by Nevil Shute
"I see," said Wallace gently. "How did he take it?"
For a while the girl did not answer. "He was so sweet about it," she said at last, very softly. Then, "Oh, Jimmie," she said piteously, "it was four years since I'd seen him, and he remembered all that time and came back just the same. I —I didn't know men ever did that sort of thing, except in books."
For a moment Jimmie Wallace had an eccentric impulse to lean down and kiss his sister—an action that he had not performed since he was four years old. Manfully he beat it down, but fell to stroking her short, fine hair as they sat together in the firelight wondering . . , wondering . . .
What on earth was he to do about it all? And what if Dennison were killed?
That evening Dennison returned to his rooms in Chelsea. He had paid a flying visit to London previously, had told Lanard briefly what he had taken on, and had visited his firm of solicitors. He had had a long interview with the head of the firm and had managed to interest him sufficiently in the scheme to obtain the necessary leave. They were maritime solicitors.
Then he had returned to Cowes, and had lived for the month as the guest of Sir David on board the Clematis, watching and taking his part in the arrangements for the flight. During that time the flying boat had been completed in Flanagan's great hangar, and had made several nights. Morris had flown her off the water alone on the first flight. Then he and Dennison had paid a flying visit to Farnborough, where they had had a lengthy consultation with two or three authorities on aerial navigation. They had then returned to Cowes and proceeded to practise what they had learned by taking observations in the air. During this month the catapult had been completed and fitted to a fast cargo vessel or the Fisher Line, the Iberian. She was now on her way from the Clyde to the Solent. On arrival she was to take the flying boat on board for two trial launchings, after which she would pick up a cargo at Southampton and sail for New York. Dennison had returned to London for a couple of days.
"To make my testamentary dispositions, for one thing," he informed Lanard.
Lanard smiled sourly; the jest was not to his taste. He had seen nothing of Dennison for three weeks, when he had burst in one evening, informed Lanard of his part in the projected flight, and returned to the Solent. Lanard was dismayed; that Dennison of all people should go rushing off upon a mad scheme of this nature struck him as a very bad business. He summed the position up to himself in a trenchant phrase, clarified, perhaps, by the light of his own experience. Dennison was "on the run."
He blamed himself most bitterly that he had not gone with Dennison on the Irene. Then, if ever, Dennison had needed his friends about him most of all; Lanard had allowed himself to be put off. If he had been there, he thought, this would never have happened.
Dennison began to talk about the Chrysanthe and her prospects in the coming summer. It was settled that he was to sail her in her races throughout the season; after the Eastern regattas and Cowes they were to go on down the coast with the object of getting in as much racing as possible to gain experience on the vessel. It would mean a good two months of it, said Dennison cheerfully.
"But look here," said Lanard. "What about your work? You're having six weeks' holiday now over this infernal American trip. You aren't going to get leave for the Chrysanthe as well? If you aren't pretty careful, you'll find yourself upon the cold, hard world."
Dennison kicked the coals down into the fire. "The Lord will provide," he said calmly.
Lanard gazed hard at him. "Do you mean Sir David Fisher?" he said at last.
"Perhaps," said Dennison. "The sparrows and the crumbs —and the rich man's table, and all that, you know." Lanard had to make what he could of that, for he could get no more out of Dennison. He was in a queer temper.
Lanard picked up The Times, and Dennison lit a pipe; for a full twenty minutes neither of them spoke a word. Then Lanard dropped the paper into a rustling heap beside his chair.
"What about Hong Kong?" he said.
"What about it?"
"Are you going out there?"
"Shouldn't think so," said Dennison curtly. "It was a damn silly scheme at the best of times. I turned it down."
"Exactly," said Lanard dryly. "But it brings us back to the immediate question—what do you propose to live on when your firm sacks you?"
Dennison grinned. "Probably on a yacht," he said.
Lanard knew very well that at times his friend was capable of displaying the rudiments of a subtle sense of humor; he considered this reply with some care. "Do you mean that Sir David's going to keep you all the year round simply to sail the Chrysanthe in the summer?" he said. "It seems an optimistic view of the situation."
"Lord, no," said Dennison. "Whatever put that idea into your head?"
He was silent for a little, and knocked out his pipe against the heel of his boot. Presently he spoke again. "You're barking up the wrong tree," he said quietly. AH the time since the war I've been keeping my little nose to the grindstone because—because I wanted to get married. Well, that's all over and done with now. What's the use of going on working like this—in London? So long as I can keep myself . . . You called me a married man in embryo once. Well, a married man works like hell. But afterwards . . ."
He was silent. Lanard continued his sentence.
"Afterwards one settles down and goes on working," he said evenly. "One piles up comfortable things. One makes money, and that acts as an insurance against—mistakes. And presently one forgets, and one marries again."
Dennison broke in. "I'm damned if that's your creed," he said roughly.
The other considered. "It's the only reasonable creed," he said at last.
There was a silence. Lanard got up and went to the window and stood looking down into the lamp-lit street, in characteristic attitude.
"It's not my business to butt in," he said presently, without taking his eyes from the street. "That's why one does it, I suppose. It's always seemed to me that it's never fair to take a girl at her word—at first. It's so different for them. And they expect to be given a second chance—traditionally.'"
"I know," said Dennison. "They book their ticket at Cook's, return it after a couple of days, and a week later go and badger the life out of the clerks because they can't have it back again."
Lanard turned to him, his brow wrinkled in perplexity. "Which means?" he said.
"A journey to China, I should think," said Dennison, a little wearily. "The clerks haven't got any self-respect to lose, I suppose. But in this case, when the ticket was returned it was final."
He turned to Lanard. "You're barking up the wrong tree," he said again. "If I had the money I could get married tomorrow. I think I could probably count on being married next year if I wanted to be. I could probably afford it by then."
He paused. "The point is that I was turned down because I was going to China, and for no other reason at all. Well, you see—I was going to China for her, and if she couldn't come to China for me ... It was a sort of test case, you see. She cared—quite a lot. But not enough to come to China. That absolutely put the lid on it."
Lanard turned from the window. "I see," he said slowly.
"That being the case," said Dennison, "it wasn't any use going on. Marriage has to be everything or nothing, you know." He paused. "Sixpence for fourpence half-penny," he said very quietly. "It was a bad bargain."
He laughed suddenly, and there was a note in his laughter that Lanard did not care to hear. "I was done, all the same," he said, "because by the time I found it out, I'd spent the sixpence."
It was inevitable that the press should discover the experiment. They had kept the secret well, but as soon as the Iberian arrived in the Solent with a peculiar superstructure on her forecastle, ill-informed comment and speculation began.
"The only thing that one can say," remarked Sir David, "is that we have been very fortunate that it did not begin before."
He stood in the chart room of the Iberian with Morris and Dennison as the vessel proceeded down the
Solent towards Spithead. It was early in the morning; the air was fresh and salt; the sun streamed in through the ports and fell in sliding patches upon the papers littered on the chart-room table. On deck was the catapult with the track laid down and extending over the hold to the forecastle, and on the catapult was the flying boat with Rawdon and the chief mechanic making a final inspection. There were to be two trial launchings that day; the first with no load at all, the second fully loaded.
Sir David turned again to the pile of newspapers. No statement had been issued to the press in regard to the flight, with the result that the graver journals barely referred to the matter, while the more democratic sheets seethed with inaccurate information about the "birdmen and their giant plane."
"Fair makes me retch," said Morris crudely. He was fortunate in that the identity of the crew had not yet leaked out.
The two technical papers dealt editorially with the matter. One regretted the paucity of information and was strictly non-committal. The other assumed a bolder attitude and gave a remarkably accurate forecast of the flight in the first paragraph. In the remaining three columns the discourse touched rapidly upon the deplorable condition of maritime aviation and settled down with gusto to a tirade against the Navy, illustrated by anecdotes that should have been unprintable, finally declaring that dear old Clausewitz was right after all, and that all things worked together for good.
Finally, on the day that they sailed for America, The Times, in a leading article, dropped a heavy benediction upon the flight.
The Iberian pushed her way out between the twin forts and headed for the Warner and the Nab Tower. Presently Sir David and Dennison left the chart room and went up on to the bridge; Morris was left alone. On the first trial he was to fly the machine off the deck alone, after which he was to fly back and put down off Flanagan's yard. There the machine would be lifted on to a lighter, so that by the time the Iberian returned, she could be hoisted on board again, for a second flight.
They passed the Warner. Morris moved across the cabin to the port and stood looking down upon the machine, ready upon its catapult. Above the pulsing of the engines and the wash of the sea, he could hear the pumps clucking and sighing as they charged the reservoirs for the pneumatic ram that would catapult him off the deck into the air ...
A mechanic climbed up on to the planes of the machine and commenced to turn a crank upon the engine; the propeller began to revolve, infinitely slow. It seemed incredible that she should start. Suddenly he heard a half-hearted spit; the propeller leaped forward and became half invisible, and a steady rumble told him that the engine was running. They were nearly up to the Nab.
Morris turned from the window and took his helmet and gloves from the table. He opened the door of the little house and stood for a moment in the doorway, looking back over the water to the Island. It was a warm, sunny day; the clouds were white and the sea was very blue. It was a day on which one could do anything.
He stood in the doorway and stretched himself. From below came the steady rumble of the engine. She runs very sweetly, he thought. She's better on the benzole mixture than the other.
As they passed the Nab, Morris was in his seat and running his engine up to its full power. Satisfied, he throttled down again. Rawdon stepped to the side of the machine and looked up at Morris in the pilot's seat above him.
"You all right?" he shouted.
The helmeted figure nodded cheerfully. "Quite all right."
Rawdon stepped back and stood with the engineer of the catapult by the gear that would release the machine. On the bridge, Captain Willett broke off his conversation with the baronet.
"All ready," he said. "All right—take the wheel, Mr. Mate." He moved down to the voice tube of the engine room and spoke quietly down it. "All ready now. Yes. Whack her up. Yes. All right."
The mate relieved a seaman at the wheel.
The Iberian turned into the wind, and immediately the difference became evident.
"This ought to help her off," said Dennison.
The captain was still at the voice pipe. He straightened up, leaned over the dodger, and waved to Rawdon. Rawdon signalled to Morris, who nodded in return; the note of the engine swelled to a roar, tremulously deafening. Morris raised his hand.
"Right!" shouted Rawdon to the engineer.
The machine leaped forward and shot away down the track. The ram came to the end of its travel with a dull thud and the machine ran rapidly down the deck. Some distance from the bows light appeared beneath the wheels; she touched again, then lifted clear. On the bridge the mate spun the wheel hard over; the vessel yawed wildly. But there was no danger of running down the machine. She lifted clear, put her nose up, and went up on a slant, levelled, and circled the Iberian. They could see Morris wave his hand; then he took a course for the Island and dwindled into the distance.
The vessel returned to the Solent.
The machine was waiting in Cowes Roads upon a lighter when they got back; Flanagan had done his work well and quickly. A derrick was swung out and the machine was hoisted bodily aboard and placed on the catapult again before lunch, a little miracle of organized handling by slipshod-looking gentlemen in mufti. Then came the wearisome business of filling three-quarters of a ton of petrol into her tanks by two-gallon cans. The vessel lay at anchor; Morris and Dennison sat in deck chairs in the sun below the bridge, half asleep. The second trial was to take place after tea if the machine were ready in time; this time Dennison would go with Morris.
The petrol cans jangled monotonously throughout the afternoon. Dennison turned in his chair and glanced attentively at the sky to windward. "Wind's dying, he said. "We shall have a flat calm after tea."
Both were well aware of the significance of this. A calm would make it more difficult for the machine to leave the deck—and this trial was to be fully loaded.
Morris closed his eyes. "There will be plenty of wind," he said. "Vertical . . ."
Dennison chuckled and relapsed again into his chair. Presently, roused by an indisputable snore, Morris raised his head and glanced at his companion. Dennison was asleep. For a moment Morris sat looking at him curiously, then he relaxed again into his chair.
The petrol was filled into the machine and five hundred pounds of ballast in sandbags was placed in her little hold, to represent the bags of mail. The Iberian weighed, and they had tea going down the Solent. At Spithead, Morris went on deck and found the mate. He drew him aside.
"Look here," he said. "You'll be steering her, won't you?" He paused. "Well, it's going to be a touchy business in this calm. I may have to jump her off before she's flying. If I do that, we shall probably flop down into the water. Look. I'm going to edge to starboard as soon as I'm in the air."
"I'll give her a cast to port," said the officer.
"That's it. But for God's sake, don't let her run off till I'm clear of the deck or you'll put us in the ditch. Keep her straight till I'm clear. And one other thing. Boats, and all that sort of business. Have them ready."
"That's arranged," said the mate. "Those two rafts astern. See? We cut them loose as we pass you."
"Right you are," said Morris. He returned to the chart room as they passed the Warner.
At the Nab they took their places, Dennison beside Morris in the little cockpit of the flying boat. Before them stretched the track, level to within a short distance of the bows and then sloping away downwards to assist the machine to leave the deck. It seemed very short.
The engine was run up, throttled again, and they settled themselves into their places. Dennison had flown in the machine several times before, and he was well accustomed to his position. He strapped himself in, settled his shoulders comfortably against the back of his seat, and waited, watching his companion.
Morris ran the engine up to full power and raised his hand. For a moment nothing happened; then suddenly the machine moved forward and began to hurtle down the track. The acceleration was terrific. It was painful; the seat pressed intolerably upon the bac
k. Dennison's legs were suddenly drawn under his seat by an invisible agency; he gripped the side of the cockpit and fought to draw his breath. He glanced at Morris beside him, calm and motionless.
There was a thud as the ram came home, and they began to run along the track. Morris pressed the wheel forward and the tail of the machine rose so high from the deck that from the cockpit it seemed that she must catch her long bow on the track and turn a somersault. So she ran along. Dennison watched the track, eager and curious. There was none of that buoyant feeling that he knew must come before she could fly. She was fifty feet from the end—thirty feet. It was coming; she bounced more lightly. Ten feet.
Morris pulled the wheel back sharply with both hands; the rail dropped suddenly and they were in the air. Instantly he pressed the nose of the machine down and dived for the water a couple of hundred yards ahead, yawing a little to starboard. Dennison, watching the manœuvre with detached interest, saw from the corner of his eye the hand of the air speed indicator creeping up and knew that the danger was over. Ten feet from the surface Morris checked the dive and flew along close above the water for a mile or so, then gently pulled the nose up. The machine responded sluggishly and climbed from the water; in a minute they had climbed perhaps a hundred feet.
On the bridge there was a general relaxation. As in all such affairs, the tension had been most severe among the spectators. The machine had run to the very end of the track and had then leaped ten or twelve feet into the air. As the Iberian yawed to port, the machine had dropped slowly towards the water; then the fall had been checked and she had flown along in the manner of a cormorant for nearly a minute, barely clear of the water, rising not at all. Finally had come the gradual climb that showed that all was well.
The first mate wiped his brow and relinquished the wheel to a seaman. "I wouldn't go in that thing for a thousand pounds," he said fervently.