The Axman Cometh by John Farris Read Free Book Online Page B

things in my life. And now that I'm this close to it—"
    "I've never had any problems. Check that, no big problems." He opens and closes small hatches on the engine cowlings, inspecting whatever is inside. "It's comfortable and pretty quiet too, even with five hundred horsepower. Trust me."
    What else can she do, having come this Ear? And Robert is very thorough—too thorough, after a couple of minutes of technical stuff that leaves her feeling as if she's cramming for finals—explaining how his plane becomes airborne and stays there.
    He helps her aboard—one step up to the wing, and inside, where it's as snug as a barrel. Two seats in the cockpit, four more in the cabin behind them. The cabin is filled with stuff: a straw Stetson with a rolled brim and a button that reads I rode the Blaster at the Iowa State Fair, stacks of catalogues and textbooks, a long, dusty-looking canvas bag with sturdy leather handles and reinforcement; it sits on the floor between the pairs of opposing seats.
    "What's that?"
    "Oh, just some of my tools. I'm sort of an amateur stonemason."
    Rob shows her his hands, but she already knows how strong they are, and rough, the nails short and scraped and scuffed.
    "Friend of mine from college, he took his degree in philosophy but likes working with his hands, a typical son-of-toil Chicago- an. He got me started. I build walls mostly. Do a little sculpting, but I'm not much good at it. My ideas are bigger than my talent. Sometimes I think I'd like to go off somewhere and do another Mount Rushmore. Maybe I will. My mother always told me, 'if something interests you deeply, give it a try.' Deeply. Well, that's the way she talked. She was training to be a ballerina, but she grew too tall. She played the violin; wasn't bad, either. A really versatile person. Our house was always filled with musicians. I think she must have given at least a million to the Chicago Symphony. We never missed a concert until just before she died."
    Shannon thinks, Gave? A million? Dollars? She says, "Your mom died? Oh, I'm sorry."
    "That was a long time ago," Rob says, his smile finishing with a twinge.
    Once they are into the preflight runup the thunder of the engines cancels conversation, and Shannon sits back in the snug right- hand seat to deal with her butterflies. There's a certain amount of vibration as their RPM's increase, but Robert's hands move methodically over the throttles and control panel, making small adjustments, Shannon is satisfied that he knows just what he is doing. She closes her eyes when the plane begins to roll. The Aztec takes off so smoothly several seconds pass before she realizes they have left the runway and are westbound toward a vast field of emerging stars, more colorful than she has ever seen them.
    "Flaps retracted, gear up," Robert says, then taps the altimeter. "This shows our rate of climb. That gauge tells us how much fuel we're using relative to cruising speed—but we've got plenty to burn. Those pods on the wingtips are extra tanks, another forty-four gallons."
    "This is great!" Shannon exults, already over her spate of nerves and not feeling at all queasy. She'd been concerned about what would happen if she had to throw up. In his oversized tool bag, probably.
    "Somehow I knew you'd say that," he says, relishing her delight.
    Within a few minutes they are at nine thousand feet, leveling off at cruise well below the commercial flightpaths across western Kansas. Rob has a cryptic (to Shannon's ears) conversation with the Wichita Center, filing a flight plan to Colorado.
    "Four- niner Echo Charley."
    "Echo Charley, good day," the Wichita air-traffic controller says into the headset
    Shannon is holding to her ear. Morse code replaces his voice—a VOR station somewhere. Robert taps her on the shoulder.
    "Want to take it now?" he asks casually.
    "You want me to fly?"
    "Why not? Slide the seat forward a little. Okay. Those are the rudder pedals under your feet. Left rudder to bank left,