She’d　just　seen　a　plane　go　in　and
make　a　fireball　in　the　hydro…ponds　below。　It　had　looked　like　a　Thunderbolt。
“No　visual；”　Asche　replied。
“Nothing；”　called　Ranfre。
“Throne；　what　kind　of　party　have　you　brought　us　to？”　Cordiale　screeched。　Jagdea　saw　him；
below　and　left；　turning　wildly　with　a　bat　on　his　tail。　The　air　was　full　of　tracer　and　las。　Her　own　lasers
were　spent。　She　toggled　to　hard　cannons　and　stooped。
Something　forked　and　white　bent　across　her　bows　and　raced　after　Zemmic’s　machine。
“See　him？”　That　was　Blansher。
“Say　again；”　Jagdea　voxed。
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“The　pearl…white　bat。　That’s　the　bastard　who　stung　Clovin。”
Blansher’s　Bolt　slewed　in　behind　her　and　then　rolled　away　loose。　Asche　went　under　her；
followed　by　Marquall。
“Umbra　Four…One；　this　is　Operations。　We　have　assist　committed　to　you。　Three　minutes　and
closing。”
“Understood；”　Jagdea　gasped；　the　G　she　was　pulling　compressing　her　lungs。
She　saw　Zemmic　flick　out　to　dodge　his　attacker。　Smoke　was　pumping　from　his　port　fan。
“Umbra　Ten；　Umbra　Ten；　this　is　Flight　Lead。　Break　off　and　quit。”
“I　can　hold　it…”
“I　don’t　care；　Ten。　Break　off　and　quit　for　home　now。”
“Copy　you；　Lead。”
There　was　the　white　bat　now；　banking　over　through　the　tails　of　a　cloud　bar。　Blansher　was　on　it；
Asche　too。　As　good　as　dead；　Jagdea　decided。
She　was　needed　elsewhere；　anyway。
The　burning　Onero　had　finally　given　up。　Its　fire…damaged　wing　tore　away　and　it　went　down　into
the　valley　basement　like　a　meteor。　Another　bright　flash…burst。　Another　vast　section　of　farmland
torched。　Jagdea　saw　the　Shockwave　mash　trees；　demolish　silos；　and　send　segments　of　plastek
hydroponic　rafts　slewing　into　the　air。
A　black　Razor　swept　over　her　gunsight；　rolling　hard；　firing　on　Ranfre’s　machine。　She　hit　the
speed　brakes；　her　body　arrested　by　the　harness；　and　fell　nose…down　onto　it；　pumping　her　cannons。
It　twisted　and　turned　out　as　Ranfre　pulled　clear。　Jagdea　swung　around　onto　it　again。　Resighting；
she　got　a　decent　lock。
“Bang；”　she　said。
The　arcing　bat　vanished　and　left　a　drizzle　of　fire　in　its　place。
Blansher　blinked　in　amazement。　He’d　had　Clovin’s　pearl…white　killer　square　in　his　reticule；　with
a　firm　tone。
And　then　it　had　just　vanished。
He　banked　hard；　expecting　a　trick。　But　there　was　no　sign　of　it。
“Umbra　Four；　Umbra　Four…　Did　you　do　that？”
“Negative；　Umbra　Two；”　Larice　Asche　replied。　“Frig　it；　Mil；　he’s　dummied　you。　He’s　right
under　you！”
Blansher　inverted；　then　curled　into　a　dive。　Asche　was　right　with　him；　popping　shots　at　the
merciless　white　Hell　Razor。　It　stuck　and　turned；　and　matched　every　move　Umbra　Flight’s　number
two　made。
This　wasn’t　right。　This　was　insane。　Blansher　and　Asche　were　Jagdea’s　two　best　pilots；　aces　both。
How　could　this　hostile　out…dance　them　together？
Asche　rotated　steeply　and　got　a　lock；　but　then　pulled　her　thumb　back　as　Blansher’s　Bolt　got　in
the　way。　The　bastard　was　playing　with　them。　Playing　them　off。
The　Razor　screwed　off　left；　then　punctured　Blansher’s　wing　with　a　flurry　of　hard　rounds。　Asche
scored　a　shot　that　left　a　dark　scorch　on　the　bat’s　right　wing。　Then　it　rolled　and　fired　again。
Blansher’s　port　engine　exploded。
Trailing　smoke；　he　fell　out　of　the　fight。　The　Razor　seemed　to　consider　going　after　him；　but
pulled　away。　Asche　turned　with　him；　smiling　under　her　breather　mask。
And…　he　was　gone。　She　switched　her　head　around；　looking　for　it。　A　las…shot　tore　through　her
wing。
It　was　on　her。　Lock　tone。
Four　cream…skinned　Thunderbolts　came　out　of　the　south；　nose　guns　blasting。
One　rolled　perfectly；　came　in　under　her；　and　fired　bursts　at　the　pearl…white　Razor。
It　side…stepped；　and　extended　at　a　furious　rate。
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The　white　Thunderbolt　swung　past　her。
One　of　the　Apostles。　He　dipped　his　wings　to　her。
“Many　thanks；”　Asche　voxed。
So　certain。　So　assured。　The　four　Apostles　ripped　into　the　air…fight　and　broke　it　up；　like　bouncers
in　a　tavern　brawl。　Seekan　secured　one　kill；　his　wingman　Suhr　another。　It　was　the　legendary　Quint；
ace　of　aces；　who　had　saved　Larice’s　skin。
The　hostiles　began　to　snap　off　and　break　away　from　the　tumble。
Then　Asche　saw　the　pearl…white　razor　lining　up　on　Marquall。　He　was　chasing　one　of　the　fleeing
hostiles；　firing　wildly。
“Umbra　Eight！　Break！　Break！”　she　yelled。
She　started　to　turn。　Jagdea’s　machine　swept　by　her；　gunning。
The　hostile　was　right　on　Marquall’s　six。
Tone　ping。　Hard　lock。　He　couldn’t　shake　it。　Marquall　shouted　in　frustration。
And　in　desperation；　Vander　Marquall　did　the　only　thing　he　could　think　of。　He　fired　his
Thunderbolt’s　rocket　drive。　It　was　there　only　for　launch　assist。　No　one　ever　used　it　in　open　flight。　It
was　against　text　book　directives。　Fire　your　rocket　and　you　lose　control。
He　fired　it　anyway。
The　sky　and　land　became　a　blur。　He　greyed　out　for　a　moment。　Somehow；　he　held　on。
The　pearl…white　Razor　turned；　bemused；　as　its　target　banged　away。
“Yours；　Harlsson；”　Seekan’s　voice　sounded　calm　and　controlled　over　the　vox。
“On　it；　Leader；”　Harlsson　responded。
Major　Velmed　Harlsson。　Ninety…seven　kills。　Jagdea　watched　his　consummate　skill　with　humble
appreciation。　A　perfect　bank。　Not　too　much　throttle。　Totally　composed。　He　arched　over　onto　the
target　expertly；　guns　blazing。
But　somehow；　the　bat　managed　to　viff　out　under　him；　and　then　swung　onto　his　rear。
She　heard　Harlsson’s　voice。　Just　a　hint　of　confusion　in　the　calm　tone。　“I’m　locked。　I—”　Harlsson
began。　“Seekan；　where　are　y—”
The　bat’s　guns　blew　his　tail　assembly　away。　Harlsson　tried　to　control　his　flailing　machine。　The
huge　silver　bulk　of　one　of　the　transports　suddenly　filled　his　forward　view。
The　mangled　Thunderbolt　impacted　into　the　side　of　the　Onero　at　five　hundred　kph。　The　fire
wash　lit　up　the　valley。
Theda　MAB　South；　10。18
“Apostle　down！”　the　flight　controller　on　the　far　side　of　the　chamber　yelled　out。　There　was　a　brisk
gasp　from　the　personnel　around　them。
Darrow　looked　at　Eads。　Eads　sighed。　“Enemy　has　broken　off。　Bats　retreating。”
Banzie　nodded。　There　was　some　sporadic　clapping。
Eads　glanced　round　at　Darrow。　“A　white　bat。　Pearl…white。　Ring　any　bells？”
“Sounds　like　the　one；　sir；”　Darrow　nodded。
“He’s　a　devil　of　a　pilot。　A　real　devil。　Summarise　everything　you　remember　from　your　encounter
and　I’ll　get　the　report　copied　out。　The　wings　need　to　be　aware　of　him。　Everything　you　remember；
please；　junior。”
“Yes；　sir。”
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DAY　256
Theda　Old　Town；　00。10
The　address　she’d　been　given　was　a　merchantman’s　house　on　the　Gehnstal；　one　of　a　row　of　elderly
mansions　on　a　broad　pavement。　Many　were　boarded　up　now；　thanks　to　the　war；　but　adjacent　blocks
of　cheap　habs　showed　that　the　area’s　fortunes　had　been　in　decline　for　some　time。
Jagdea　brought　the　staff　car　she’d　borrowed　to　a　halt；　switched　off　the　engine　and　got　out。　Lights
burned　brightly　around　the　shutter　edges　of　the　house　she　was　looking　for。
Nervously　adjusting　her　uniform；　she　hurried　up　the　front　steps。　Was　that　singing　she　could
hear？　She　found　an　iron　bell…pull　and　yanked　on　it。　Service　bells　tinkled　faraway　in　the　house。
After　a　moment；　the　door　opened。　The　hallway　inside　was　dimly　lit。　She　found　herself　facing　a
high…function　domestic　servitor；　its　silver　form　engraved　with　intricate　chasework。
“Oh；”　she　said；　surprised。　“I　was　looking　for…　is　this　133　Gehnstal？”
“Yes；　commander；”　it　replied；　digitising　the　gentle；　mannered　voice　of　an　elderly　male　through
his　voxponder。　The　servitor　had　recognised　her　rank。
“I’m　looking　for　the　billet　used　by　the　Apostles。　The　101。”
“Please　come　in；”　the　servitor　said。
It　was　definitely　singing　she　could　hear　in　the　background。　A　recording　of　Frans　Talfer’s
Gaudete　Terra；　with　male　voices　booming　along。
“Follow　me；”　the　servitor　said。　“May　I　ask　your　name；　commander？”
“Jagdea；”　she　replied。
The　servitor’s　exquisite　silver　hands　reached　out　and　smoothly　opened　a　double　set　of　panelled
doors；　letting　through　a　bright　glow　light　and　the　full　force　of　the　music。
“Commander　Jagdea；”　it　announced。
The　singing　stopped；　but　the　music　languished　on；　fizzing　slightly　through　the　speaker　horn　of
the　recording　player　on　a　side　table。　Seekan　rose　out　of　an　armchair　to　greet　her。　“Good　evening；
commander。”
Around　the　room　were　the　other　six　Apostles。　All　of　them；　Seekan　included；　were　wearing　full
dress　uniforms；　heavy　with　medals。　They　had　glasses　in　their　hands　and　had　obviously　been　drinking
for　a　while。　Faces　were　flushed；　and　jackets　undone。
Seekan　looked　as　fresh　as　night　frost。
“I’m　sorry；”　Jagdea　said。　“I’m　interrupting。”
“Not　at　all；”　said　Seekan。　“Domo；　a　drink　for　the　commander。”　The　servitor　crossed　immediately
to　a　lacquered　drink　stand。
“Is　this　the　Phantine　leader？”　one　of　the　Apostles　asked。　He　was　a　big　man；　his　eyes　red　and
hooded　from　too　many　amasecs。
“It　is　indeed；　Ludo。　Commander　Jagdea；　may　I　present　Major　Ludo　Ramia。”
“Mamzel；”　the　big　man　nodded。
“Major　Ziner　Krone；　Major　Jeric　Suhr。”
Suhr　was　a　sharp…faced；　skinny　man。　He　nodded　curtly。　Krone　was　of　noble　build；　a　Glavian
perhaps；　by　the　look　of　his　gleaming　black　skin。　His　face　was　badly　scarred　on　the　left　cheek。　He　too
nodded；　then　busied　himself　changing　the　recorder　disk。
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“Captain　Guis　Gettering。”　Gettering　was　pugnacious　and　jowly；　with　short；　sand…white　hair。　He
was　standing　by　the　hearth；　a　crystal　balloon　in　his　hand。　“Mamzel　commander；”　he　grunted。
“And　Major　Dario　Quint。”
Quint。　Ace　of　aces。　Reclined　in　a　battered　tub　chair　in　the　far　corner；　he　seemed　more　like　an
observer　than　a　participant。　He　was　a　surprisingly　small　man；　well…proportioned；　compact；　his　oval
face　boyish；　though　his　hair　was　zinc…grey。　His　hands　were　folded　across　the　breast　of　his　uniform
jacket。　He　stared　directly　at　her　and　held　her　gaze；　though　he　made　no　sound。
The　servitor　handed　Jagdea　a　flute　of　joiliq；　and　she　took　it　even　though　she　didn’t　want　it。
“I—”　she　began；　and　cleared　her　throat。　“I　thought　it　was　appropriate　for　me　to　come　here　in
person　and　express　my　wing’s　appreciation　for　your　assistance。　Especially　given　the　cost。”
“You　lost　a　machine　too；　didn’t　you？”　Ramia　asked。
“Yes；　I　did。　But　the　loss　of　an　Apostle—”
Ramia　snorted。　“Harlsson　was　an　odious　shit。　He　couldn’t　fly　worth　a　fart。”
Jagdea　was　startled。　“I…　what？”
“Detestable　man；”　Suhr　agreed。　“Don’t　look　so　bloody　shocked；　mamzel。　Harlsson　was　all　luck
and　flair。　Not　a　gram　of　skill　in　his　whole　body。　It’s　a　miracle　he　lasted　as　long　as　he　did。”
Jagdea　frowned。　She　put　her　drink　down；　untouched；　and　said；　“I　wanted　to　express　my
appreciation　and　my　sympathies。　I’ve　done　that　now；　so　I　think　I’ll　go。”
“Saving　the　neck　of　that　upstart　boy；　wasn’t　he？”　Gettering　asked　suddenly。　Jagdea　paused　and
turned　back。
“What？”
“Harlsson。　Got　stung　getting　a　Razor　off　that　boy　of　yours；　mamzel。　Isn’t　that　right？　The　boy
who　thought　naming　his　machine　Double　Eagle　was　a　bright　idea。”
“That　matter　is　over　and　done；　captain；　though　I　believe　Pilot　Officer　Marquall　is　still　waiting　on
your　letter　of　apology。　And　no；　you’re　not　right。　Marquall　had　already　shaken　the　Razor。”
“Had　he　now？”　said　Gettering。
“He　used　his　rocket　assist；”　said　Suhr。
“Did　he？”　Gettering　laughed。　Ramia　chuckled　too。　“So　the　boy　was　your　casualty？”
“No；”　said　Jagdea。　“Marquall　recovered　control　of　his　machine。”
There　was　a　look　on　Gettering’s　face　that　suggested　he　was　about　to　accuse　her　of　lying。　Instead；
he　just　shook　his　head　and　looked　away。　The　recorder　started　blaring　again。　Krone　had　put　on
Nuncius’s　Salve　Beatus；　loud　and　strident。　Jagdea　walked　out　of　the　room。
“Commander！”　Seekan　caught　up　with　her　in　the　hall。　Behind　him；　the　drunken　singing　had
resumed。
“You’ll　have　to　forgive　my　men；　Commander　Jagdea。　They’re　dealing　with　their　loss　in　their
own　way。”
“By　throwing　a　boorish　party　and　defaming　the　dead　man？”
“Pretty　much；”　said　Seekan。　“Sentiment　does　not　figure　largely　in　the　souls　of　those　men；
Jagdea。　They’re　steeped　in　death。　Immune　to　its　touch。”
“Clearly　not　immortal；”　she　snapped。
“No。　That’s　not　what　I　meant。　Your　unit；　now。　I　imagine　there’s　sadness。　Low　spirits。　Mourning
the　loss　of　a　friend。”
Jagdea　nodded。　That　was　exactly　the　mood　in　the　billet　when　she’d　left。　A　few　were　raising　a
glass　to　Clovin’s　shade；　but　there　was　a　general；　numbing　gloom。
“I　remember　that　myself；”　Seekan　said。　“In　the　early　days。　But　we　Apostles　are　war…weary。
When　I　said　we　are　immune　to　the　touch　of　death；　I　meant　we　just　don’t　feel　its　bite　any　more。　No
sense　of　grief；　no　loss；　no　regret；　no　sadness。　Just　an　inevitability。　When　an　Apostle　dies；　we　put　on
our　dress　white　and　our　ridiculous　numbers　of　medals；　and　we　get　filthy　drunk。　We　rage；　we　sing；
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we　drink　some　more。　We　do　it　to　show　fate；　or　fortune；　or　whatever　else　lurks　out　there　in　the　dark；
that　we　don’t　care。”
She　had　no　reply。　His　voice　dropped　slightly。　“We’re　freaks；　Jagdea。　Do　you　know　why　we’re
Apostles？　Not　because　we’re　especially　fine　pilots。　Not　at　all。　We’re　Apostles　because　we’ve　had
unnatural　luck。　We　should　have　died　long　ago；　but　there’s　been　some　oversight　and　our　souls　have
not　been　claimed。　So　we　go　on　flying；　and　killing。　And　eventually；　the　oversight　is　corrected。　Today；
it　was　Harlsson’s　turn。”
“That’s　a　very　bleak　view；”　said　Jagdea。　“Was　Harlsson　really　that　disliked？”
“Who　knows？　Probably　not。　He　was　a　reasonable　pilot。　But　none　of　us　are　friends；　you　see。
There’s　no　point。　By　the　time　you　become　an　Apostle；　friends　are　a　vulnerability　none　of　us　chooses
to　afford。”
“I　pity　you；”　Jagdea　said。
Seekan　shrugged　his　shoulders。　“We　don’t　need　pity；　either。”　He　paused。　“Do　you　know　what　I
have　to　do　tomorrow　morning？”
“No。”
“My　driver’s　taking　me　down　the　coast　to　Madenta　MAB。　There’s　a　pilot　stationed　there　with
the　567th。　His　name’s　Saul　Cirksen。　Seventy…two　kills；　superb　service　record。　I　will　be　inviting　him
to　fill　Harlsson’s　spot。”
“Will　he　accept？”　she　asked。
“If　you　are　invited　to　become　an　Apostle；　Jagdea；　you’re　not　allowed　to　decline。”
She　opened　the　front　door。　The　night　air　was　cold　and　smelled　of　rain。　From　the　drawing　room
behind　them；　the　raucous　singing　swelled　to　a　lusty　chorus。
“Thank　you　for　your　pains；　commander；”　Seekan　said。　“They’re　not　as　unappreciated　as　you
might　think。”
Jagdea　made　a　quick；　clipped　salute。　“Good　flying；”　she　said。
Coast　Highway；　05。50
At　first　he　thought　it　was　a　summer　storm；　glimmering　the　edges　of　the　pre…dawn　sky　with　sheet
lightning。
It　took　him　a　few　moments　to　realise　it　wasn’t。
He　brought　his　heavy　transport　to　a　full　stop；　and　jumped　out　onto　the　rockcrete　surface　of　the
hardtop；　his　scope　in　his　hand。　The　other　seven　trucks　in　the　convoy　grumbled　to　a　halt　behind　him。
The　convoy　was　an　overnight　munitions　delivery　to　Fetona　MAB；　already　overdue。　A　couple　of　the
drivers　sounded　their　horns；　revved　their　stacks。　Finally；　they　dismounted　too。
They　found　Kaminsky　on　the　far　side　of　the　highway；　near　to　where　the　pelmet　of　the　road　track
shelved　away　into　a　dry　creek…bed。　This　area　of　the　Peninsula　was　barren。　Straw　grasses；　fibreweed；
salt　bars　dotting　the　broken　ground。　Even　in　the　cold　half…light　of　dawn；　there　was　nothing　to　spoil
the　view　all　the　way　to　the　Lida　Valley。
Kaminsky　was　winding　his　scope。
“What　the　hell’s　going　on？”　asked　Velligan。
“Kaminsky；　what’s　the　problem？”　said　Anderchek　from　behind　him。
“See　that？”　Kaminsky　asked。　“That　glow？　Fire　patterns。　Towns　along　the　Lida　are　being
bombed。”
Theda　MAB　South；　06。17
There　was　something　big　going　on。　Darrow　had　slept　badly；　aware　of　a　huge　launch　activity　during
the　small　hours。　He’d　been　working　late　on　the　report　Eads　had　asked　him　to　write　up；　and　with　an
hour　an