CHAPTER THREE

Girard’s International

THE airport was beaten by the prop wash of a dozen ships until it was little more than a square chunk of dust-fog lined with gray-coated spectators. Men rushed importantly to and fro, carrying papers, soft drinks and microphone wires, bearing bright-colored ribbons which were labeled “Official.”

Other men, attired in flannel slacks, suspenders and felt hats, stood by and eyed each other speculatively. These men were pilots, utterly indistinguishable from the rest so far as clothing went. Boots, shiny helmets and suede jackets were for the men who had to dress the part to be recognized as one of the flying fraternity.

In a special stand constructed of new boards sat a group of men who were dominated by the central figure—Girard. Girard was watching all things as though he owned them, and before his eyes danced the columns of figures which meant circulation, and therefore advertising, and therefore money in the bank.

Girard turned to a secretary who was as plain as his name—Smith. “There’s that Burnham now. Tell him to come over here.” Sitting back and holding his cane as one holds a scepter, Girard smiled easily. His blue jowl wobbled.

Smoke Burnham, his yellow hair undimmed by the dust, stood twisting a pair of gigantic goggles round and round by their strap, listening to Alex Montague.

Montague faced a pilot known as Lefty, and Lefty’s eyes were wobbly. “See here, now, Lefty, old fellow. You haven’t any use for that old ZT in the hangar. We just want to borrow it for an hour or so. Smoke doesn’t want to fly the Mystery Plane before all these people, Lefty.” Alex rested his hand on Lefty’s shoulder and regarded him man to man. “Remember the time we were all down at Baton Rouge, Lefty? For old times’ sake—”

Smith arrived as Lefty said, “But, Alex, I’ve got a sale for that ZT. Besides, it’s a man-killer among man-killers. The flying wires are almost rusted through. I wouldn’t let Smoke fly it.”

“What about the buyer?”

“The buyer? Oh, that’s different. He—well, what the guy doesn’t know won’t hurt him. But if you cracked up the crate, Smoke, I’d never forgive myself.”

“We’ll guarantee the price,” said Alex, heartily. One hand in his pocket was playing with three pennies he had won in an hour’s matching on one borrowed cent. This was the entire capital of Burnham Aeronautical Company.

Smith coughed three times before they knew that he was there. “Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen, but Girard—”

“To hell with Girard,” said Alex, turning back to Lefty.

Smith was more persistent than a man without a chin is expected to be. Perhaps that was because Girard’s eyes were hot on his back.

“Girard says,” said Smith, “that you can have the new racer—the red one—that he bought from Baird Aeronautics.”

Smoke blinked. “You mean Girard is giving me a ship?”

“Why, certainly!” replied Smith. “That is, he’s lending you one. This is the qualification race for the International Air Derby, you must remember, Burnham. He wants you to qualify from this district.”

“Is that why he withdrew one of his own pilots and sent him to the next district?” said Smoke.

“What do you mean, International Air Derby?” barked Alex.

“Just that,” said Smith. “International. All the publicity is being released on it today, and in six weeks the race will start. We . . . we didn’t want to raise too much dust until we had something like this qualification try to back it up. Now with three men qualified from each district, we can state that the race is an actuality. It’s very good publicity, Montague.”

“But why International?” Alex persisted.

Smith coughed. “Everyone will know just before the race starts. This is something that has never been attempted before. And unless you qualify, you can’t fly in the derby.”

To himself, Smoke mentioned the fact that if he didn’t win the derby, he’d have to take the Mystery Ship away from Mel and present it to Girard, so that Girard could claim all the credit for developing it. To himself, Smoke said, “Damn!”

To Smith, Smoke said, “Why is he so keen on having me enter?”

“Why,” replied Smith, “for the publicity that goes with your name. If you don’t enter—” He realized then that cats were escaping their confines and clamped his chinless mouth quite shut.

“You’d think the guy wanted me to win!” frowned Smoke.

Alex also frowned. He was thinking that three pennies didn’t even buy a cup of coffee. “What’s the final prize money?”

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Smith said promptly. “That’s for first prize. You chaps are all in the money if you win. It would cost Girard a half million to build that factory for—” He blinked and swallowed, his watery eyes taking in the people around them to make certain that he had not been overheard.

“Do you want the red racer?” demanded Smith, remembering his errand.

Smoke gave the goggles an extra twist and shook his yellow hair so violently that it cascaded down into his eyes. “No!”

As though driven back by the force of the word, Smith half ran to the stand where Girard sat. When he had reached there, Girard was seen to turn a faint purple, although he did not stop nodding to the people who were passing by.

“What did you say ‘No!’ for?” cried Alex, waving dramatic hands. “He wants us in, we’ll go in. We could qualify in that red crate! What the hell—?”

Smoke’s deep blue eyes were as quiet as a summer sky. He gave the goggles another twist and shrugged. “Ever play chess, Alex?”

“Certainly. But it takes brains to play chess.”

“And it takes brains to get and keep circulation.” Smoke looked over at Girard. “That guy is playing chess, and no mistake, Alex. This is all good, clean sport, this racing. Nothing up my sleeves, no mad hatters in my hat. In chess you never take the man that is offered for you to take. That’s what the enemy wants. If you take his offered piece, he can immediately walk in with the plan he has in mind.

“No, Alex, that red knight is going to stay on the board, untouched. We’ll use the ZT, flying wires or no.”

Lefty shook his head. “Cripes, you guys are persistent! But if you don’t care any more for Smoke’s neck than that, Alex, the green crate is all yours. What was that about a two-thousand guarantee in case you crack it up?”

“Lefty,” said Alex with great solemnity, “you’ve got some shylock in your blood after all. We guarantee the two thousand in case of a crash.” He rubbed the three pennies together and tried to pretend they were at least dimes.

“Sure,” said Lefty. “I know you guys are okay for the two grand. Smoke Burnham’s name on a piece of paper is good enough for me.”

Without turning a single yellow hair, Smoke reached for his pilot’s log and scribbled and signed a contract to that effect. He and Alex immediately made their way through the crowd to the hangars wherein reposed the sickly green ZT, once monarch of the speedways, but now just a second-rate man-killer.

ZTs were never so much as ships went, though they went fast enough. Their tails were short and stubby—which looked all right, but worked wrong. The airstream from the gigantic cowl sometimes forgot to touch the flippers and rudder, and therefore a ZT in a power dive was the same as a silver-handled casket without the silver handles.

Racing ships have come far since those days and you’ll find that most present racing ships carry out the ZT’s major points. But just the same, it doesn’t detract from their status—man-killer!

When the ZT was warming on the line, Smoke stood mournfully by, looking at the single cockpit. Melanie King, resplendent in a sport suit straight from London, came up, her eyes fastened on the ramshackle crate.

“Smoke!” she cried. “You’re . . . you’re not going to fly that?”

“Sure,” said Smoke. “It’s got a stick and motor and everything. The only thing about it is that I’ve got to leave Patty because there’s only one office. And that’s bad luck.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about luck,” said Mel slowly, “if you had any regard for—for your own neck.”

“My own neck?” replied Smoke. “Why, what’s the matter with this ship?”

“Oh, Smoke, please don’t act that way! All you worry about is speed, speed, speed! And more speed. ‘How fast will they go? How far can I lash them on? I can fly it faster than that!’”

Gently and reproachfully, thinking about the trim Mystery Ship in King’s hangar, Alex laid his hand on her shoulder. “If you hadn’t taken away his toys, Mel—”

“So that’s it!” She drew her slight height very straight and thrust indignant hands into her pockets. “You’re trying to work on my sympathy with this ZT. You’re crude, both of you. Fly it for all I care, Smoke Burnham!”

She whirled and in an instant she was swallowed in the crowd and dry, eddying dust.

“Ain’t she a little hellcat?” said Smoke, admiringly. He looked up at Alex with a pleased grin.

In spite of the three cents, the ZT, the chess-playing of Girard, Alex could not help laughing. He understood things, did Alex.

That inevitable, unvarying patter of puns and general good-fellowship was drooling out of the microphone over the hangar.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are all set for the qualifying race for the great International Air Derby. You, ladies and gentlemen, are privileged for the first time to hear the details of this great contest which is being sponsored by Paul Harrison Girard.

“The International Air Derby, ladies and gentlemen, will include ships of all nations, ships of all types. It will be the supreme contest of man’s conquest of the air.

“The planes that place and qualify today in all the several districts will be allowed to try for this fifty-thousand-dollar prize.

“The race will start in a few weeks from Washington, DC. The dauntless pilots will wing their intrepid way from that city to Miami. From there to Panama, over the treacherous Caribbean. From Panama to Chile. From Chile across the suicidal Andes, and across the unplumbed jungles to Rio de Janeiro. Back to Panama, and from there to California. There will ensue a mad dash from California back to Washington, DC.

“Paul Harrison Girard has offered a prize of fifty thousand dollars to the winner.

“And now today we have on this field such famous, intrepid birdmen as Smoke Burnham, speed king of the skyways—”

Alex smiled in satisfaction.

Smoke said, “If the police found out you’d killed an announcer, what would they do?”

“I wasn’t aware the police gave medals,” replied Alex. “Say, is that engine sputtering on all nine or what?”

“Or what,” said Smoke. “But if it doesn’t stop or-whatting very soon, we’ll have to steal the Mystery Ship, give it to Girard, and go get us a couple of shovels to dig ditches.”

Mel was coming up to them and her eyes were on Smoke. She swallowed hard before she started to speak.

“Smoke. A man was just telling me what happened one time to a man who flew one of these ZTs. This man said that the ship suddenly flipped over in the air, darted for the ground and burst into flames. They . . . they never found the pilot.”

Smoke smiled and touched her shoulder for an instant. Then he found a helmet, pulled it down and adjusted the goggles. He threw a leg over the pit and slid down, immediately gunning the few hundred horses which bellowed and strained under the cowl.

Speech was impossible. Dust whipped and stung. The ZT began to roll for the starting line.

Mel buried her face in Alex’s rough tweed coat. “Don’t . . . don’t let him kill himself, Alex. Please don’t let him! I . . . I love him, Alex.”

Alex fingered the three pennies and wondered if it was worth the price. . . .

Mel buried her face in Alex’s rough tweed coat. “Don’t . . . don’t let him kill himself, Alex. Please don’t let him! I . . . I love him, Alex.”