ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

I sat down on the edge of the bunk. "It's easy enough to figure out. The B-17 flies with a five-man crew against our nine. That means they can put almost twice as many planes in the air. Round trip to Germany at the most is two thousand miles, so they don't need a five-thousand-mile range. Besides, the operational costs are just a little more than half ours."

"But this plane can go ten thousand feet higher and two hundred miles an hour faster," Morrissey said. "And it carries almost twice the pay load of bombs."

"The trouble with you, Morrissey, is you're ahead of the times. They're not ready for planes like this one yet."

I saw the stricken look come over his face. For a moment, I felt sorry for him. And what I'd said was true. For my money, he was the greatest aircraft engineer in the world. "Forget it. Don't worry, they'll catch up to you yet. Some-day, they'll be flying planes like this by the thousands."

"Not in this war," he said resignedly. He picked up a Thermos from a cardboard carton. "I think I’ll take some coffee up to Roger."

He went forward into the pilot's compartment and I stretched out on the bunk. The drone of the four big engines buzzed in my ears. I closed my eyes. Three weeks in England and I don't think I had a good night's rest the whole time. Between the bombs and the girls. The bombs and the girls. The bombs. The girls. I slept.

The shrill shriek of the falling bomb rose to its orgiastic climax as it fell nearby. All conversation at the dinner table hung suspended for a moment.

"I’m worried about my daughter, Mr. Cord," the slim, gray-haired woman on my right said.

I looked at her, then glanced at Morrissey, seated opposite me. His face was while and strained. I turned back to the woman. The bomb had landed practically next door and she was worried about her daughter, safe in America. Maybe she should be. She was Monica's mother.

"I haven't seen Monica since she was nine years old," Mrs. Holme continued nervously. "That was almost twenty years ago. I think of her often."

You didn't think of her often enough, I thought to myself. I used to think it was different with mothers. But they were no different than fathers. They thought of themselves first. At least that was one thing I’d had in common with Monica. Our parents never gave a damn about us. My mother died and hers had run away with another man.

She looked up at me from the deep violet eyes under the long black lashes and I could see the beauty she'd passed on to her daughter. "Do you think you might see her when you return to the States, Mr. Cord?"

"I doubt it, Mrs. Holme," I said. "Monica lives in New York now. I live in Nevada."

She was silent for a moment, then again came the piercing look from her eyes. "You don't like me very much, do you, Mr. Cord?"

"I hadn't really thought about it, Mrs. Holme," I said quickly. "I'm sorry if I give that impression."

She smiled. "It wasn't anything you said. It was just that I could sense a shrinking in you when I told you who I was." She played nervously with her spoon. "I expect Amos told you all about me – about how I ran off with someone else, leaving him with a child to raise alone?"

"Winthrop and I were never that close. We never discussed you."

"You must believe me, Mr. Cord," she whispered, a sudden intensity in her voice. "I didn't abandon my daughter. I want her to know that, to understand it."

Nothing ever changed. It was still more important for parents to be understood than to understand.

"Amos Winthrop was a woman-chaser and a cheat," she said quietly, without bitterness. "The ten years of our marriage were a hell. On our honeymoon, I discovered him with other women. And finally, when I fell in love with a decent, honest man, he blackmailed me into giving up my daughter under the threat of exposure and the ruination of that man's career in His Majesty's service."

I looked at her. That made sense. Amos was a cute one with tricks like that. I knew. "Did you ever write Monica and tell her that?"

"How does one write something like that to one's own daughter?"

I didn't answer.

"About ten years ago, I heard from Amos that he was sending her over to stay with me. I thought then that when she got to know me, I'd explain and she'd understand." She nodded slightly. "I read in the papers of your marriage and she never came."

The butler came and took away the empty plates. Another servant placed demitasse cups before us. When he went away, I spoke. "Just what is it you would like me to do, Mrs. Holme?"

Her eyes studied my face for a moment. I saw the slight hint of moisture in them. Her voice was steady, though. "If you should happen to speak with her, Mr. Cord," she said, "let her know that I asked for her, that I think of her and that I'd appreciate hearing from her."

I nodded slowly. "I'll do that, Mrs. Holme."

The butler began to pour coffee as the dull thud of bombs rolled into the heavily draped room like a muffled sound of thunder in peacetime London.

The roar of the four big motors came back into my ears as I opened my eyes. Morrissey was in the bucket seat, his head tilted uncomfortably to one side as he dozed. He opened his eyes as I sat up. "How long was I sleeping?" I asked.

"About four hours."

"I better give Roger some relief," I said, getting to my feet.

Forrester looked up as I came into the compartment. "You must have been tired. For a while, you were snoring so loud back there I was beginning to think we had five motors instead of four."

I sank into the copilot's seat. "I thought I'd give you a little relief. Where are we?"

"About here," he said, his finger pointing to the map on the holder between us. I looked down. We were about a thousand miles out over the ocean.

"We're slow."

He nodded. "We ran into heavy head winds."

I reached for the wheel and pulled it back to me until it locked in. "O.K.," I said. "I got her."

He released his wheel, got to his feet and stretched. "I think I’ll try to get a nap."

"Fine," I said, looking out through the windshield. It was beginning to rain.

"Sure you can keep your eyes open for a few hours?"

"I'll manage."

He laughed. "Either you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din, or I'm getting old. For a while, back there, I thought you were going to fuck every woman in England."

I looked up at him, grinning. "With the way those bombs were coming down, I thought I better make the most of it."

He laughed again and left the compartment. I turned back to the controls. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who felt that way. The girls must have felt it, too. There'd been something desperate in the way they insisted you accept their favors.

It was beginning to snow now, heavy, swirling flakes against the windshield. I switched the de-icers on and watched the snowflakes turn to water against the Plexiglas. The air speed was two hundred and slowing. That meant the head winds were picking up speed. I decided to see if we could climb up over it.

I moved the wheel back and the big plane began to lift slowly. We came through the clouds at thirteen thousand feet into bright sunlight. I locked in the gyrocompensator and felt the plane level off.

It was a clear and smooth flight all the rest of the way home.

Robair was standing in the open doorway when I came out of the elevator. Though it was four o'clock in the morning, he looked as fresh and wide-eyed as if he'd just awakened. His dark face gleamed in a welcoming smile over his white shirt and faultlessly tailored butler's jacket. "Good morning, Mr. Cord. Have a good flight?"

"Fine, thank you, Robair."

He closed the door behind him. "Mr. McAllister's in the living room. Been waiting since eight o'clock last night."