The buzzing, faint at first, then growing louder to fill the sky, awakened Pres Thompson. He had been dozing in the shade of the Jenny, immersed in a kind of half-sleep in which he had mentally reflown the miles from Georgia, up through the South, then along the Gulf coast here into Texas, with the vast prairie land rolling away beneath his wings like an endless gray-green rug...
The sound in the sky brought him to his feet, and he peered upward, shading his eyes against the glare of Texas sun. In the bright arch of blue a graceful black-and-gold bird rode the upper currents, circling easily above him in great lazy swoopings.
"Haaaa-ay !" Pres shouted, waving his leather flying jacket.
The bird dipped its wings in salute.
It's the Solitaire! Pres told himself, running out to wave in the plane. What a lucky break!
The black-and-gold craft touched smoothly down, dust unraveling behind the tail skid as it taxied toward Pres. The blurring prop snapped to a standstill and the pilot slid over the edge of the cockpit to the ground. He was a tall man, well over six feet, and the sun flashed fire from his polished boots and felt-lined goggles. His smoke-colored flying jacket seemed tailored to fit his wide chest, and beneath a leather helmet of gold his face was long-boned, vulpine, the eyes dark and weathered along the cheek line. He walked forward, unknotting a white silk scarf at his neck.
"You got trouble, boy?" he asked.
"Not really," Pres admitted. "I am a little short on gas, but that 's not the reason I waved you down. "He paused, flushing. "I - I just wanted to meet you..."
The tall man grinned, shaking Thompson's hand. "Then you know who I am?"
"I guess!" nodded Pres "For seven years -- ever since I was twelve -- I been hearing about you, Mr. Curry. I guess there's no man who flies don't know your name."
"I wouldn't go that far," said Stuart Nelson Curry. He lit a cigarette as Pres slowly circled the plane, now silent in the prairie heat except for the small metallic noises made by the cooling engine. The black wings, with the word S 0 L I T A I R E lettered across the top, provided a sharp contrast against the gold fuselage, and the fabric was drum-tight and spotless.
"She's a real beauty!" Pres sighed. "I've only seen one other Hisso Standard, and that was in Georgia where I picked up my ole Jenny. But it sure wasn't in this condition! what horsepower she give you?"
"Well, the Hispano is rated at 150," said Curry," but I coaxed 30 more out of this one. Did a few things to her."
"My crate's got the regular Curtiss, " said Thompson, swinging his head in the direction of a battered JN-4, its wings tied down, at the edge of the clearing. "I'm lucky to get 90 horses out of her."
"Let 's have a look," said Curry.
"She's a little beat up," said Pres, walking a step behind the taller man as they crossed the patch of hard ground. Thompson noted that the Solitaire walked with a slight limp." I just got her last month. Guy only charged me four hundred, cuz she needed work. I patched the wings, put on a coat of dope and fixed up one of the wheels."
He kept on talking as Curry examined the plane. "She still needs a few things, but the engine 's okay. Runs fine with the new plugs."
Curry tapped the wing fabric with an index finger. "Loose, " he said. "could give you a bad time."
"I'll have 'em recovered when I can afford to," said Pres. "Right now I just want to make some money barnstorming. I'm aimed for the fair, up to Dorado. Then I guess I'll head on into Minnesota and follow out the season there. If I can make enough this summer I can really fix her up. "Maybe even trade her for a Canuck."
Curry rubbed one hand thoughtfully along his jaw.
"Ever do any stunting?" he asked.
"Sure." pres hesitated. "Well -- I mean, not for money. I've put her through the usual stuff to get the hang of it. She stalls easy if you're not watching close, but she'll loop okay."
"I'm gonna tell you something, kid, and I think you better listen. This heap of yours is a death trap. In any kind of real dive those wings'll fold up like paper. Stunting isn't the cinch you make out, and that 's one reason there are so damn many young fliers buried these days."
Curry's dark eyes were hard as they raked Thompson's face. Pres had a sudden mental picture of how it must have been, back in '18 on the Front, when Curry had a Hun in his sights. His eyes must have been hard then too, before the kill.
"She 's tougher than you think," Pres said. "She'll stay pasted together unless I fly her like an idiot --which I don't plan to do."
Stuart Curry sighed, slapping his helmet against the leg of his gray cavalry pants. "Got any food with you?"
"Ham sandwiches," said Pres," and a canteen of water. That do?"
"Fine. I was planning to put down for lunch. I '11 share yours if you don't object."
"My pleasure," said Pres, feeling awkward and schoolboyish around Curry. Well, when you meet a man you've idolized, an idol to a lot of people. In the war he'd earned his nickname, The Solitaire, because he flew so many solo missions against orders. Among the U.S. aces, only Rickenbacker had killed more Huns, and Curry might have beaten Rick if he'd reached the Front a little earlier.
They stretched out in the shade of a wing, eating quietly. Curry finished his sandwich, carefully wiped his hands on a large white handkerchief, then lay back, arms cradling his head. "Me, I'm almost thirty," he said, "and already I'm an old man in this game. A kid your age ought to listen to what an old man tells him."
Pres said nothing, knowing Curry would continue.
"Let's say I was nineteen again, like you. What would I do? Would I take up some old boat with the wings peeling off and kill myself barnstorming for pork and bean money above a grandstand full of hicks?" Curry shifted position, leaning on one elbow, regarding Pres with a dark, steady gaze. "Kid, those lousy savages don't give a damn about you. They pay to see you split yourself open like a melon. They want to watch that Jenny of yours splatter all over the fairground, so they can rush out and strip it for souvenirs. And you along with it. I saw what the bastards did to Banty Rogers in Sioux City when he clipped a power line and rolled his Standard into a ball. They picked it clean as a bone -- and when I finally got over to Banty -- busting a few heads on the way -- even his socks were gone. They just left his blood to cover him. That's all, just his blood..."
Pres watched a jaw muscle twitch in Curry's face.
"Why do you think I fly the best?" the tall man asked. "Because I don't want to give those human vultures a chance to get at me. I go on stunting because that's all a man like me can do -- not because it's glamorous, or because they pay me more than any barnstormer in the business. I've seen it all. Nebraska, Kansas, Colorado -- and it's the same dirty job. But at least it's flying -- so I stunt. But a kid like you, at nineteen.. ."
"What about a kid like me?" asked Pres.
"You could get out before the game kills you. You could join the Flying Corp as a cadet and fly the latest -- a DH with 400 horses working for you, and no patched wings to worry about. That haywagon of yours won't do 70, but a DH can crack 125. In a year, with some luck, you could graduate with a lieutenant's commission."
"Suppose I like being on my own, flying where I want to fly?" asked Thompson. "Suppose I become a good stunt pilot, even a great one -- like you?"
"And suppose you break your fool neck trying to pull out of a spin next Sunday in Dorado?"
Pres Thompson leaned forward, chin against his knees. He stared at a clump of sage. "I'll take my chances," he said "the way you took yours on the Front."
"That was war," Curry snapped, "and it didn't much matter whether you lived or died. I played Hero, and ended up with a plate in my leg and a hat full of tin medals. Now I'm a sky gypsy, with no home, no family, no future. Is that what you want out of life? Are you that dumb, kid, are you really that dumb?"
"I'm stunting at Dorado," said Thompson flatly. He got to his feet, pulling helmet and goggles from his scuffed leather jacket. "Will I see you there?"
"Dammit," snorted Curry, shaking his head. "If I had any sense I 'd tell you to go to hell, but I've seen too many crashes. So I '11 make a deal with you."
"Deal?" asked Pres, confused and a bit suspicious. "What kind of deal?"
"Since you're determined to stunt that underpowered coffin I can use you in my act. I'm picking up my wing walker just this side of Dorado. Name's Slim Toulmin, and when he 's sober he can do anything, short of hanging by his eyelashes. With Slim doing most of the wing stuff, then chuting down for the windup, and me taking on the high speed trick stuff with my Hisso, that leaves some easy bits for you -- wingovers, banks, spirals and maybe a loop or two. I guess your cracker box can stand up under those. We'll split 60-40 on the take. That way you get a taste of stunting, and I don't have to watch you turn yourself into a corpse. Fair enough?"
"Darn right, Mr. Curry I" Pres said, the delight showing in his smile.
"All right, we've got a deal. Now you can give me a hand with that prop."
And Stuart Nelson Curry moved away, limping across the clearing toward the waiting Standard.
"Ladeeez and gentlemen, the management of the Dorado County Fair proudly presents its star attraction, that internationally famous war hero and daredevil sky king whose death-defying exploitts have thrilled the world...
The barker's deep voice continued to boom through the megaphone as Stuart Curry pulled the strap of his helmet tight and adjusted his goggles. He flicked a thumb in the direction of Thompson's Jenny.
"Better shake it, kid, we're up next."
A rising wave of cheers broke from the grandstand as Pres climbed into the cockpit of his JN, but he knew the acclaim was not for him; it belonged to the Solitaire. But if Pres did well up there today with the old Jenny then perhaps next week, next month, they'd be cheering for him...
The prop blurred into motion as the engine caught with a popping cough. Pres let the Curtiss idle, then opened the throttle to 1400 rpm. She sounded healthy, ready to work for him. He throttled down and taxied across the field into the wind. Curry was already in the air, having utilized the Hisso's power for a full-throttle takeoff. Thompson watched the black-and-gold Standard climb steeply above the trees at the edge of the fairgrounds, then bank back, skimming the branches in a swirl of leaves.
Pres gave the Jenny some juice, and she picked up speed. The earth fell away beneath him, and he began to climb for altitude. Curry had warned him not to try anything near the ground, with no safety margin in case he got into trouble, so he climbed up to a thousand before going into his routine. He would warm up the crowd with some basic stuff, then let Curry take over. Pres had thrown a hasty coat of crimson paint over the olive drab surface of the wings, and he knew they could see him easily down there in the grandstand.
Here, in this vast blue upper ocean, with the wind in his face, Pres Thompson had no thought for patched wings or tired struts or for the makeshift splices in the spars. He felt invincible, high above the earthbound crowd, as they watched him spiral and barrel roll the JN.
Now -- he would show them what it was to own the sky! Pres lowered the nose of his plane, waited a few seconds as the wing fabric bulged threateningly between the strained ribs, then pulled the stick back slowly, the throttle wide. His body was mashed deep in the cockpit as the fairgrounds disappeared beyond the trailing edges; then he seemed to hang suspended in space at the top of the loop before the Jenny shuddered down, closing the circle.
Perfect, Pres told himself, just perfect! The old girl still has some spunk left in her, all right.
A thousand feet above the JN, while Stuart Curry steadied the Hisso, Slim Toulmin prepared to go into his act. Toulmin was a small man, standing barely five feet two, with a wind-leathered face, eroded by the elements, the face of a monkey -- with wide nostrils and round, bright eyes. "His harness securely buckled around his thick waist, he gave the thumbs-up signal to Curry. And the Solitaire wing-waggled to Thompson: we 're coming down.
The ships exchanged position as the ballyhoo man megaphoned a lavish introduction, and now the show belonged to Curry and his wing walker. Pres would simply hover in the sky while the act progressed below him. Then, for a finale, after Toulmin had made his parachute jump, the two planes would do a double loop, laying red and blue smoke trails across the fairgrounds before landing again near the main grandstand.
Pres could see Toulmin in position, centered above the cockpit on the top wing of the Standard, anchored by straps and metal heel cups, braced against the wind like a dark ghost as Curry dived on the field. Just before his wheels touched earth, the Solitaire screamed the black-and-gold ship up past the main stands in a high loop, the sharp sound of the Hispano engine ripping a long gash in the stretched blue silk of the sky.
Pres held his breath, circling by instinct, his full attention focused on the machine below him. Now Stuart Curry was using his legendary skill to maximum advantage -- tying the control stick into level flying position, hoisting his body over the side of the cockpit into the whipping blast of the slipstream, lowering himself under the belly of the Standard to the landing wheels, hanging there by his knees while he waved down to the crowd. Toulmin above, Curry below -- with the plane flying itself. Indeed, this was stunting!
The Solitaire climbed back into the cockpit, quickly attached cords to the controls, then inched backward to a sitting position between cockpit and tail, guiding the ship by tugging to right or left on the ropes, riding the Standard as a cowboy rides a bronc.
Pres Thompson watched and wondered: would he ever be this good; would he ever be able to match this demon of the air who employed his personal brand of magic to hurl the heavy Standard across the heavens as easily as a child hurls a stone across a pond?
Then something glinted on the wingtop, pulling Thompson's attention away from Stuart Curry. Slim Toulmin had a whiskey bottle tipped to his lips, and Pres watched in a cold sweat as the swaying stuntman emptied the contents, pitching the bottle into space. It winked like a jewel, falling away into the trees. Curry, in the process of regaining the cockpit, did not see any of this.
That drunken slob can ruin the show, Pres thought angrily, putting the JN into a shallow dive. I'd better warn Curry and have him wave Toulmin in before the main act. A drunk on the wing is worse than a wild prop.
Pres leveled out next to Curry's Standard, and pointed up at Toulmin, making a "bottle" of his hand and raising it to his lips. Curry got the message, but too late. Slim Toulmin had already left his top perch, and was now on the lower right wing, pulling himself from wire to strut, heading for the tip. Curry yelled something, a bitter phrase, which was swept away in the noisy slipstream -- and Toulmin paused. Curry gestured violently toward the front cockpit, indicating that Toulmin was to come in, but the stuntman ignored the order, resuming his slow passage.
Curry waved Pres back upstairs, expertly steadying the plane against the outside shift in weight. Thompson could see cold anger etched in the Solitaire's vulpine face, but he knew that Curry could do nothing but hope Toulmin would not foul up. The little man was now beyond reach.
Pres watched Toulmin kneel on the trembling finger of wood and fabric, wave to the grandstand, then reach down to grab the wing skid. Like a fat monkey, he dropped over the edge, to hang by one hand under the ship. A rope ladder had been rolled around the skid, and now Toulmin released it, transferring his grip to the ladder. Now he was swinging from the spider-webbing of rope: hanging by his heels, by one hand, by the other, by both knees, by one knee... commanding the rapt attention of the silent fairgrounds crowd.
Maybe he'll be okay, thought Pres ; maybe he 's not drunk enough to let it affect his act. He looks fine so far. He could be all right.
Toulmin was back on the skid, hauling in the ladder. He pulled himself to the wingtip, stood up, then began to waver uncertainly, a hand to his forehead.
God, he's blacking out, Pres screamed silently. The son of a bitch is blacking out!
Toulmin recovered. Unsteadily, he began to unstrap the parachute which was tied along the surface of the wing, hunching into the shoulder straps, then sitting down on the wingtip, legs dangling.
"Jump, you lousy drunk!" Pres shouted, uncaring that the words were lost the moment they left his lips. "Get off that wing!"
Slim Toulmin raised his arm for a final wave -- then thrust himself into space. But the alcohol had done its work; the jump was never completed. Toulmin had jerked his chute cord too quickly, and the lines had snagged along the wing, slamming the stuntman's head hard against the fuselage. Toulmin swung twisting like a rag doll below the right wingtip, unconscious, his lines snarled by the wind.
Pres felt completely frustrated; there wasn't a thing he could do. If the Jenny's top wing had been reinforced to bear the extra weight he might try to bring the JN up under the swinging body and. .. No, even that wouldn't work, because he'd need someone up there on top to cut the tangled chute lines.
Curry was equally helpless. He couldn't leave the cockpit to haul Toulmin in, and he couldn't land without killing them both. But the Standard would not be able to stay up much longer since the light fuel load was almost exhausted.
He'll think of something, Pres desperately told himself. The Solitaire will think of some way out...
Stuart Curry cautiously lowered the Standard's left wing, holding the ship at a severe angle, with the right wing high--and Toulmin's body swung slowly in toward the cockpit. His face twisted with effort, Curry freed one hand from the controls and reached out to grasp Slim Toulmin's jacket. Pres could see what Curry was trying to do, and it seemed impossible. He would have to hold the ship's left wing hard down, gripping the control stick with his knees, and attempt to cut the chute lines with one hand, hanging on to Toulmin with the other. Impossible!
No, not impossible -- because Curry was doing it, slashing at the thick twist of tangled line with an open pocket knife as he held Slim Toulmin tight against the cockpit.
But an airman ' s luck is bound to run out...
The Standard's overstrained right wing suddenly split wide along the fuselage with a terrible rending sound, and the plane went into a vicious spin as the wing disintegrated, splintering, crumpling like black tissue paper back into the golden body.
The plane continued to fall earthward.
Pres Thompson saw the end of it, saw the crash that the man they called the Solitaire had long dreaded, saw the proud black-and-gold bird explode and burn.
By the time he had landed -- diving the Jenny down until the wires sang, bumping roughly across the field to the crash area -- it was already as Curry had told him it would be. They were there in the smoke, men, women, children -- tearing and clawing at the scattered pieces of wing and fuselage. When Pres fought his way to the body of Stuart Nelson Curry it was stripped clean. The goggles and white scarf, the gold helmet, the neat gray cavalry breeches, the polished leather boots -- all gone.
Curry had been thrown clear. His neck was twisted at an odd, unnatural angle, but his face was unmarked: eyes wide and staring, nostrils dilated, mouth agape in a frozen scream.
"He knew," moaned Thompson, turning away as the sirens increased their slow wail. "My God, he knew!"
The Dorado County Fair was over, the tents down, the grand-stands left to sun and dust, the booths closed and boarded. Pres stood by the Jenny, adjusting his helmet.
"Want a hand with the prop?" someone asked him. Pres did not look up as he nodded. "Thanks," he said, his tone flat and emotionless.
He was thinking about a new DeHaviland cadet trainer with 400 powerful horses under the throttle. And he was also thinking about the girl who loved him back in Georgia, who had begged him not to become a stunter. He'd write to her, tell her she didn't need to worry. He'd write very soon.
Pres looked up at the waiting sky, serene and stippled with white clouds -- and then he climbed aboard the Jenny, pulling down his goggles.
As the Curtiss engine coughed raggedly to life he thought about a future which, suddenly, seemed to have meaning and purpose.
He tried not to think about the man they had called the Solitaire.
END
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