The Sky-Crasher

CRAIG, hair bushy and stiff as steel wool, his face the color of raw beef, entered with a militant stride and thumped himself onto the edge of the desk.

“What’s this note you sent me?” demanded Craig. “You don’t like this world flight?”

“No,” said Caution. “That’s what I’m paid to do.”

“What?”

“See that TCA keeps going.”

“But look at that potential earning!”

“United States Airlines,” said Caution, with a shake of his head, “is going in for this thing. And they’re after our scalps. They’re buying up our stocks, cutting our rates and shortening our schedules. Mercer is going to hammer us into the middle of next week. And if Mercer and United States Airlines don’t want us in that race, they’ll see that we stay out, or kill our pilot.”

“Nuts!” said Craig.

“And,” said Caution, “we’re almost on the rocks. We can barely keep running.”

Craig sat up, astonished, blowing hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“My job is to keep you from working hard, isn’t it? You have enough to worry you. But you can look at our ledgers. We’re running in the red, and if things don’t pick up, TCA will disappear from the skyways. All the work you and I have done will be gone. Wrecked. We’re lucky to be going at all. We need every pilot to keep us in the air. We need every penny to keep the planes in the air. We can’t afford to make that flight.”

“Who said so?”

Caution looked very official, very earnest. “United States Airlines is trying to push us out. If we enter this race—call it yellow if you want—we’ll lose out. We don’t play the game crooked, and they do.”

Craig took the wrapper off a cigar and then began to gnaw upon it as a dog gnaws a bone. He considered Caution for several seconds, speculation in his eye.

“Caution,” said Craig, “if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were yellow.”

Caution took it without a blink. “You pay me to say these things and do these things, not to stunt and romp around like a colt.”

“Sure, sure, I know. But listen here, Caution, I’ve always wondered just what the hell was wrong with you. Now don’t get me wrong. You’re a crack pilot and you’ve got a fine business head. But what’s under all this?”

Caution’s lean face changed. His mouth drew down on one side, his left eye closed ever so little. The expression completely transformed him. It was bitter, reckless. Craig was startled. He had never seen Caution look that way before.

“You want to know the truth?” said Caution. “My dad was Batty Jones. Did you know that?”

“Why—why, yes, I’d heard of it. He was a famous circus pilot, wasn’t he?” the TCA man asked.

“Yes,” said Caution, biting off the word. “A famous circus pilot, nothing more. They called him Batty. He was batty. He grew up out of the war. He didn’t give a damn for anything, not even my mother’s feelings or my future. He was a stunt pilot.

“He starred with the old Bates Flying Circus, the craziest fools aviation ever bred. He came out of the JN-9 era and flew himself up into the money and fame. He was the idol of all kids. He didn’t have a nerve in his body. He looked like me, but that’s where the resemblance ended.

“One time, off Florida, he flew down a twenty-foot alley with a plane which spread its wings forty feet. One time he wrecked ships, diving them straight in from thousands of feet, just to give the crowd a thrill. One time he arranged with a pilot so that they’d smash their ships together in midair just to amuse the mob. They did it, and the other pilot died. Batty Jones got out with a busted arm and a scratched ear.

“His stunts were famous. Anything for a stunt. Anything for a thrill. He lived hard and high and fast. He was the best pilot in the world, and he turned that talent into money by amusing people, by giving them chills. He was a stunt pilot, get me?”

Craig sat very still, amazed at Caution’s wild tone. Caution got up and paced down the room, scowling, eye squinted, mouth drawn bitterly down.

“He wouldn’t fly sanely. He wouldn’t give aviation a break. No, he dangled off wings, looped ships ready to fall apart, parachuted, cracked up, burned in the air and came out of it every time, grinning.

“A circus pilot. They didn’t last long. In 1928 my dad burned the ship in the air, figuring that he could bail out in his chute. A wing hit him when it folded. I watched him burn a thousand feet above the earth. I thought it was just another stunt until I . . . until they . . .

“My mother was worn out with it. The final shock killed her. I greased ships, stole rides, stole time, licked boots, begged an education in the air. And I ordered myself to keep sane and steady. I had to do it, and I’ve done it. I’m ‘Caution’ Jones, the levelest head in the business.”

As though suddenly tired, he sat down. When he lit a cigarette, Craig saw that his hand was shaking. He’d never seen Caution like that before.

“Then,” said Craig, after a long pause, “I guess we don’t want to try that round-the-world flight. You’re right, Caution, it’s a stunt. No reason to do it. But still—we’ve got to get out of this hole somehow. I’ve put my life into TCA, you’ve given it years yourself. It’s all we’ve got. And we don’t want to take a beating lying down just because a gang of crooks like United States Airlines tries to muscle in on it.

“However, we’ll find something else, something less spectacular. The round-the-world flight is out.”

Unseen by both, the silver ship which had lately been stunting over the field had landed. A slim, booted figure had stepped out, and now that person was standing in the doorway, looking at them.

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