The Battling Pilot

 

Peter England sat brooding over four throttles and a wheel. His eyes went restlessly from left to right and right to left, taking in a couple square yards of meter-studded panel, watching oil temperature on Engine Three, revs on Engine One.

 

A thin little fellow slid quietly into the copilot seat beside him. England glanced in that direction with some annoyance. “Huh. You’re Tom Duffy. What—”

 

“On deck, Captain. I’ve been promoted to Number Ten,” said Duffy, trying hard to hide his elation.

 

“Where’s Nelson?”

 

“Sick list.”

 

“You ever fly a kite?”

 

Duffy blinked. “Why, I’ve been copilot here for three years, Mister England.”

 

“No time to break in punks. I’ve been on here for sixteen.”

 

Duffy looked sideways with some misgiving. Pete England was top pilot on the line, a long, hard-jawed devil, moody as Atlantic weather.

 

“You bet,” said Duffy. “Some day I hope to be tops.”

 

“Don’t,” said England bitterly. “Nothing in it but grief.”

 

“Grief? Why . . . I thought it was fun, scooting from New York—”

 

“New York to Washington,” said England. “Washington to New York. New York to Washington. Washington to New York. Lots of fun. You must be in a spin.”

 

“Oh, no,” said Duffy, his round face glowing. “I think it’s swell. Keeping up the tradition—”

 

“Tradition,” snorted England.

 

“Sure, tradition. You’re the idol of—”

 

“Of what?” snapped England. “The passengers? Hell, you’ll be telling me this job is romantic in a minute. La-de-da. You’re a punk.”

 

Duffy blinked and squirmed in the bucket seat.

 

“You’re dumb,” added England, as an afterthought. “A guy would have to be dumb to like this.”

 

“B-But you’re tops!”

 

“You’ve got to get on top to look back, don’t you? Fun! What kind of fun is what I’d like to know. New York to Washington. Washington to New York. Flying a kite. Lugging sixteen passengers north for a lunch date, sixteen passengers south for a session with Congress. What kind of fun is that? I know every silo from here to New York. I know every spot on every cow. I can take a bearing on the number of milk cans sitting outside a gate. What’s the fun about that?”

 

“B-But gee!” said Duffy. “You don’t seem to realize what an honor it is—”

 

“To what? Cart sixteen passengers around, and half of them airsick? ‘Mister Pilot, please don’t hit the bumps so hard.’ Damn the passengers. Maybe ten years ago this was romantic. But that was ten years ago. There was some element of danger then. Not now. This is as common as pushing a locomotive from Podunk to Punkin Center. If it wasn’t for the pay, I’d have quit long ago. Say, what in hell is keeping those damned passengers?”

 

Duffy looked down the tunnel made by the awning and saw a group of people standing around the dispatcher. An argument was evidently in progress.

 

“That fat dame,” said England, “is Mrs. Blant. She’s going to see her daughter’s wedding. She better put a waddle on or she’ll miss the bells.”

 

“Gee, do you know all of them?”

 

“There’s a fellow there in brown I don’t know,” said England. “But the rest of them . . . That guy in the blue overcoat is sealing a construction job this afternoon and he’s just about got time to make it. That young gentleman is Secretary Lansing’s boy, on his way back—”

 

“Here comes a girl and an old dame,” said Duffy. “Know them?”

 

Pete England leaned forward and looked across Duffy’s uniformed chest. He scowled and shook his head.

 

“Nope,” said England, “and what’s more, we haven’t got room for them. Boy, that old gal sure would break a mirror.”

 

“The girl ain’t so bad. Look there, Mister England! If that isn’t sable she’s wearing, I’ll eat it hair by hair.”

 

“Probably rabbit,” said Pete. “What the hell is Dan up to?”

 

The dispatcher was following the pair out to the ship. Above the mutter of the props, the pilots could hear the angry protest of the regular passengers.

 

“Now what in the name of the devil is this all about?” scowled England.

 

The dispatcher thrust his face through the door and balanced upon a wheel. “All right, Pete. On your way.”

 

“All right hell,” said Pete. “You sending me north empty?”

 

“You’ve got two,” said the dispatcher.

 

“But what about Mrs. Blant?” said Pete. “Her gal’s getting married this—”

 

“Never mind,” said the dispatcher. “Number Six will hit here in about thirty minutes. We’ll send Johnson right back with this bunch.”

 

“You mean,” said Pete, ominously, “that you’ll gow up the whole day’s schedule and maybe leave me overnight in New York just to send this dame and her grandma north? You’re dizzy as a cuckoo clock, Dan.”

 

“Never mind how dizzy I am. On your horse, Pete.”

 

“She must be awful damned important,” said Pete.

 

“She paid double for every seat in the ship. She’s plenty important. Take it easy, Pete.”

 

Savagely, England gunned the four throttles. The big kite rushed away from the awning, braked in a half circle, charged toward the end of the runway, whipped into the wind and stopped.

 

Out of habit, Pete swept his glance over the panel.

 

“Wait a minute,” said Duffy.

 

“What the hell—”

 

A hand fell on Pete’s shoulder. He turned and looked back into the cabin. Right behind him and looming over him stood the old lady. Her face was proud and haughty. She had the appearance of a battle-scarred general commanding troops in a charge. Her beady eyes drilled twin holes in England.

 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old lady, “but I must be quite certain that you are competent to fly this machine.”

 

Pete gulped. He turned red. A blast of hurricane intensity almost left his lips. He swallowed it, choked on it and then managed, “Quite competent, I am sure, madam.”

 

“I must see your pilot’s license, sir.”

 

Pete swallowed again. He dug angrily into his pocket and yanked out a compact folder stamped “Master Airline Pilot, D of C.”

 

The old lady took it and carried it back to the girl.

 

Pete’s view of the young lady was obscured by her companion’s back, but he did see that the coat was really sable even at that distance. She was, he grudgingly muttered, a looker, damn her.

 

The old lady came back and handed Pete his license. “Her Highness is quite satisfied, sir. You may proceed.”

 

Pete blinked at the title, but for a second only.

 

The old lady added in a wintery tone, “You will, of course, fly low and slow, sir. And please avoid the bumps.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” gritted Pete.

 

The four throttles leaped ahead under his savage hand. The kite lashed down the runway, bit air, came off as lightly as a puff of smoke, streaked around to the north, climbing, and leveled out for New York.

 

“She said ‘Her Highness,’” said the awed Duffy. “Gee, Mister England, you don’t suppose she’s royalty or something, do you?”

 

“I’d like to crown her with a crankshaft,” vowed Pete.