“Makes it worse yet!” he stated. “He’ll be nervous when she starts to
grab for the loop on the Old Lady’s wing-tip. Well, maybe she’ll get
sick before tomorrow, or something.”
I grinned. “That queers your game, Russ,” I stated as Bob walked away.
“If you pull anything funny after the girl gets aboard the Old
Lady--that camera-ship pilot will be waiting for you to come down.”
Russ Healy’s eyes were narrowed. He had a peculiar expression on his
lean, browned face.
“Mac,” he said slowly, “they can say things about me--but not about that
Jenny. The Old Lady is all right. When they talk like that girl
talked--I’ve got to show them they’re wrong. Tomorrow--I’m showing her.”
I didn’t like his tone. It was a little too grim. “How?” I asked
curiously.
But Russ just lighted another pill and glanced up toward the darkening
sky.
“Maybe we’ll get a break, Mac,” he returned after a little silence.
“_Maybe_ the picture stuff will go all right. And if it does--well,
you’ll see how a certain clever little lady learns something about the
Jenny.”
“Remember, Russ,”--my voice was almost persuasive,--“she’s a woman.”
Russ sighed heavily. But when he spoke his tone was hard.
“Ain’t it the truth!” he stated.
* * * * *
It was about ten minutes of four, and there was a pretty fair crowd on
the field which we were using for the outfit. The Old Lady was on the
deadline, and I had the DeHaviland that I was going to pilot alongside
of her. The camera-ship had flown up from Los Angeles, and was a
racily-lined two-seater. She was resting on the other side of the
battered Jenny.
Bob Brooks came along the deadline with the girl on one side and a
short, good-looking chap on the other. As they neared the three ships
Bob gestured toward them. Russ was fooling around with his pack-’chute
and watching the three at the same time. So was I.
The good-looking bird halted, stared at the battered Jenny. I could see
that he was taking in her patches, the slight sag of her under-carriage,
the lack of varnish on her struts. With the D.H. and the camera-ship for
contrast, the Old Lady looked more of a wreck than ever.
Russ Healy gave his pack-’chute a final pat, and moved toward the group.
I tagged along. There was a broad grin on the short fellow’s face as we
came up.
“That the one you go up to, Joan?” he asked, and she nodded her head.
He groaned loudly. “When you get inside don’t snap the safety-belt,” he
advised in a grim tone. “It’ll be easier for you to go over the side
when she starts to break up under the added weight of your one hundred
and fifteen pounds.”
The girl laughed. It was a musical laugh, but I could see it didn’t
sound that way to Russ Healy. He glared at the good-looking chap.
“Meet Steve Lott, Russ.” It was Bob Brooks who spoke. “He’s piloting the
shoot-ship.”
Russ nodded. But he didn’t raise his right hand from his side. Lott kept
right on grinning.
“If we’re all set--let’s go up and get it over with,” Russ said slowly.
“I don’t like the job, anyway.”
Lott grunted. “Shouldn’t think you would,” he agreed. “Not flying that
piece of junk!”
I grabbed Russ by the right arm, and hung on. But the funny part of it
was that he just sort of smiled. He stared at Lott, and then at the
girl. When he spoke his words were addressed to her.
“I’m kind of sorry for you,” he said slowly. “You might have picked out
a _real_ man.”
Lott glared at Russ, and Bob Brooks started to talk fast and give final
instructions. He wanted the stuff pulled at four thousand, so that the
camera would get some of the earth detail in. And he wanted every one to
take their time.
I saw that the girl was watching Russ a lot, and I felt kind of sorry
for her. It looked to me as if she were a little scared. So just before
she climbed into the rear cockpit of my D.H., I said a few words to her.
“Don’t let Russ bother you,” I told her. “He was just talking yesterday.
And he’s a flying fool.”
She stiffened. Her chin came up a bit.
“I’m not afraid of him,” she stated in a hard tone. “It’s the wreck he’s
flying that worries me.”
I started to tell her that the Old Lady was all right, and just then
Russ started to rev her up. She had a roar like two ordinary planes, and
there wasn’t much use getting hoarse yelling at Miss West. Anyway, it
was ten to one that she wouldn’t be convinced.
She had her pack-’chute on, and adjusted her helmet. She wore no
goggles. As she climbed into the rear cockpit of the DeHaviland, the
camera-plane took off. I revved up the D.H.’s engine, and Russ taxied
the Old Lady out. He waved a hand, and I waved back.
I jerked my head. Miss West had an expression of intense dislike on her
fair face; it was directed toward the taxiing Jenny. I smiled grimly,
muttered a sort of half-prayer--and advanced the throttle a few notches.
The D.H. rolled out, and I gave her left rudder to get her nosed into
the wind. Then I opened her up--and took off....
We were at four thousand--the three planes. I had the D.H. throttled
down a bit, flying into the wind. We were approaching an airspot almost
directly over the circus outfit’s field. The camera-plane was off to the
right, but not very far off. It had about twenty-five feet more
altitude, and I could see the head and shoulders of the man who was
making the shoot. He was standing in the rear cockpit, and his camera
was mounted on a movable bracket.
I jerked my head, banked a bit--then straightened the D.H. out. The Old
Lady was coming up from behind. Russ Healy had her within a half mile of
the D.H. I twisted around, nodded my head to the girl.
“All right!” I snapped. “Let’s go!”
She understood, of course, though it was doubtful if she heard my words
above the roar of the engine’s exhausts. The next thing I knew, she was
working her way out along the lower wing surface. She moved along as if
she were going somewhere--and without the slightest false effort. I
grinned. The weaker sex? It was almost funny--that line!
The wind zipped her tight-fitting blouse close about her. She grasped
first one strut, then the next. Out near the edge of the wing-tip, she
suddenly threw back her head and laughed, waving a hand. I grinned back
at her. As she reached up toward the loop on the upper surface I thought
my ears picked up the blending of another engine roar with mine. Then
the girl was swinging up--had vanished from sight.
I glanced to the right, saw that the camera-man in the rear cockpit of
the third plane had started to crank. The D.H. was handling nicely;
there was pretty fair air at four thousand.
My job was to keep the D.H. on even keel while the girl did her stuff on
the upper wing, and it wasn’t such a tough job. From time to time I
glanced at the camera-man, cranking away. I could see Lott’s helmeted
head. The pilot of the third ship had her in pretty close; I guessed
that Russ Healy was almost above me now--with the Old Lady.
Then, glancing to the left, I saw the battered Jenny. Russ waved a hand;
the ship banked back over the D.H. I kept the nose of the plane lined up
on the horizon, corrected for even the slightest bump with the ailerons.
We were just passing over the outfit’s field--when it happened.
I felt the D.H. jerk madly around--to the right! There was a ripping,
tearing sound. The joy-stick was twisted from my grip. The right wing
surface warped before my eyes!
* * * * *
As I cut the throttle I realized what had happened. A wing of Healy’s
ship had tangled with mine. And the D.H. was finished--I knew that in
one flashing second. And I knew, as my hands fumbled with the
safety-belt, that the ships had freed themselves again.
I tried to hold the nose of the D.H. up--it wouldn’t come up. As we went
slowly into the first turns of a spin--a plane flashed downward, off to
the right. No--_two_ planes!
The Old Lady was going down tangled with the camera-plane! There had
been a triple crash!
And even as I saw the two ships going down, in a slow spin and almost
flatly--my eyes picked up the form of the girl. She was lying flat on
the upper surface of the Old Lady’s right wing. Lying motionlessly! She
had made the transfer--and then had come the triple crash.
* * * * *
I stood up in the cockpit, swung a leg over the side to the left, lower
wing. We were spinning to the right, and I wanted to get clear on the
outside. My right hand gripped the stick, trying to keep the D.H. from
going into a tight spin, while my left groped for the dangling ring of
the ’chute rip-cord.
It found it, and I hooked a finger through the ring. Then I let go of
the stick, got my other leg out of the cockpit--let myself be
wind-battered away from the ship.
I counted five--jerked the ring. There was the crackling sound of the
pilot-’chute, as it snapped open--and almost immediately the greater
crackling of the bigger spread of silk. The harness tightened about my
body. My head was jerked upward. Then I was drifting, shaking off the
effects of that plunge--and staring beyond the falling arc of my
wing-warped plane.
The camera-ship and the Old Lady were above me. My drop had been faster
than their slow-spinning fall. And they were close--too close for
comfort. I could see things clearly. The girl was out of sight; I
couldn’t see above the upper wings of the Jenny. Even as I stared, two
objects shot downward from the camera-ship. Lott and the camera-man were
getting clear!
[Illustration: The camera-ship and the Old Lady were above me--too close
for comfort. The girl was out of sight.]
Their ’chutes functioned perfectly. They drifted down, within twenty
feet of each other. I stared at the crashed, tangled planes. Why hadn’t
the girl jumped? And what was the matter with Russ Healy?
It hadn’t been a wide-open crash. And I couldn’t tell whose fault it had
been. But I could guess--the nose of the camera-ship seemed jammed into
the rear cockpit of the Jenny; her left wing slanted up over the
tail-assembly of the Old Lady. It looked as if the camera-ship had
banked to the left--and crashed the Jenny.
“Get clear!” I muttered hoarsely. “Get clear--you two!”
The tangled planes were spinning faster now. They were dropping below my
drift-level, within fifty yards of me. I got a glimpse of Russ Healy’s
head. It moved. He wasn’t out. I screamed at him.
“Get clear, Russ!”
The two ships were nosing down now, not dropping flatly. I could hear
the wire scream. The prop of the camera-plane was splintered--but the
Old Lady’s seemed to be turning, throttled down to a low-revolution
speed.
Then, with the ships below me, I saw the girl again. As I stared at her
form, lying across the wing surface, I saw that her left arm was hooked
through the loop placed there for stunting purposes. And I saw her move,
raise her head slightly.
* * * * *
There was a crash--my D.H. had dug in. I looked down, saw the ship burst
into flames. The field was less than a thousand feet below, the clipped
grass seemed to be rising up at a tremendous speed. I stared down,
kicking around in the ’chute harness, at the tangled ships again.
And I saw why the girl hadn’t jumped. Dangling from her back, hanging
over the trailing edge of the upper wing surface, was her ’chute pack.
Even as I watched her right hand groped toward the harness, tried to
find that rip-cord ring.
“Too late now!” I groaned. “Less than eight hundred feet--”
And then, suddenly, it happened. Once before I’d seen the same thing
happen. And that had been in France. There was a jerking of the two
ships--they drifted apart! The spin had flung them apart!
The camera-plane went instantly into a side-slip. I kicked around
furiously, tried to watch the Old Lady. She nosed down, her left wing
dropping under the weight of the girl. Then her nose came up, just as I
thought she was going into a final spin--her left wing came up, too. I
heard the roar of her exhausts. The Old Lady was trying to fly--was
trying to fly out of it!
There was a second crash as the camera-plane struck the field. I flexed
my legs--seventeen feet a second was my drop-speed. The force of a
ten-foot drop would be my landing jolt. The earth came up--I struck
heavily, rolled over once, crawled out from beneath the collapsing silk
spread.
It took me ten seconds to get out from the harness. And as I freed
myself--the Old Lady came in!
She was headed into the wind. Her fuselage, near the rear cockpit, was
battered. The fabric was in shreds. But she was flying. And as her
exhaust roar died, and her wheels and tail-skid touched the clipped
grass, I raised my eyes. Still clinging to the wood loop, on the upper
surface of the right wing, was the girl. The Old Lady had brought her
down!
* * * * *
We were grouped around Miss West. She was pale, and she spoke in a voice
that was slightly shaken. But she spoke bravely. She was that kind.
“The crash came just as I lifted myself up over the wing surface of the
Jenny. It nearly knocked me loose--twisted me around. I hung on,
though--pulled myself up. But I ripped the ’chute pack loose from part
of its harness. I wanted to get clear--couldn’t find the rip-ring. So I
lay there--and waited. You know the rest.”
Bob Brooks nodded his head. Steve Lott said excitedly:
“Lord, it was close! I wanted to get in, get a perfect shot for the
camera. We hit a bump--and I tried to zoom. But we crashed before she
nosed up. All three ships got it. We’ll stand the loss, of
course--but--”
He stopped. He was too shaken to go on. The girl’s eyes were on Russ
Healy, who was frowning.
“I’m sorry!” she said simply. “No use saying what I think--you _know_.
Man--that battered crate is--” She stopped, groped for a word, found
it--“wonderful! Can she fly? I’m here--to tell you _she can_!”
* * * * *
Russ smiled, but he didn’t say much. Later, while he was patching up the
fuselage of the Old Lady, I caught him alone. It had been a tight jam
for all of us. Two planes gone--and three of us using ’chutes. No
pictures, of course. All smashed--all that had been taken. But if it
hadn’t been for Russ--and the Old Lady-- Well, Joan West wouldn’t laugh
_that_ way again at a battered plane.
I told Russ that, and then I asked a question. It had been worrying me a
bit.
“Supposing things had gone right, Russ--what were you figuring on doing
with the girl? How were you going to prove--”
Russ Healy grinned. “Mac,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t going to do a
thing. What in hell _could_ I do? That kid had nerve.”