it. Not, at least, until he'd eaten the sandwich.

"Of course, you're wondering where I got the idea for my project," said
"Smiley" Webb, adding, for the benefit of his driver, "Keep your eyes on
the road, Sergeant! The WAC barracks will still be there when you get
off duty!"

"Yes, sir," came a hollow grunt from the front seat.

"Weren't you?" asked General Webb, gleaming a toothy smile in Whitlow's
direction.

"Weren't I _what_?" Whitlow asked miserably, having lost the thread of
their conversation due to a surreptitious glance backward at the WAC
barracks in their wake.

"Wondering about the project!" snapped the general.

"Yes. We _all_ were," said the Secretary of Defense, appending somewhat
tartly, "That's why they _sent_ me here."

"To be sure. To be sure," General Webb muttered. He didn't much like
tartness in responses, but the Secretary of Defense, unfortunately, was
hardly a subordinate, and therefore not subject to the general's choler.
Silly little ass! he said to himself. Rather liking the sound of the
words--albeit in his mind--he repeated them over again, adding
embellishments like "pompous" and "mousy" and "squirrel-eyed." After
three or four such thoughts, the general felt much better.

"_I_ thought the whole thing up, myself," he said, proudly.

"I wish you'd stop being so ambiguous," Whitlow protested in a small
voice. "Just what _is_ this project? How does it work? Will it help us
win the war?"

"_Sssh!_" said the general, jerking a quivering forefinger perpendicular
before pursed lips. "Security!"

He closed one eye in a broad wink and wriggled a thumb in the direction
of the driver. "He's only cleared for Confidential material," said the
general, his tone casting aspersions on the sergeant's patriotism,
ancestry and personal hygiene. "This project is, of course, _Top
Secret_!" He said the words reverently, his face going all noble and
brave. Whitlow half-expected him to remove his hat, but he did not.

* * * * *

They drove onward, then, in silence, until they passed by a large field,
in the center of which Whitlow could discern the outlines of an immense
bull's-eye, in front of a tall, somewhat rickety khaki-colored reviewing
stand, draped in tired bunting.

"What's that?" asked Whitlow, relinquishing his grip on his brief case
long enough to point toward the field.

"_Ssssh!_" said "Smiley" Webb. "You'll find out in a matter of hours."

"Many ho