All were in their old
service uniforms, with long coats over the uniforms to mask them. All
carried vacuum-flashlights in their overcoat pockets, and lethal-gas
pistols, in addition to ordinary revolvers or automatics. And all were
keyed to the top notch of energy, efficiency, eagerness. The Great
Adventure had begun.
In the stern of the swift, twenty-four cylinder launch--a racing
model--sat Captain Alden and Rrisa. The captain wore his aviator's
helmet and his goggles, despite the warmth of the night. To appear in
only his celluloid mask, even at a time like this when darkness would
have hidden him, seemed distasteful to the man. He seemed to want to
hide his misfortune as fully as possible; and, since this did no harm,
the Master let him have his way.
The bow was occupied by the Master and by Major Bohannan, with the
Master at the wheel. He seemed cool, collected, impassive; but
the major, of hotter Celtic blood, could not suppress his fidgety
nervousness.
Intermittently he gnawed at his reddish mustache. A cigar, he felt,
would soothe and quiet him. Cigars, however, were now forbidden. So
were pipes and cigarettes. The Master did not intend to have even
their slight distraction coming between the minds of his men and the
careful, intricate plan before them.
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