Fabulous Flight

by Robert Lawson

  “He may not open it again for a week, or a month maybe, Gus ruminated. “Goin’ to be a teejus wait, but it seems to be the only answer. But whenever I see them two fishin’ I’ll know it’s safe to come up here for a visit. Safe for me to get a bite to eat too. Rest of the time I’ll be right up there on the cornish or cruisin’ around keepin’ an eye on things.”

  Peter extracted a blanket from the car, filled a “Thermos” bottle with water and got out some bread and cheese; chocolate bars had begun to pall. These were all carried in and settled behind the books.

  The pair on the dock now seemed to have finished their fishing, so Gus said good-by and soared off to do a bit of fishing on his own account. Peter climbed back behind the books and settled down for the long wait.

  A little before noon Fisheye came in and removed the gold from the desk drawer. He put it in a handbag and carried it away, doubtless to add to his main hoard. Peter hoped he might open the safe but he didn’t go near it.

  After lunch the two came into the study and spent the afternoon playing pinball and drinking beer. They talked a great deal about the old days in Chicago and about their schemes for transporting their ill-gotten gains back to the States. Peter couldn’t understand most of their jargon but he listened carefully, still hoping the safe might be opened. It was not, and eventually the pair went down to dinner.

  The evening was a repetition of the afternoon; pinball, talk and beer, a great deal of the latter. Peter was stiff and cramped and sleepy. It was a relief when the two finally staggered off to bed, considerably the worse for beer. Peter snuggled down in his blanket and was asleep almost before they were out of the room.

  Much later he was wakened by a slight sound. There was a bright moon outside which, combined with the glow of the searchlights, made a fair light in the study. Peter’s hair prickled as he heard heavy breathing and the sliding of the books in front of the safe. Slipping from his blanket and peering out he recognized the ugly head of Lumps Gallagher silhouetted against the window. Lumps was muttering to himself.

  “Smart guy, Fisheye,” he mumbled, “very smart. Only he forgets his old pal Lumps is the best little old can opener in Illinois. Lil’ old can like this is kids’ play. Ideer of offerin’ a measly hundred grand to an old pal. It’s insultin’. All’s I need is this little meal ticket and he can keep his hundred grand. Lot of good it’ll do him when these Spigs string him up an’ old Lumps is sitting pretty with this super-duper capsull and blackmailin’ the whole world. I’ll make his million look like a penny bank.”

  The books had been removed and Lumps was fumbling with the knob of the safe. Holding his breath Peter unsheathed his tiny sword and moved closer to the hairy wrist. Lumps’s beery breath was almost overpowering. Slightly drunk though he might be, the thug knew his work. Peter could hear the tumblers of the lock sliding and clicking obediently. Then suddenly the door of the little safe swung open and the huge hand reached in and began to paw around.

  Now was the moment! Peter drew a long breath, straightened his arm and plunged the sword into the wrist, just below the base of the thumb. At the same instant he sharply squeezed the sword hilt. For one awful moment of doubt nothing happened.

  The hand remained motionless. Then it slowly grew limp and slid with steadily increasing speed out of the safe and down over the edge of the shelf. There was a heavy thump as Lumps’s unconscious body crashed to the floor.

  Leaping into the safe Peter snatched open the two tiny boxes and carefully slid the two capsules into his side pockets. He stepped out, caught the curtain and swung easily to the window sill.

  It was just in time, for at that moment the door crashed open and Fisheye Jones rushed into the room. In one hand he carried a flashlight, in the other a wicked-looking automatic. As the beam revealed Lumps’s sprawled form and the open safe Fisheye uttered a roar of rage.

  Peter, on the window ledge, had been frantically blinking his flashlight, now the white gleam of Gus’s wings materialized from the darkness as he settled on the ledge. The movement also caught Fisheye’s attention. At once he began firing blindly toward the window. Luckily all the shots went wild, one bullet glanced from the stone sill and whined out across the lake.

  Peter leaped aboard and Gus, without command, dove straight down, so straight that Peter, for a second, thought he had been hit. But a few feet above the ground the broad wings straightened out, they pulled out of the dive and shot out across the lake at terrific speed, just skimming the surface of the dark waters. It was a wise maneuver, for Fisheye, now at the window, was firing viciously. But the shots had roused all the other gulls and the air was now filled with them, so Peter and Gus were soon completely hidden by the wheeling, flapping flock.

  The shots too, had startled the Zargonian army. Machine guns started to spit long sprays of tracer bullets in every direction. As Gus swept over the trenches they could see soldiers tumbling over each other to man the guns. Colored signal rockets shot up, the long searchlight fingers probed wildly, the planes made screaming dives. Two of them collided and plunged like flaming meteors into the lake. Gus swerved and banked, shooting swiftly through the tall pine trees. In a few moments they were soaring quietly over the sleeping countryside. Behind them the rattle of machine guns rose to a terrific pitch, then gradually faded away. The glaring searchlights continued to explore the sky.

  “Phew,” Gus called over his shoulder, “we sure got away in a blaze of glory, as they say. You all right Pete?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Peter answered happily, “and I’ve got it – the capsule.”

  “Great work,” Gus exulted. “I’ll hear about it in the morning. Right now I’m goin’ to keep moving. Just as soon put a couple of hundred miles between us and them Zargonian nuts. Better take yourself a nap.”

  Peter went into the cabin and gently removed the two capsules from his pockets. The dangerous one with its single deadly white grain he wrapped in several handkerchiefs. This he placed in the center of his pillow, carefully rolled it up and tied the bundle with a couple of neckties. The roll just fitted snugly into one of the lockers. Peter breathed a sigh of relief when this delicate operation was completed. The capsule filled with sugar he stuck back in his pocket.

  He was too excited to go to sleep at once. He was much smeared with dust and stiff all over from his cramped quarters on the bookshelf. It was luxurious to stretch out on his soft bunk and watch the stars parade past as Gus winged smoothly and swiftly southward. Finally he slept.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Glory That Wasn’t Rome

  Gus flew through most of the night, landing sometime before dawn on the waters of a tiny mountain lake. When Peter waked the sun was just peeping above the surrounding pine trees. They were floating peacefully in a small cove. Gus slept soundly.

  Peter got out some soap, threw off his pajamas and dived in. The water was icy cold, he shrieked and whooped, splashing toward the shore. Gus woke, yawned and paddled up to the sand. “Be obliged if you’d take off this contraption for a while, Pete,” he said. “Ain’t had it off sence we left Paris.”

  Peter quickly unstrapped the car and while Gus splashed and snapped up fish he soaped and scrubbed off all the castle dust. Then he ran up and down in the warm sun until dry. The fresh mountain air and the icy water had made him ravenous, so he built a fire and cooked an enormous breakfast. Gus stretched, ruffled his feathers and preened happily in the sunshine. “Mountain trouts,” he yawned contentedly, “almost as good as shads.”

  They spent the whole morning on the lake shore, resting and relaxing after the strain of the past few days. Peter related last night’s adventures. “Sure was a risky business,” Gus said gravely. “You done fine, Pete; real quick-witted, as they say. Your old man oughta be proud of you.”

  “I’m pretty proud of him,” Peter replied. “That sword worked perfectly. I’d certainly have been in a mess if it hadn’t. I’d have been in a mess, too, if you hadn’t been right there. You were wonderful, Gus.”


  “Aw shucks,” Gus said modestly, “all I done was stick around.” He chuckled, “Wonder how that Lumps Gallagher’s feelin’ about now?”

  “Father said the drug lasted about twelve hours,” Peter said, consulting his watch, “so he’s still probably unconscious.”

  “Will be from now on, if that Fisheye’s as tough as he sounds. Fisheye won’t last long either,” Gus opined, “once then dumb Zargonians learn how they’ve been done. Oh well! they was a bad lot, the two of them. Good riddance, as they say.”

  Peter looked over his food supply, now fairly well depleted, filled the water tank, made his bunk and got out a map. Lying in the warm sun he and Gus studied it. Peter roughly figured their present location.

  “Don’t know about you, Pete,” Gus yawned, “but far as I’m concerned I’ve saw Europe. Course there’s the Spinks and the Pyramids, but they’re way out of our way and probably ain’t half what they’re cracked up to be anyway. Personally, I’d just as soon see the docks down to Baltimore.”

  “That’s the way I feel,” Peter agreed. “Besides, we ought to get home as soon as we can and tell Father and the Secretary of State. Carrying this awful capsule isn’t very restful either.”

  They studied the map some more. “If we go on south,” Peter suggested, “we could see Venice and Florence and Rome. Then we could go down the Mediterranean, pass the Rock of Gibralter, stop at Madeira and then right across the ocean and home.”

  “Suits me fine,” Gus agreed, “couldn’t be better.” Glancing at the map again he suddenly cried, “What’s this here island called Sardinia? That where sardines come from?”

  “I think so,” Peter said.

  "That’s where we spend the night,” Gus announced decisively, “come on, Pete, let’s grab a bit of lunch and get going. If there’s one thing I like better than shads it’s sardines.”

  They ate a hasty lunch, Peter strapped on the car and they were soon under way, to Gus’s cheery whoop of, “Sardines, here we come!”

  Shortly after noon they reached the waters of the Adriatic and soared over Venice. “Well, what do you know about that?” Gus marveled. “The streets are all water. Certainly must be a soft job for the Street Cleaning Commissioner.” They circled around and eventually came to rest on the dome of St. Mark’s, where they had a fine view of the square.

  “Real handsome,” Gus admitted, “but it must be an awkward town to live in. Certainly wouldn’t be much opening here for gardeners or automobeel salesmen. Got a pretty strong scent to it too.”

  As they flew south Peter suggested, “Florence is mostly art galleries and they don’t look like much from the outside. Let’s skip Florence.”

  “Suits me,” Gus agreed. “We’ve got to see Rome though, I guess. Wouldn’t do to get back to Baltimore and tell them iggorant fellers we’d been to Europe and hadn’t saw Rome.” So they saw Rome.

  They saw the Forum, the Circus Maximus and the Pantheon. They flew down the Sacred Way and through the Arch of Titus. They saw the Colosseum and all the other historic sights. Gus was astonished and greatly disappointed by their ruined condition. “Sure are in mighty poor repair,” he said. “It’s a wonder they wouldn’t do somethin’ about ’em. People comin’ from halfway around the world to see these things and them half tumbled down. It’s a gyp game, that’s what it is.”

  He was somewhat appeased by the better preserved state of the Vatican, where they flew around the great dome of St. Peter’s, but did not linger long, being eager to reach Sardinia before nightfall.

  They flew out over the deep blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea and soon saw ahead the hills and mountains of Sardinia. Some time before sunset Gus landed in a quiet little bay and eagerly began his fishing. He had no luck, and tried another cove. Until long after sunset he tried bay after bay, getting more and more disgusted as each one failed to produce a single sardine.

  “It’s another gyp,” he declared angrily. “See Rome; and all’s there is is a lot of tumble-down old ruins. Visit Sardinia; and there ain’t a sardine within a hundred miles.”

  They were late getting started the next morning, for Gus insisted on trying his luck again, with equal lack of success. There were plenty of other fish, so he didn’t have to go hungry, but he was in a poor humor and grumbled considerably as they winged down the Mediterranean. However, the balmy air and the brilliant blue of the water slowly mellowed his spirits. He was his old self by the time the sea began to narrow as they approached the Strait. To the north were the brown hills of Spain, to the south gleamed the white cliffs of Africa. Soon, ahead of them, rose the huge bulk of the Rock. As they came nearer the great mass loomed up grandly.

  “Well, Gus, at least this isn’t a disappointment,” Peter laughed.

  “Nope,” Gus admitted, “she looks real handsome – ” He broke off with a sudden squawk of rage. “Another gyp,” he roared, “there ain’t no printing onto it. Ever picture I ever see of it had printing – great big letters right across the front.”

  “It did, didn’t it,” Peter agreed. “I guess they must have gotten washed off during the war.” Gus merely snorted.

  As they swept through the narrow strait and burst out over the Atlantic Gus’s spirits rose again. “Well, Pete,” he called, “I guess we’ve saw Europe. Them as wants it can have it. I’ll take Baltimore any time.” He winged on with new energy toward Madeira.

  His spirits rose still higher when that evening in a secluded cove at Madeira they came on a large school of young pilchards. Gus gobbled sardines until he could barely navigate. With some difficulty he paddled to a tiny sand beach. Peter removed the car and ate his own supper. The sand was warm, the air balmy. In the east the full moon was just rising. They sprawled contentedly on the sand.

  “You know Pete?” Gus said languidly. “There’s just somethin’ different about the Atlantic. All them rivers and lakes and seas over in Europe’s got a sort of funny smell to ’em. Not bad, always, just queer. But the Atlantic smells like home to me, even way over here.”

  They sat a while in silence, watching the ripples burst into stringed jewels of light along the water’s edge.

  “Gus,” Peter said suddenly. “I’ve been thinking about that capsule. We’ve got it and nobody else can get it and I don’t think we ought to give it to anyone – even our own Government. It’s just too terrible.”

  “Ben sort of thinkin’ the same thing myself,” Gus replied. “Of course I ain’t eddicated, but seems to me that ain’t a thing anybody ought to be let loose with. What do you say we dunk her right in the middle of the old Atlantic?”

  “Do you think we could – safely?” Peter asked.

  “Sure we can. Look; here’s what I figger. Tomorrow we fly all day, that’ll take us just about to the middle. We spend the night on the water and get a good rest. Next morning I’ll go up high – higher’n you ever dreamed of. You got a oxygen mask haven’t you? Good. I can stand it a long way up without no mask. When I can’t go any higher I waggle my wings. Then you chuck her overboard. When you chuck her you give me a kick in the back – then we scoot. And when I scoot, I scoot. Be like to take the hair right off your head, better wear your flyin’ suit. Time she hits the water we’d oughta be a couple of hundred miles away and close to the water. How’s that strike you?”

  “It seems fine, Gus,” Peter said, “your plans always do. I don’t know whether we really ought to destroy this thing, but I think we should.”

  " ’Course we should,” Gus said stoutly. “Who’s got a better right? We got it, didn’t we? Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  They left the car off and Peter slept peacefully. Gus was up before dawn to have another go at the sardines, while Peter cooked himself a good breakfast from his now almost vanished larder. They flew all day with a favoring tail wind which helped them make splendid progress. At nightfall Gus judged that they had reached the exact middle of the Atlantic.

  The water was calm, except for a slow lulling swell. They spent a quiet, uneventful night
.

  CHAPTER 14

  Operation Dunk

  They both ate light breakfasts, for Gus said that high altitudes and full stomachs were a poor combination. Peter donned his flying suit and settled in the chair as Gus took off and began slowly circling. He anxiously scanned the ocean for ships, but none were to be seen. Even when Gus’s seemingly leisurely ascent spread out hundreds of square miles of water below them there was still no sign of a ship. He commented on it and Gus called, “Yep, noticed it myself. Real lucky. Luckier for them even, if the old guy’s capsull is all it’s cracked up to be.”

  For an hour or more they circled, rising ever higher. The air grew colder, the circle of the horizon spread farther and farther. Peter went into his cabin and removed the rolled-up pillow. He extracted the deadly capsule and placed it gently in his breast pocket. He got out his oxygen mask and returned to the observation seat.

  Another half hour passed. Peter’s breathing began to grow labored, so he clapped on the oxygen mask. Still Gus continued his effortless, circling ascent. Their height now must be terrific. The blue of the sky had deepened until it seemed almost black. Below, the limitless disc of the sea shone like white glistening aluminum.

  Suddenly Gus’s wings began to wabble. Peter reached in his pocket and drew out the capsule. His movements were slow and fumbling. A moment he held the dread thing, then threw it out as hard as he could. At the same instant he stamped heavily on Gus’s back.

  Immediately Gus went into a steep dive toward the west. Once or twice his wings flapped slightly as he banked to catch a new angle. The speed became appalling. Peter was squashed back into the seat as though pressed by a huge invisible hand. The very breath seemed crushed from his lungs. The whisper of the passing air rose to a whine, then to a whistle, then to a shrill scream. Still Gus dived on and on. A dim memory of his words flashed through Peter s brain, “When I scoot, I scoot!"