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Updated: June 20, 2025
"What makes it all right for you to talk to me?" "You've got passage on this ship. That means something!" "Does it?" asked Joe. The pilot turned in his seat to glance at Joe. "Do you think we carry passengers regularly?" he asked mildly. "Why not?" Pilot and co-pilot looked at each other. "Tell him," said the pilot.
Then he recognized the two seated figures. They were the pilot and co-pilot, respectively, of the fateful plane that had brought him to Bootstrap. He went over to their table. The pilot nodded matter-of-factly. The co-pilot grinned. Both still wore bandages on their hands, which would account for their remaining here. "Fancy seeing you!" said the co-pilot cheerfully. "Welcome to the Hotel de Gink!
A spot check on areas where excessive flexing of the wings would have shown up a big ship's wings are not perfectly rigid: they'd come to pieces in the air if they were presented no evidence of damage. The ship was ready to take off again. The co-pilot watched grimly until the one mechanic went back to the side lines. The mechanic was not cordial.
I don't know how many other men have been killed. But there's a strictly local hot war going on out where we're headed. No holds barred! Hadn't you heard?" It sounded exaggerated. Joe said politely: "I heard there was cloak-and-dagger stuff going on." The pilot drained his cup and handed it to the co-pilot. He said: "He thinks you're kidding him."
"About five months ago," said the co-pilot, "there was an Army colonel wangled a ride to Bootstrap on a cargo plane. The plane took off. It flew all right until twenty miles from Bootstrap. Then it stopped checking. It dove straight for the Shed the Platform's being built in. It was shot down. When it hit, there was an explosion." The co-pilot shrugged. "You won't believe me, maybe.
The ship flew with more steadiness than a railroad car rolls on rails. There was the oddly cushioned sound of the motors. It was all very matter-of-fact. But Joe said angrily: "Look! Is any of what you said well kidding?" "I wish it were, fella," said the co-pilot. "I can talk to you about it, but most of it's hushed up. I tell you " "Why can you talk to me?" demanded Joe suspiciously.
The co-pilot blinked. Then he looked annoyed. "Confound it! I didn't watch! Did you?" The pilot shook his head, his lips compressed. The co-pilot said bitterly: "And I thought I was security-conscious! Thanks for telling me, fella. No harm done this time, but that was a slip!" He scowled at the dials before him. The plane flew on.
In no more than minutes everything was out except the four crates that were the gyros. The co-pilot regarded them dourly, and Joe clenched his fists. The co-pilot closed the clamshell doors, and it became possible to hear oneself think again. "Ship's lighter, anyhow," reported the co-pilot, back in the cabin. "Tell 'em this is what exploded." The pilot took the slip.
Tried for a collision. So the jet gave him the works. Blew him apart. Couldn't make him land. Maybe they'll pick up something from the wreckage." Joe wet his lips. "I saw what happened," he said. "He tried to smash us with rockets. Where'd he get them? How were they smuggled in?" The co-pilot shrugged. "Maybe smuggled in. Maybe stolen.
"Maybe I'm crazy, but there was that sandy-haired guy who put his hand up in the wheel well back at that last field. And this don't feel right!" The plane swept on. The airfield passed below it. The co-pilot very cautiously let go of the wheel release, which when pulled should let the wheels fall down from their wells to lock themselves in landing position. He moved from his seat.
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