Man-Killers of the Air

 

Girard was standing with both feet solidly planted, both hands shoved into the pockets of a pure camel’s-hair overcoat. Girard’s face looked as though someone had started to mold it from soggy putty and had then become bored with the job.

 

Girard was a big man—knew it, said it and acted it. He could afford to be a big man. He was one of the greatest newspaper publishers in the United States, one of the greatest exponents of that fourth stage of the newspaper, yellow journalism. He had once tipped a waiter a thousand-dollar bill, and the next day he had fired a legman for being twenty-five cents over on his swindle sheet.

 

Girard was surrounded by his own men, but one never saw those. They were dressed plainly, looked plain, were plain, and always nodded eagerly, “YES!”

 

“Well, well, well!” rumbled Girard. “That was some record, my boy, some record! Hey, you over there with the movie camera, want my picture shaking Burnham’s hand?”

 

The movie man started to comply and then saw the look Smoke Burnham gave him. “No,” said Smoke. “We aren’t waving any flags. Not today. And I’m not shaking hands with you, Girard, any day!”

 

Girard was startled. “But, my boy—”

 

“Save it,” said Smoke. “Let’s get ahead with our business. You came up here to make me fork over the dough you lent me. And you’ve got the sheriff right there behind you, so don’t deny it. You’re foreclosing on Burnham Aeronautical Company, but you don’t want to do it until the crowd goes.” 

 

Patty looked at Girard and licked her feline lips. Girard stared at both pilot and cheetah.

 

“Who put you wise?” he demanded.

 

“I did, mister. You haven’t got a lease on all the brains in this country. You want this new fight-plane so you can turn it over to the government.”

 

“But how—”

 

“I know what you’re up to. You’ve got an air defense campaign underway, Girard. You’re saying that the Japs are about to fly across San Francisco and wipe us out with bombers. And you’re saying via a hundred newspapers that we haven’t a single plane to withstand that offense.

 

“And, furthermore, you’ve challenged anyone to produce such a plane.”

 

“You’d better watch out!” cried Girard, as though he wielded a saber instead of a Malacca cane.

 

“And,” rapped Smoke, “you’re going to foreclose on me, take the plans of this ship, the ship itself, and turn it over to the Army. That’s patriotism! That’s honor! You jump your ad rates on the resulting circulation and clean up.”

 

Girard still waved the cane. He might have struck Smoke, because there were plenty of men behind Girard. But the cheetah was still licking her lips, and Smoke’s hand was loose on the leash.

 

Two fighters, identical with the one Smoke had just flown in, crouched in the hangar. Smoke pointed to them. “Those two ships are company property. The one I used today belongs to Melanie King. I gave her the bill of sale. Now go ahead and serve your papers.”

 

The sheriff, at Girard’s nod, stepped up, skirting Patty’s striking range. Although Patty had never struck anyone, people thought she did, and that was just as good.

 

Smoke began to smile and then to grin. The effect through the grime was ghastly, but he meant it.

 

“If you’ll come inside,” said Smoke, “I’ll sign everything up and we’ll all go have some lunch.”

 

Girard’s face was puzzled. Smoke Burnham had more records than Girard had newspapers. A story about Smoke was worth a hundred-thousand circulation jump. But that was no sign Smoke was an open book. Warily, Girard stepped into the hangar in Smoke’s wake.

 

Smoke indicated some folding chairs at the back, “Sit yourself down, gentlemen. I haven’t any cigars, but I see you’ve brought your own.” He thrust a cigarette into his mouth at a climbing angle and lit up. Patty sat down in front of him, watching the curling blue wisps.

 

Girard, far from trusting Smoke, seated himself. It was all that he could do.

 

Smoke, still holding the burning match in spite of the mammoth sign: No Smoking! Fire Hazard! looked casually about him. Under the belly of the first pursuit ship there was a small puddle of gasoline, spilled at the last filling and not yet wholly evaporated.

 

Smoke flipped the burning match into the puddle. 

 

A geyser of white flame shot up. A piece of cotton waste, soaked with oil, ignited with a crackling sound. 

 

Girard jumped to his feet. “Fire! My God, fire!” 

 

Smoke watched the flames engulf the shiny metal. A tongue slapped out and sideswiped the other ship. The heat rose from seventy to two hundred in a space of seconds.

 

Girard’s crowd charged toward the hangar’s doors, shrieking. Patty bared her fangs and unsheathed her claws in fear. Acrid fumes leaped, black and greasy.

 

On the outside of the hangar the crowd surged, shouting advice, shouting prayers, shouting anything as long as they made noise.

 

Alex ran wildly about crying, “Anybody seen Burnham? Where’s Smoke?”

 

Newspaper men were milling, bellowing, “Where’s Girard? Mr. Girard’s in there!”

 

The thickening smoke was heavy and hot, completely filling the hangar. It was thick enough to carve.

 

A staggering man came out of the flame-seared maw. He was lugging another man.

 

Alex cried, “It’s Smoke!”

 

The reporters yelled, “There’s Girard!”

 

Smoke, stumbling and coughing, dropped his burden and then fell flat on his face. With a glance, Alex saw that Smoke was still all in one piece and that Girard was breathing.

 

Alex suddenly confronted the reporters. “There you are, boys! Get those pictures! Get this story! There you are!”

 

“What happened?” demanded a pale-faced newshawk.

 

Alex waved his hands majestically. “Girard accidentally threw a lighted cigar into a gasoline can and then Smoke stayed behind, searching for him. Looking through all that flaming hell. Fumbling under the ships, around already burning chairs. He heard a sound like coughing and crept nearer, not letting himself retreat from the searing, scorching heat. And then he found Girard. He found Girard, gentlemen, at the risk of his own life! And there’s Girard, safe and sound. But he would be but a blackened corpse if Smoke Burnham had not—”

 

Girard was sitting up. He saw the reporters running toward the phones. It was too late to stop them. And besides, circulation would soar instantly with those headlines. Money was in the making.

 

But that did not keep Girard from rolling closer to Smoke. The publisher’s flame-stung face was the color of raw beef. His eyes were a sickly red.

 

“You win, Burnham. But I’ll make you a bet. I’ll bet this place rebuilt against that one last pursuit plane.”

 

Smoke grinned and lit a cigarette, as though he had not had enough smoke as it was. Patty, licking scorched fur, watched him with adoring eyes.

 

“Okay,” said Smoke. “What’s the bet?”

 

“That you can’t win my transcontinental derby next month.”

 

Smoke nodded. “Do you recall the other contest before that?”

 

“Yes. You’ll have to win that before you can get into the derby.”

 

“Make it a place twice as big as this and you’re on.”

 

Girard smiled, circulation figures dancing before his eyes.

 

“All right, Burnham. We’ll have that put on paper.”