ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

He nodded, getting to his feet. "I knew."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"How could I?" he asked. "My uncle was afraid if you found out, you wouldn't want his stock."

A strange silence came into the room as I picked up the telephone again. I gave the operator Morrissey's number at Roosevelt Field.

"Do you want me to leave now?" Woolf asked.

I shook my head. I had been neatly suckered into buying a worthless company, shorn like a baby lamb, but I had no right to complain. I'd known all the rules.

But now even that didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The only thing that did was Rina. I swore impatiently, waiting for Morrissey to pick up the phone.

The only chance I had of getting to Rina in time was to fly out there in the CA-4.

The brightly lit hangar was a frenzy of activity.

The welders were up on the wings, their masks down, their torches burning with a hot blue flame as they fused the reserve fuel tanks to the wings. The pile of junk beside the plane was growing as the mechanics stripped her of everything that added weight and yet was not absolutely essential to flight.

I checked my watch as Morrissey came toward me. It was almost twelve o'clock. That made it near nine in California. "How long now?" I asked.

"Not too long." He looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand. "With everything stripped off her, we're still fourteen hundred pounds over lift capacity."

The Midwest was completely locked in by storms, according to our weather checks. If I wanted to get through, I'd have to fly south around them. Morrissey had figured we'd need forty-three per cent more fuel just for the flight itself and at least seven per cent more for a safety margin.

"Why don't you hold off until morning?" Morrissey asked. "Maybe the weather will lift and you can go straight through."

"No."

"For Christ's sake," he snapped. "You'll never even get her off the ground. If you're that anxious to get yourself killed, why don't you use a gun!"

I turned and looked over at the pile of junk beside the plane. "How much does the radio weigh?"

"Five hundred and ten pounds," he answered quickly. Then he stared at me. "You can't dump that! How the hell will you know where you are or what the weather is like up ahead?"

"Same way I did before they put radios in planes. Dump it!"

He started to walk back to the plane, shaking his head. I had another idea. "The oxygen-pressure system for the cockpit?"

"Six hundred and seventy pounds, including the tanks."

"Dump that, too," I said. "I’ll fly low."

"You'll need oxygen to get over the Rockies."

"Put a portable tank in the cockpit next to me."

I went into the office and called Buzz Dalton at the Intercontinental office in Los Angeles. He'd already left so they transferred the call to his home. "Buzz, this is Jonas."

"I was wondering when I'd hear from you."

"I want you to do me a favor."

"Sure," he said quickly. "What?"

"I'm flying out to the Coast tonight," I said. "And I want you to have weather signals up for me at every ICA hangar across the country."

"What's the matter with your radio?"

"I'm taking the CA-4 out nonstop. And I can't drag the weight."

He whistled. "You'll never make it, buddy boy."

"I'll make it," I said. "Use the searchlight blinkers at night, paint the rooftops during the day."

"Will do," he said. "What's your flight pattern?"

"I haven't decided the pattern yet. Just have all the fields covered."

"Will do," he said. "Good luck."

I put down the telephone. That's what I liked about Buzz. He was dependable. He didn't waste time with foolish questions like why, when or where. He did as he was told. The only thing he cared about was the airline. That was why ICA was rapidly becoming the largest commercial airline in the country.

I took the bottle of bourbon out of the desk and took a long pull off it. Then I went over to the couch and stretched out. My legs hung over the edge but I didn't care. I could grab a little rest while the mechanics were finishing up. I closed my eyes.

I sensed Morrissey standing near me and opened my eyes. "Ready?" I asked, looking up at him.

He nodded.

I swung my feet down from the couch and sat up. I looked out at the hangar. It was empty. "Where is she?"

"Outside," he said. "I’m having her warmed up."

"Good," I said. I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes past three. He followed me into the john. "You're tired," he said, watching while I splashed cold water on my face. "Do you really think you should go?"

"I have to."

"I put six roast-beef sandwiches and two quart Thermos bottles of black coffee in the plane for you."

"Thanks," I said, starting out.

His hand stopped me. He held out a small white bottle. "I called my doctor," he said, "and he brought these out for you."

"What are they?"

"A new pill. Benzedrine. Take one if you get sleepy. It'll wake you up. But be careful with them. Don't take too many or you'll go through the roof."

We started out for the plane. "Don't open your reserve fuel tanks until you're down to a quarter tank. The gravity feed won't pull if she registers more than that and it might even lock."

"How will I know if the reserve tanks are working?" I asked.

He looked at me. "You won't until you run out of gas. And if she locks, the air pressure will keep your gauge at a quarter even if the tank is dry."

I shot a quick look at him but didn't speak. We kept on walking. I climbed up on the wing and turned toward the cockpit. A hand pulled at my trouser leg. I turned around.

Forrester was looking up at me with a shocked look on his face. "What are you doing with the plane?"

"Going to California."

"But what about the tests tomorrow?" he shouted. "I even got Steve Randall out here tonight to look at her."

"Sorry," I said. "Call it off."

"But the General," he yelled. "How'll I explain to him? He'll blow his stack!"

I climbed into the cockpit and looked down at him. "That's not my headache any more, it's yours."

"But what if something happens to the plane?"

I grinned suddenly. I'd been right in my hunch about him. He'd make a first-rate executive. There wasn't an ounce of concern about me, only for the plane. "Then build another one," I shouted. "You're president of the company."

I waved my hand, and releasing the brakes, began to taxi slowly out on the runway. I turned her into the wind and held her there while I revved up the motor. I pulled the canopy shut and when the tachometer reached twenty-eight, I let go of the brakes.

We raced down the runway. I didn't even try to lift her until my ground speed reached a hundred and forty. We were almost out of runway before she began to chew off a piece of sky. After that, she lifted easily.

I leveled off at four thousand feet and headed due south. I looked over my shoulder. The North Star was right in the middle of my back, flickering brightly in the clear, dark sky. It was hard to believe that less than a thousand miles from here the skies were locked in.

I was over Pittsburgh when I remembered something Nevada had taught me when I was a kid. We were trailing a big cat and he pointed up at the North Star. "The Indians have a saying that when the North Star flickers like that," he said, "a storm is moving south."

I looked up again. The North Star was flickering exactly as it had that night. I remembered another Indian saying that Nevada taught me. The quickest way west is into the wind.

My mind was made up. If the Indians were right, by the time I hit the Midwest, the storm would be south of me. I banked the plane into the wind and when I looked up from the compass, the North Star was dancing brightly off my right shoulder.