about five o'clock in the
evening
The huge troop transport plane eased down through the rainy drizzle enshrouding New York International Airport at about five o'clock in the evening . Tom Shandor glanced sourly through the port at the wet landing strip , saw the dim landing lights reflected in the steaming puddles . On an adjacent field he could see the rows and rows of jet fighters , wings up in the foggy rain , poised like ridiculous birds in the darkness . With a sigh he ripped the sheet of paper from the small , battered portable typewriter on his lap , and zipped the machine up in its slicker case .