Funny things happen at Rook Field, and that fact isn’t so surprising.
All sorts of nuts try to put something together that will do something
in the air that has never been done before—and if the boys think that
the something has a third of a chance it’s given a try-out. MacComas has
a pretty level head, and it isn’t every inventor who can get his pet
theory into a hangar at Rook. But enough of them do to make things
interesting.
Now Eric Burnson had a duraluminum-surfaced baby plane that was supposed
to be a world-beater. After listening to what Burnson said it should do
I got the idea that it hardly needed a pilot. I didn’t say a thing. It
was Joe Curtis who spoke up.
“We had one something like this baby, a year ago,” he stated grimly.
“But I was lucky—I happened to be flying the big ones.”
Burnson was short and rather stocky. He had thin features, a high
forehead, and very peculiar eyes—he seemed to be seeing right through
things. They were gray, and the pupils appeared to be slightly dilated.
He burned right through Joe’s blue eyes, nodding his head slightly.
“Perhaps the designer of the baby plane was fortunate, too,” he stated
quietly.
Joe’s face didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed just the slightest
degree.
“He was,” he returned grimly. “He didn’t go up in his ship—and Lew
Bellows came down fourteen thousand in a loose-winged spin. We haven’t
had a tricky ship here, not one _as_ tricky, anyway—until MacComas told
us that—”
Joe stopped. Burnson smiled with tight-set lips.
“That my plane was accepted for tests, eh?” he finished. “Sorry—but
can’t you do a sneak?”
Joe flushed. “Don’t have to go that far,” he snapped. “I’ve already told
Mac that I refuse to fly it.”
That was coming back at Burnson pretty strong. I caught the faint
flicker of rage that flashed in those gray eyes; then it was gone, and
the inventor smiled coldly.
“That’s your privilege, of course,” he stated. “I’ve had the Burnson up
two thousand. But I’m not qualified to test my own ship as thoroughly as
an experienced pilot.”
* * * * *
Joe Curtis shrugged his shoulders. He looked Burnson squarely in the
eyes.
“It would be a damned good idea,” he said slowly, “if some of you
fellows learned to fly before you started inventing!”
I started to cut in, to say something that might break the tension. But
I couldn’t think of anything decent enough. And Burnson came right back.
“The creative and the mechanical mind are quite different,” he stated
coldly. “A chauffeur seldom helps to improve the automobile industry.”
And that got Joe. He’s pretty much of a fighter, anyway. I thought for a
split second that he was going to swing on Burnson. But he didn’t. He
just laughed.
It was one of those throaty, nasty laughs, packed with contempt, and I
saw Burnson stiffen. Then there was a little silence, broken by the
scraping of Joe’s chair as he shoved it back.
“I’m not laughing at _you_, Burnson,” he stated, his voice coldly
amused. “I’m laughing at that crate of yours. And it isn’t the last
laugh, either. The public will give you that. I’m giving you the
_next-to-last_ laugh!”
Then he got to his feet, swung around and strode from the Field-office
room in which the four of us had been gathered.
Burnson’s face was white, and the hand that rested on the table which
held his blueprints was clenched tightly. MacComas, the superintendent
of the testing end at Rook, was frowning. A door slammed back of the
departing Joe Curtis.
“He’s off his feed,” I suggested, after a little silence.
The Super shook his head.
“That isn’t it, Al,” he told me. “How about it, Burnson—has he any real
scrap with you?”
Burnson shook his head. “It happens that I’m not crazy about him,” he
stated directly, “but I’ve never clashed with him—until just now. Never
had much contact with him, actually.”
MacComas looked at me.
“Want to do the work on the baby Burnson, Al?” he asked.
I hesitated—but not long. It’s the practice at Rook to put it up to a
test-pilot. Sometimes ships lie around in the hangars or on the
dead-line for weeks before they get into the air. Taking off a trick
ship for the first time is a big gamble. But I had a hunch that Burnson
knew his stuff.
“I’ll feel her out—this week,” I said slowly, “if it’s all right with
Mr. Burnson.”
Eric Burnson nodded. “I’m glad to have you work on my plane,” he stated
simply. “I suggested Curtis because he’d been doing a lot of small-ship
testing. Naturally, I think he’s wrong in figuring that the Gull won’t
pass measure.”
I grinned. “It’s all in the game,” I stated. “And I don’t want to live
to be a hundred, anyway.”
MacComas grunted. “You will,” he said grimly. “Only the good die young!”
* * * * *
This Gull plane of Eric Burnson’s was supposed to revolutionize the
flying game. It was a very small single-seater, and it had been designed
to adopt most of the principles of natural bird-flight. It was supposed
to be able to get off a pocket-handkerchief field, and to land on
building roofs. A graceful little thing it was—and it looked fast.
When it hit dirt the wings ceased to support the ship—and were planned
to act as air brakes, stopping all forward motion. The elevators could
be spread fan-tailed in flight. It was tricky—there was no doubt about
that. And the trickier they are, the more dangerous they are; but if the
ship was up to snuff it would move everything along fast—in the air.
But I decided that I’d be sure and inspect my ’chute-pack before I took
the Gull off. And I also decided that I’d get altitude without rocking
the boat any more than I had to rock it. If I could get five thousand or
better it wouldn’t be so bad. I could take a chance on getting clear, at
that altitude.
I was thinking things over when I climbed the stairs of Ma Gray’s house,
four miles from the Field—we haven’t any quarters at Rook—and headed for
my room. The door was partly opened, and when I got inside I found Joe
Curtis sitting on the bed, a scowl on his face.
“A great guy, you are!” I stated. “You sure ran out of _that_ job sweet
and pretty!”
Joe swore softly. “And they grabbed you for the dirty work, I suppose!”
he muttered. “She’ll fall apart in the air, Al.”
I grinned. “I’m being paid good coin for testing ships,” I stated
slowly. “MacComas accepted this one. Somebody’s got to do the trick!”
“Well—” Joe lighted a pill—“that somebody doesn’t have to be me. And it
won’t be you!”
I stiffened. Joe and I had been pretty thick for a couple of years, but
we hadn’t reached a point where we told each other what we could and
what we couldn’t do.
“No?” I questioned. “How come, Joe?”
He just smiled. “When do you figure on getting her off the ground?” he
asked slowly.
“I haven’t started to figure yet, Joe,” I returned.
He chuckled. “The only reason I asked, Al,” he came back, “was because
that’s a mighty intelligent ship—according to Burnson. And I’ve got some
good cigars over at my room. Didn’t want to leave a window open and have
it fly in after the smokes.”
But Joe wasn’t fooling me any by using the funny stuff. So I gave it to
him straight.
“Don’t mix in on this deal, Joe!” I warned. “Mac passed the assignment
to me—and I’m testing that Burnson plane. You’ve had your laugh. Now
give Burnson a chance to have his.”
Joe Curtis flicked the ashes from his pill. His eyes were little slits.
“It might not be a laugh,” he stated. “Not for you, anyway.”
I swore softly. “You’re getting old and sentimental, Joe,” I told him.
“You do your stuff—and I’ll do mine. Just because you turned Burnson
down and I didn’t—”
“You _did_,” Joe interrupted grimly; “only you’re not wise to that fact
yet!”
* * * * *
As I mentioned before—a lot of funny things happen at Rook Field. And
some happen that aren’t so funny. The morning after I had the little
chat with Joe Curtis, MacComas called me to the Field in a hurry. I
drove out, and caught him at his desk.
“Listen to this one, Al,” the test-boss ordered, picking up a piece of
white paper from his desk. “Just came through the mail, postmarked from
the city. Typewritten and unsigned. All set?”