The Rocketeer

by Peter David

  Behind Sinclair, Irma was becoming completely unglued, egging Jenny on. For Jenny, it was as if she were vicariously letting out the frantic young woman who was going berserk in her own head. Irma’s theatrics allowed Jenny to keep a poker face as she said, “Mr. Sinclair . . .”

  He took a step closer toward her, still not releasing his grip on her hand. “Ah-ah. Neville. Perhaps we could talk about the part over dinner.”

  Inna’s eyes bugged out, and she mimed a scream. Jenny didn’t even blink.

  “I have a regular table at the South Seas Club,” he continued. “Unless you’re bored with the South Seas—”

  “No, no.” And I’ve only been asking Cliff to take me there since forever, and he just complains about the money, and . . .

  Sinclair was puzzled. Was she refusing? “No?”

  Irma was coming out of her skin, mouthing Yes! Yes!

  “I mean, of course,” said Jenny. “I’d love to, Mr. Sin—” And on his look she immediately corrected herself. “Neville.”

  Irma went berserk, miming a heart attack. Sinclair somehow became aware that something was going on behind him, but when he glanced back, he saw Irma, in the acting performance of her life, fully composed and giving him a warm smile.

  “Well . . . tonight, then,” he said. The moment he was out of earshot, Irma grabbed Jenny’s arm so hard, it felt like it would break off.

  “Oh, honey, the South Seas Club! With Neville Sinclair!” And through Irma’s bubbling, all Jenny could feel somehow was that she was doing something terribly, terribly wrong.

  Clark Gable walked slowly along, mumbling, “I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn,” when another actor dressed in similar dashing Civil War garb and playing dashing Stuart Tarleton in the same film Gable was shooting, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Clark. They want you back on the set.”

  “Oh. Thank you, George.”

  And at that moment, an angry Cliff Secord, propelled by the two guards, rounded a corner and slammed directly into the actor named George. They went down in a tumble of arms and legs, and Cliff yelped in protest. Gable stood there, shaking his head.

  One of the guards grabbed Cliff firmly by the back of the neck. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gable, Mr. Reeves . . . we’ll get rid of him.”

  “See that you do!” said Gable, helping the other actor to his feet. “You okay, George?” George nodded, dusting himself off and checking the costume for damage.

  “I was leaving anyway, you chowderheads!” yelled Cliff as he was dragged away.

  Gable glanced down at the ground and, stooping, picked up a garishly colored magazine. “Look what that fool dropped.”

  “Actually, it’s mine,” said George, somewhat embarrassed.

  Gable looked at him skeptically and then down at the magazine he was holding. “Action Comics number one? Comic books, George? At your age?”

  “Well, it’s a way to pass time between takes,” said George.

  Gable flipped through it. “Superman?”

  “He’s superstrong. And he flies. And he’s named Clark.”

  “Flying men in costumes,” said Gable, shaking his head and giving it back to George. “Silliest thing I ever heard of.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said George Reeves.

  10

  Planes soared overhead as the spectators for the latest edition of Bigelow’s Air Circus clapped and cheered and roared their approval.

  Peevy was annoyed to see reporters and newsreels recording the action and was mentally kicking himself. They were there because he’d been enough of a chowderhead to anticipate that the previous day’s flight of the GeeBee would be a smashing success, and he contacted them all the previous week so that there would be coverage of the racer’s public debut. Then, in all the excitement of the previous day, he’d forgotten to call them back and tell them there would be no GeeBee appearance after all. So here they were, and all they were going to be covering was business as usual—or even worse, Cliff in that godawful clown outfit. Cliff was going to kill him for this.

  Except at the moment it was all moot, because Cliff had still not shown up—a fact that was not lost on Bigelow, who stormed over to Peevy and said, chewing furiously on his cigar, “What’s wrong with that kid? I told him nine o’clock!”

  “He’ll be here,” said Peevy calmly. Privately, he wouldn’t have blamed the kid if he were somewhere over Hawaii about now.

  Bigelow, as he did so often and so annoyingly, waved a cigar in Peevy’s face for emphasis and said, “If he ain’t in the air in five minutes, the deal’s off—and you boys can clear out your hangar!”

  Now, Peevy had heard such threats before, but this time Bigelow sounded like he meant it. He stalked off and Peevy checked his watch nervously, already trying to figure out a new location that he and Cliff might be able to use.

  And nearby, within earshot of what had just transpired, was Malcolm, holding a bag of programs and wearing a cap that read PROGRAMS—5 CENTS stitched on the crown.

  Here was his chance. Cliff was in deep trouble, and here was a chance for Malcolm to bail him out. For Malcolm to make up for screwing things up for Cliff with Jenny the previous night, and also to show the young pilot the kind of support that the pilot had shown him so often in the past.

  A plan was already going through his mind as he quickly made his way through the bleachers. He dropped down and ran around behind the bleachers, passing four men who were huddled together, muttering to each other. One of them gave Malcolm a quick glance and then ignored him, as did all the others.

  Moments later Eddie Valentine strode toward the four men and said impatiently, “Well?”

  Spanish Johnny turned to face the boss. The other three men, Rusty, Jeff, and Mike, stood nearby with their arms folded. Spanish Johnny had been with Eddie the longest and generally served as the spokesman, especially when not great news was about to be delivered. “I know what Wilmer told Sinclair’s goon, but the rocket ain’t in Hangar Three,” said Johnny with certainty.

  “There was an old plane all right,” Rusty put in, “but the only thing in it was this.”

  He handed Eddie a photo of a stunning black-haired woman. On it was an inscription that read, “With love from Your Lady Luck, Jenny,” and a heart with an arrow through it surrounded it.

  Eddie nodded appreciatively. “Nice.” Then he was all business again. “But that’s it?”

  “We searched the place from hell to breakfast,” said Johnny.

  “So start over!” Eddie was as angry as they’d ever seen him. “Check every building, every shed, every peanut wagon. And keep your eyes peeled for this dame. Maybe she knows the guy who found our package.”

  “Okay, Mr. Valentine,” said Spanish Johnny. “Let’s go, boys.”

  The boys moved off, and Eddie was left there feeling frustrated and angry. Wilmer had given Sinclair’s goon the information they needed . . . except maybe he hadn’t. And maybe Wilmer had been lying through his teeth, except Sinclair’s pet ape had killed him. That still had Eddie burning. Eddie was sure that Wilmer would never have rolled over on him. And even if he had suspected Wilmer, it was up to him to order the hit. Not Sinclair. The guy was getting on his nerves more and more, and sooner or later he was going to have it out with him. And the results might not be what Mr. High-and-Mighty Neville Sinclair expected.

  Cliff pulled up to Hangar Three on his motorcycle and hopped off in time to see Peevy running toward him as if his shoes were on fire. Peevy grabbed him by the arm and said, “Bigelow’s been spittin’ nails! Where you been?”

  “I had to see Jenny!” said Cliff, chomping furiously on a wad of gum. “Give me a second to get into that stupid clown suit, and I’ll—”

  And at that moment he was interrupted by a cheer that erupted from the stands, and the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system, “Hold on to your hats, folks! Here comes Fearless Freep, aviator extraordinaire—ready to dazzle you with an exhibition of razor-sharp fly
ing!”

  And high overhead, waving and dipping precariously, soared the Standard. The crowd laughed with delight.

  Running in the direction of the crowd, Peevy and Cliff’s gazes were locked on the biplane. For an instant, as if doubting his senses, Peevy took a look to his left to confirm that Cliff was indeed on the ground next to him and had not miraculously mastered the feat of being in two places simultaneously. Then he looked back up and bellowed, “Who the hell’s in Miss Mabel?!”

  And from nearby, a high-pitched female voice called out, “Programs! Get your programs!”

  The heads of Cliff and Peevy whipped around, and they saw, to their horror, Millie’s daughter, Patsy, lugging Malcolm’s heavy bag while wearing his cap, which was hanging over her ears. Clearly having the time of her life, she caught the two men staring at her and waved cheerily.

  In the Standard, Malcolm, wearing a clown suit and red rubber nose, gasped in sheer terror.

  It was not what he had expected at all. He had been so sure for so long that all he needed was a chance. A chance to get back up there, get the stick in his hands, get to show that he still had what it took. That the best years of his life weren’t behind him.

  Now, with the ground far below him, feeling naked and helpless and every inch the buffoon that he was decked out as. Malcolm came to the heart-stopping, soul-rending realization that he simply didn’t have what it took anymore. He felt vulnerable and aware of the thinness of the string by which his existence was hanging, and he knew at that moment with utter and certain clarity that the best years of his life were indeed behind him.

  The problem was that at the moment the way he was white-knuckling the stick and his blood was pounding through him in sheer panic, it didn’t look like there would be too many years of his life ahead of him. Or, for that matter, too many minutes.

  Shoving their way through the crowd toward the grandstand, Cliff and Peevy shouted at each other. “Is he crazy?!” demanded Cliff. “He hasn’t flown in years!”

  “If he drifts into the race lanes, he’ll kill somebody!” Peevy shouted back.

  On the observation platform, Bigelow was watching the proceedings. His initial pleasure—not to mention sense of satisfaction at watching hotshot Secord make a fool of himself—had quickly turned to annoyance and even a vague sort of fear. “That’s not the routine! What the hell is Secord trying to pull?”

  He turned, about to demand answers from someone, and immediately got one when Cliff and Peevy stepped up onto the deck. His big jaw worked for a moment, uncomprehending, and then he sputtered out, “Who’s in the—”

  “It’s Malcolm!” said Cliff urgently. At first he’d been prepared to deck Bigelow, assuming that the circus owner had been so fixated on getting the clown act up there—it sold tickets, after all—that he’d given Malcolm the chance that the old pilot had been begging for. Given it to him even though he knew what could—and probably would—happen. But the distinct shade of white that Bigelow’s face had turned upon seeing Cliff made the young flier realize that Bigelow was as shocked as anyone.

  “Holy . . .” stammered Bigelow, and then he shouted to the flag man, “Signal that Standard down! Now!”

  It wasn’t necessary. Malcolm was already endeavoring to get down. But a landing was a tricky thing, even to a practiced pilot in top-of-the-line equipment. Malcolm, who had seen the inside of a cockpit only in his dreams for the last decade or two, was attempting to pilot a flying pine box.

  The Standard drifted into the path of three oncoming racers. The two lead pilots barrel-rolled away in two different directions. The third plane climbed hard as Malcolm yelled with panic and jammed his stick forward and to the side. The Standard heeled over and angled directly at the flag man, who was flapping his flags as if he had some hope of getting airborne. The flag man hit the deck, as did everybody else, and the Standard clipped a banner from the observation tower.

  The crowd had at first been cheering enthusiastically at the antics, but when they saw the consternation of the ground crew, their voices began to rise in a confused babbling as they realized Fearless Freep was in a Freep of trouble.

  The Standard climbed, engine sputtering, and then smoke began to billow out.

  “That piston just gave out!” shouted Peevy.

  Cliff made a quick calculation of Malcolm’s chances of being connected with the ground in any way besides winding up six feet under it, and came up with somewhere between none and none. He grabbed Peevy’s arm and said in a low, intense voice, “Peevy . . . where’d you stash it?”

  Peevy, his eyes still on the struggling plane, said distractedly, “Stash what?”

  “You know!” said Cliff.

  The rocket pack. That had to be it. Why was Cliff suddenly interested in that now? “In the tool chest,” said Peevy, working on how he was going to explain to Patsy just why Malcolm wouldn’t be around to fix her plane wheels anymore. “Why—?”

  He turned but Cliff was gone, dashing toward the hangar.

  And that was when Peevy understood.

  Malcolm was not immediately forgotten by Peevy, but he certainly dropped to second place in the immediate scheme of things as Peevy dashed after the receding form of Cliff. The aviator had already vanished within the hangar and, by the time a huffing and puffing Peevy had finally made it there, Cliff was struggling with the rocket’s harness. He had already put on his leather flight jacket and his gloves.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” demanded Peevy.

  “What’s it look like? Give me a hand with this thing.”

  Even as he tried to talk Cliff out of it, Peevy was readjusting the harness. He knew perfectly well he wasn’t going to be able to dissuade Cliff, but he was going to be damned if Cliff fell out of it. Still, he had to say something. “But we ain’t had a chance to test her right!”

  “Cut it out!” shot back Cliff. “I’m scared enough as it is.”

  Peevy was thunderstruck. He’d never, not once, heard Cliff talk about being scared. Hell . . . for the first time, Cliff was obviously contemplating the idea that he might not be coming back. It was enough to make Peevy immediately use the few moments they had for coaching rather than remonstrations. “Okay, listen, I reworked the throttle!” he said, snapping shut the buckles. “Just give her pressure like a gas pedal. You wanna shut her down, punch the button and let go.”

  “Anything else?” asked Cliff, reaching for the helmet.

  Peevy yanked the wad of gum out of Cliff’s mouth and said grimly, “Yeah. A little luck.” He slapped the gum on the top of the rocket’s injector housing.

  Cliff put the helmet on his head and buckled the final strap. He stepped back and presented himself for inspection. His voice sounded tinny from inside the helmet as he said, “How do I look?”

  It was a dramatic moment. It was as if someone from the future had stepped back through time to present himself to the past of aviation as a preview of the future.

  “Like a hood ornament,” said Peevy succinctly.

  Cliff stepped out of the hangar into the sunlight. The amber lenses did a nice job of protecting him against the glare of the sun, but he could hear his breath resonating inside the helmet. He took a deep breath then, angling his gleaming helmet toward the sun.

  His fingers hesitated momentarily over the buttons, and he thought, This is either going to be a quick ticket to hell . . . or the wildest ride of my life.

  He tapped the buttons, and there was a roar from all around him, and the acrid smell of something burning. He hoped it wasn’t him.

  Then he felt as if his body were elongating. He felt the power thundering through his torso, lifting him skyward, and the lower half of his body was left behind. Then, as if it were an afterthought, the rest of him came along for the ride.

  Cliff rocketed into the sky, leaving behind a concussive blast that knocked Peevy off his feet, sending him tumbling ass over teakettle.

  In the grandstand, the crowd was now in a full-throated cacop
hony of babbling, having come to the conclusion that something had definitely gone wrong. And then there was a sound like a thunderclap that snapped around heads everywhere.

  The first thought that leapt to many minds was that a man had just been shot out of a cannon and was coming directly at them. People screamed, clambering over one another to get out of the way as the human cannonball hurtled toward them.

  And then suddenly his angle changed, something that should have been flat-out impossible. He whistled over their heads like a torpedo, having corrected his course so that he missed them by inches rather than plowing into them. And a split instant later, he arced upward, and there was the briefest glimpse of something on his back, propelling him with the speed of a bullet. Bigelow almost swallowed his cigar as the flying man barreled upward, on a direct intercept course with the Standard and the helpless Malcolm.

  Eddie Valentine caught barely a glimpse of the speeding man, but he saw enough—enough to make him react in total amazement. No less stunned were the press, but the news cameramen had the presence of mind to follow the flight of the jet-propelled man.

  “Tell me you’re getting this!” shouted one reporter.

  “I’m gettin’ it,” shot back the cameraman, “whatever it is!”

  The reaction of the crowd went from fright to shrieks of amazement to cheers of pure unadulterated wonder. There was now sweeping through the people a conviction that this had indeed all been a setup, all part of the show. And what a show! And Bigelow took it all in, his eyes wide, his brain working, adding up potential gate receipts if he could only . . .

  And while Bigelow contemplated how he could make it all serve for his personal gain, Cliff zipped past a racing plane as if it were standing still and went after the smoking Standard, which was a couple of hundred feet above him.

  But the concept of moving at two hundred miles per hour with a rocket on your back was, understandably, a new one for Cliff. As a result, the distance had been covered in barely an eye blink and Cliff was unable to stop in time. He smashed headfirst into the underside of Miss Mabel, and if it hadn’t been for the strength of the helmet, Cliff Secord’s career as the world’s first flying man would have been as short as Malcolm’s odds of landing the plane solo.