The Rocketeer by Peter David Read Free Book Online

gazed back into the flames, watching the portfolio and papers he’d dropped there being consumed.
    The sky in the watercolor blackened, and the flying man in the picture burst into flame.

5

    “T hree hundred gallons?!” Peevy stared in shock at the slip of paper in his hand. “We don’t burn that much in two years!”
    Inside the airfield hangar, a heavyset man stood in front of Peevy with meaty thumbs looped into frayed suspenders. He chomped down on a cigar that he habitually switched from one side of his mouth to the other. It was Bigelow, owner and operator of the Bigelow Air Circus, and at the moment he was being shouted at by a pipsqueak named Peevy and didn’t particularly appreciate it. “You burned it in two seconds when my fuel truck went up.”
    Perched on a chair nearby, Cliff protested, “I didn’t blow up your truck, the guy in the car did!”
    Bigelow, as always, had all the answers. “Yeah, after bouncing off you !” He waved his cigar in Cliff’s direction, leaving a trail of smoke in the hangar air. “Pilots are responsible for a safe landing. You know that.”
    Cliff was about to protest when Peevy cut him off. The mechanic tried to sound reasonable. “Where we gonna get this kind of dough, Bigelow? The GeeBee’s scrapped.”
    Now they were getting into the territory that Bigelow wanted. Trying to look sympathetic, he said, “Look, fellas, I hate to kick you when you’re down, but business is business. I’m out-of-pocket here. ’Course . . .” He paused, savoring the moment. “I could always use the old clown act.”
    Peevy’s eyes narrowed. So that’s what this was all about. Bigelow had never liked Cliff’s style, his confidence, or anything else about him except his ability as a pilot and his entertainment value. But if he could keep that entertainment value and add in the pleasure of humiliating Cliff by making him dress in that stupid clown costume to do aerial acrobatics in a flying death trap called Miss Mabel . . .
    “We don’t do that anymore,” said Peevy.
    Before he could get another word out, Cliff immediately said, “Sure we do.” He ignored Peevy’s glare and said, “Fifteen bucks a show, right?”
    Bigelow was loving it. Secretly he was still sure that Cliff had removed the screws from his chair that time. He still had back troubles because of it. “Ten,” said Bigelow, rolling his cigar back. “Five goes against your bill.”
    Peevy fired a glance at Cliff, who shrugged. What choice did they have?
    However, Bigelow acted as if it were entirely up to them, as if he hadn’t boxed them in. “It’s up to you, boys,” he said expansively. “See it my way or see me in court.” He turned, started to leave, and then as an afterthought added, “Clown suit’s in the storeroom. First show’s at nine tomorrow. Don’t be late.” And he walked out.
    “Lousy nickel nurser,” muttered Cliff.
    Peevy went to Cliff and took him by the shoulders. “Cliff, are you off your nut? Doin’ the clown act means goin’ up in Mabel. She’s a flyin’ coffin. You said so yourself.”
    And Cliff hadn’t been exaggerating. Barnstorming had really gotten its start after the Great War, when surplus war planes were put on the market at dirt-cheap prices. Pilots bought them and went around the country putting on shows or taking thrilled passengers for flights, usually operating out of barns—hence the term.
    Miss Mabel had been one of the first purchased and, the way things were going, was working on being the last retired. It was a positively ancient biplane called a Standard, painted garish yellow. It had been dubbed Miss Mabel by Peevy, who, along with all the other air veterans on the field, not to mention every man, woman, and child in America, was madly in love with Mabel Cody, the daring air circus acrobat who cavorted on the wings of Standards and Jenny biplanes as if she were a monkey leaping around branches. He’d seen her in action a number of times and was