J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Vitally,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Its the future of the school that’s at stake.”

“You don’t mind how you get there?” Porter queried. “I mean in what type of kite.”

“I leave that entirely up to you, Pongo,” Miss Benkinsop declared.

“All right then,” Porter grinned, feeling almost as he had the day he and a few more of the lads had beat up a Royal inspection on a Bomber Command base, trailing his wife’s—fiance’s she had been at the time—and Miss Benkinsop’s unmentionables behind their Spitfires. “What time will you be getting here?”

“I’ll let you have the details later,” Miss Benkinsop promised.

“Whacko!” Porter chuckled. “How about you and I having another weekend at—Fighter Command—some time?”

“Pongo Porter!” Miss Benkinsop gasped, thankful that she was making the call from her study and alone. “I’ll have you remember that you weren’t even engaged then— Besides which, that delightful place on the Test has been taken over and is a tourist’s retreat now. It wouldn’t have the same atmosphere at all.”

“I suppose not,” Porter admitted with a sigh. “I’ve got a Spit here that still flies.”

“You, sir, are a naughty man,” Miss Benkinsop said severely and hung up.

Grinning, Porter set down the red telephone and took up a more prosaic instrument.

“Johnny,” the Group Captain said. “Hold the flight test on His VC10. I’ll have a spin with you in it later today. Fuel up and get a flight plan for Akrotiri will you?—Yes, I know the bloody place is in Cyprus.—Get it done and I’ll forget about you having that Pedlar-popsy doing her blasted bubble dance in the Mess last Wings Day.

Entering Miss Benkinsop’s study, as the headmistress finished making the telephone call, Amanda was amazed to see her blushing but smiling.

“I’ve prepared a little plan which may serve our purpose, ma’am,” Amanda said, holding out two sheets of foolscap paper covered with her neat handwriting. “It requires rather accurate timing, but I believe it will suffice.”

Reading the School Swot’s suggestions, Miss Benkinsop nodded her approval. Before her, she had set down in detail a scheme that was comprehensive in its coverage. Not even the smallest item had been overlooked. Which was what she had come to expect of Amanda.

“Is it satisfactory?” the girl inquired anxiously.

“It’s perfect!” Miss Benkinsop praised. “But is it necessary for us to—drop in—as you suggest?”

“I feel that it is, ma’am. For us to land at Akrotiri and obtain transport to the villa would consume so much time that we could hardly complete our mission and be back in school for our morning classes.”

“I could excuse you from them. But there is the other point which you mention to be taken into consideration.”

“I tried to think of an alternative to ‘dropping in’, ma’am.—For all our sakes. But I’m afraid that I failed to do so.”

Miss Benkinsop darted a long, calculating glance at the School Swot. Most people would have detected nothing more than Amanda’s elfin charm and eagerness to please. Being better informed, the headmistress realised that something was worrying the girl. What was more, much to her amusement—and slight annoyance—Miss Benkinsop had a shrewd idea that she knew the reason for Amanda’s concern.

“We’ll follow your plan as it is,” the headmistress declared. “Have we everything we shall need?”

“I’ve arranged for the few items we don’t already have to be produced,” Amanda confirmed. “Fortunately, we have the W.R.A.C. uniforms you, Penelope and I used when we helped your friend out at the Sports Meeting. And the documents. Of course, W.A.A.F. uniforms would have been more suitable—”

“They will still get us into the R.A.F.’s base at Akrotiri.” Miss Benkinsop consoled the girl. “And Pon—Group Captain Porter will attend to the rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where is Penelope?”

“She said that, as she wouldn’t be needed in the planning, she would take a little jog-trot and limber up for this evening.”

“I hope she doesn’t tire herself too much,” Miss Benkinsop said. “She does rather tend to overdo things when she’s excited.”

The route which Penelope had selected for her jog-trot was one which passed through the woodland, which was owned by Miss Benkinsop, behind the school. It had been laid out by Amanda, with the specialised interests of the select few pupils who wished to enter the world of international espionage after graduation. The Debating Society also found that it had its uses and Penelope always enjoyed going around it.

Wearing her track suit and sandals, Penelope gripped the rope and swung gracefully across the wide chasm. Landing on the other side, she continued to run without hardly breaking her stride. Farther along the track, she ascended a pyramid of logs. On top, she trotted along the narrow plank which connected with another pyramid some twenty feet away. Instead of taking the easy way down, she flung herself through the air. Landing on a sturdy net which hung suspended from stout posts, she climbed over it and down the opposite side.

Ahead lay a large ex-Army Nissen hut, its door closed. Dropping her left shoulder, the head girl darted up and charged it open with the ease of a trained police officer.

“Grab her, girls!” yelled an excited voice as Penelope disappeared into the building.

A variety of yells, squeals, thuds, bangs and crashes arose, lasting for almost a minute. Then the window at the rear of the hut shattered. Coming through it, with her hands and arms shielding her face, Penelope landed, did a forward roll and regained her feet lithely. She dashed on without a backwards glance.

Inside the hut, six of the Debating Society’s most weighty members were sprawled in a dazed, bewildered and dishevelled heap on the floor.

Still hardly breathing heavily, Penelope approached the final stage of her trot. She drew near to the entrance to the Butts, that location set aside for the benefit of the Espionage students and as a training ground for the school’s rifle and pistol shooting teams.

Snatching up the Thompson sub-machine gun which had been placed on a table ready for her, Penelope entered the mouth of the long, fairly wide valley. Still running and firing from the hip as she went the head girl emptied the fifty-round drum magazine at the various targets which popped up at irregular and unexpected intervals as she advanced.

Halting when the weapon was empty, Penelope removed the magazine and ensured that no round remained in the chamber. The butt party appeared from their places of safety and concealment. Chattering excitedly, they examined the results of her efforts.

“You only made forty-six hits. Penny,” said the captain of Pauline Cushman House, who did not like the head girl and was delighted to try to show her up.

“Oh don’t be such a nasty cat, Lorraine!” protested a sixth-former from Penelope’s own house, Belle Boyd. “You know it was forty-eight.”

“You can’t count those two that only nicked the edges,” Lorraine objected sulkily, for her best score had never exceeded forty-seven hits and that was made when walking along the course, without her having first taken the jog-trot with all its trimmings.

“Not to worry,” Penelope said cheerfully. “I didn’t expect to do any better than forty-five. I’m not Amanda. ’Ere, where’s my fag?”

“Here I am, Penelope?” asked the little third-former who had the honour to hold that position.

“Take this and give it a good clean up,” the head girl ordered, handing over the Thompson. “And don’t you spill any oil on the floor, or I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”