“It’s all right with me,” he stated cheerfully. “Glad to try it, Mr.
Burnson.”
Mac frowned. I just looked at Joe through narrowed eyes. He lighted a
pill.
“If she’s right—suppose you take her up just before dusk, when the air’s
quiet,” Joe suggested to Burnson. “Then I’ll do some work tomorrow—if
she’s _still_ right.”
* * * * *
Burnson’s eyes gleamed. But he just nodded his head. Mac looked at me.
“Al had the assignment,” he commenced doubtfully, “and it seems to me
that—”
“Show them the letter you got, Mac,” I interrupted, and the test-boss
handed it to Joe. Burnson moved to his side—they read it together. I
watched Joe closely.
“Bunk!” he muttered. “I don’t think the Gull’s _that_ bad. It sounds
like a joke to me.”
Burnson was muttering something to himself. I smiled grimly at Joe.
“You ought to know!” I told Joe, and walked out of the room. When I got
outside, with the door slammed back of me, I heard Curtis laugh again.
And I was very sure, then, that he _did_ know.
But I couldn’t figure the game out. Joe Curtis had come in with Burnson.
And Joe was relieving me—and getting the test-job on the Gull. After
he’d turned it down in the first place, he was taking it now. Why? And
why, also, was Burnson letting him have it? Certainly the two men hated
each other. They couldn’t mask their feelings enough to hide that.
The more I thought of it—the more hot I got. It wasn’t that I was crazy
about testing the Gull. But I didn’t like to see Joe step in and grab
the job; not after what he’d said. And Burnson was letting him get away
with it. And so would Mac. If the inventor wanted Joe—he’d get Joe. That
was almost a creed of the Field. But _did_ Burnson want Joe?
“Not on your life!” I muttered, and pulled up short.
I’d been walking blindly along the dead-line, and I’d reached the hangar
in which the Gull was kept. And that gave me the big idea. I didn’t like
those laughs of Joe’s. They went mostly for Burnson, but they included
me, too.
“All right!” I muttered, “we’ll see who gives this baby the first test!”
And I headed for Burnson’s duraluminum-surfaced, fan-tailed Gull.
* * * * *
I had her on the dead-line, and was feeling out the controls, when I
jerked my helmeted head and saw Joe emerge from the Field-office. The
crew was back out of the way, and the engine of the little girl had
revved up all right. We were set for the take-off. I’d have to pass up
the ground-hopping, but that didn’t mean so much, anyway. I had a pet
’chute-pack strapped to me, and was sitting on it comfortably.
Joe turned his head my way—and I waved a hand. He let out a yell that I
didn’t hear because of the throttled-down exhaust rumble, and leaped off
the steps that led to the Field-office door. I saw MacComas bouncing
out—and then Burnson. And I gave her the gun.
“The next-to-last laugh for Joe,” I muttered; “the _last_ laugh for
_me!_”
She rolled. Out from the dead-line into the wind. She didn’t need much
ground on which to take-off. I got her tail up, sitting tensely in the
cockpit and saying a few of my favorite test-prayers. She skidded a bit,
and I used the rudder to straighten her out. But she wasn’t handling
right. And for once the prayers didn’t take.
We hit a ground-gust. Her nose dropped. I jerked the joy-stick back. The
nose came up—but her tail dropped. She didn’t zoom—she _did_ skid. Her
under-carriage struck; something crackled. I thought for a split second
that we were going to crack up right then.
But we didn’t. We got off—and this time we stayed off. The baby Gull
climbed—climbed up into the sky minus most of her under-carriage!
I sat tight, and held the ship in a mild climb. Testing was out of the
question now. In a ship of the Gull’s size, loss of even a portion of
the under-gear meant ragged flight. And the Gull was in the air now for
the first time.
At three thousand I tried a mild bank—and she almost got away from me
and slipped into a spin. But I managed to get her back on even keel
again. Staring down and back, I got a glimpse of ground-crew men holding
up the wreckage. As if I wasn’t fully aware of the fact that I’d
battered part of it loose!
At five thousand I got around in a bank, but the Gull’s air work was
sloppy, and she had a left wing-droop. The only thing that was
functioning right was her engine.
“Looks like a hop-over!” I muttered. “Can’t land this baby—not in this
shape!”
The Gull was supposed to land slow, and on a small field. But not
without under-carriage! I could risk a stall landing, but even then I’d
crack up pretty badly. I couldn’t see what was left below, but it was a
sure thing that not much of the two wheels and the tail-skid remained. A
’chute-jump seemed the only way out.
I got two thousand feet more altitude. It wasn’t the first time I’d been
over the side, but the conditions weren’t the best for a getaway. I’d
have to handle the Gull as long as I could, and the cockpit was so tiny
I’d have to wriggle out of it. But it had to be done.
* * * * *
About a half-mile to the north of the Field, figuring on the wind
drifting me back toward Rook, I climbed the Gull at about a
thirty-degree angle. Slipping the safety-belt, I squirmed out of the
cockpit, holding the stick as long as I could. When I released it, I had
one foot on a wing surface, and as the nose dropped down I got the other
one over. My left hand gripped a strut; the right one fumbled for the
rip-cord ring, and found it.
Then I let go. It seemed as if I missed the tail assembly by inches. I
somersaulted down, counted seven—jerked the rip-cord ring. The lead
parachute got out—and then the bigger spread crackled in the air. There
was a terrific jerking—the harness tightened about my body. And I was
drifting now—drifting beneath the ’chute toward Rook Field.
Figures were running toward me as I neared the north end of the Field.
There was a loud boom—the finish of the Gull. I wondered how Burnson
would take it. And then I flexed my legs, made ready for the
seventeen-foot-a-second contact with the earth.
I landed hard, and was out of the ’chute before it could drag me.
Feeling pretty shaky, I sat down and dug a pill out of my khaki shirt
pocket. And while I was lighting up, Joe Curtis reached me.
* * * * *
He stood looking down at me, breathless and scowling. I managed a grin.
“You damned idiot!” he muttered finally. “After all I did—”
Then he shut up. But that was enough for me. I was mighty curious.
“Spill it, Joe!” I stated. “What _did_ you do?”
“I flew in and sent that note to Mac!” he stated grimly. “And then I
cornered Burnson over in town—and made him take a drive with me, and
give me a promise or two. He didn’t want to do it—but he came through,
finally.”
I nodded. “Figured you did it, Joe,” I stated. “But _why?_ _You_ were
going to fly that ship.”
“Like hell I was!” he came back. “Not until Burnson took off first. And
I’m not so sure that he would have taken off. She was rotten underneath,
Al—and I knew it. Burnson practically admitted it—this morning, after I
stuck a gun under his face and got him out of town. He wasn’t sure, of
course. But he had to sacrifice something—to get what he wanted. And he
eased up on the under-gear. Why, you didn’t give it a hard rap, but it
ripped right off! He nearly went crazy when he saw what had happened.
Then he keeled over, fainted.”
Joe shook his head slowly. “And after all I did—trying to keep you from
breaking your neck—”
I chuckled. The other fellows were coming up now. “Guess he’ll be more
careful on the next one, Joe,” I said. “If you hadn’t been so high-hat—”
“You’d only have laughed at me!” Joe cut in. “Just because I turned it
down, you were sure I was sore because you grabbed it. And besides, it
was only a hunch. Inspection didn’t show any great weakness.”
I grinned. “I was after the last laugh, Joe,” I muttered. And then I got
to my feet. “But I guess you get the candy—with the _next-to-last_
laugh!”
Joe just grunted. “With a head like yours,” he stated sarcastically,
“you wouldn’t have needed a ’chute-pack.”