*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76115 ***


PICTURE STUFF

By Raoul F. Whitfield

Illustrated by William Molt

        The first of a spirited series of sky-aventure stories
        by a writing-man who has himself been a test pilot.


Russ Healy’s dislike for camera-men and cameras dated from those
air-seconds, six months ago, during which he had fumbled for the
rip-cord of his Irving seat-pack ’chute, while tumbling down from the
wreckage of the DeHaviland he had been piloting. That D.H. had been
airworthy until the pilot of the camera-ship had crashed her tail
assembly, five thousand feet above the earth. With all the air in the
sky he had banked into the D.H., just after his camera-man had shot Al
Rodger’s jump from a wing of Healy’s ship. And right then the veteran
had commenced to dislike camera-ship pilots. The fact that all of them
had got down on ’chutes didn’t make any difference. The fact that Russ
hadn’t been flying his pet Jenny, the “Old Lady,” didn’t help much. Russ
was off the shoot stuff.

“No more for me!” he’d say. “The pilots these camera boys get to fly ’em
are crazy. And the crank-boys are crazier. When I see a movie ship in
the air--I nose down and land. Let ’em have the sky--that’s me!”

The outfit just grinned. Russ Healy is a long, lanky veteran. Two
thousand air hours, with a bit of every type of flying thrown in--he
knows his stuff. There had been a time when he’d almost gone
“film-flying” himself. But no more. When a fellow’s ’chute opens only a
hundred feet off the ground--he does some thinking.

Bob Brooks, boss of the Brooks’ Flying Circus, humored Russ. He let him
handle the jump-off ship, and the upper plane in the air-transfer stuff.
But he kept him away when they were cranking something. That is, he did
until we hit Bakersfield. Then things went bad. They go like that in a
flying outfit. Quiet for a few months--and then everything pops the
wrong way.

That was what happened at Bakersfield. Sid Lunn blew a front left tire
in a forced landing, and when we pulled him out of the wreckage he had a
busted leg. Charlie Ryan taxied into a couple of carelessly-deposited
fuel cans and the plane nosed over. He came out with head cuts that
would stop his flying for a week. And to top the three-day session off,
Mel Duncan went up in a Laco Special, and the engine cut out, went dead.
It was a night flight, and Mel was too far from the field to glide in.
He cut loose a flare which didn’t light. So Mel stepped over the side
and let the plane go. The ’chute let him down hard and gave him a nasty
drag. They flivvered him into the Bakersfield hospital with a couple of
broken ribs and a fractured left wrist.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the fourth day Russ and myself were sitting on a couple of empty oil
cans and smoking pills. We were wondering who’d get it next, but we kept
that guesswork to ourselves. It was a pretty quiet session until I
happened to look up and spot Bob Brooks coming along with something
decidedly nice.

“Hey!” I muttered. “Bob’s wife is gettin’ thin, Russ.”

But it wasn’t Bob’s wife. It was a knickered lady with blonde hair and a
pretty face. We saw that as they got up close; and we saw, also, that
she carried a helmet and goggles in her left hand.

Russ groaned. “Here comes _more_ trouble,” he stated grimly. “Bob’s had
an idea.”

They came up and we got off the oil cans. Brooks introduced the lady.
Her name was Joan West, and she was better looking the closer you got to
her, which isn’t the usual thing. She gave us a smile that was one
hundred per cent perfect. Bob started talking about the weather, about
the latest flight across the Atlantic--about everything but what he
wanted to tell us. Finally he got around to it.

“Miss West,” he said cheerfully, “is going to work with us tomorrow.”

I stiffened. Russ groaned. There was a little silence.

“That’ll be great,” I managed after a few seconds. “Fine.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Russ managed something that was close to a smile. But he didn’t say
anything. Bob Brooks nodded his head.

“It ought to be good,” he stated quietly. “Miss West is making a plane
transfer--without the usual rope ladder. Wing to wing.”

I regarded the girl with considerable admiration. There aren’t many boys
or girls doing it that way. A rope ladder dangling from the plane above
means clearance. Either ship can hit a bump--drop or rise--and have air.
But in order to go from plane to plane _without_ a rope ladder, that
means one wing-tip must come within four or five feet of the other. It’s
a tough way of shifting ships.

Russ grunted. “First time you’ve done it that way, Miss West?” he asked
grimly.

The girl laughed.

“It’ll be the second,” she said slowly. “I tried it one other time, but
the ships--”

“Yeah--it’ll be a good one,” Bob cut in sort of loudly, and I figured
right away that he was trying to cover something up. But so did Russ
Healy.

“_What_ happened the other time?” he asked.

The girl looked at Bob, then at me. She spoke in a cheerful tone.

“The ships got tangled up,” she stated. “But the pilots weren’t as
expert, I’m sure, as you men.”

I grinned. Bob Brooks grinned. Russ Healy nodded his head slowly.

“Maybe not,” he agreed, but his tone wasn’t exactly convincing.

“We’ll work it this way--” Bob said slowly. “Mac, here--he’ll fly Miss
West up in a D.H. She’ll do some wing work, and then you get off in the
Old Lady, Russ. She’ll work off the left wing. You get your right wing
just over it. We’ll rig on a wood loop-grip for her, and she’ll swing
off and climb up. A few more stunts on the upper surface--then you can
come down.”

“If not sooner,” Russ muttered. “Well, you’re the boss.”

Bob nodded. “Now, the camera-ship’ll be winging as close in as--”

Russ let out a roar. The girl looked startled. Bob stopped talking.

“Nothing doing!” Russ snapped grimly. “What do you mean, camera-ship?”

Bob spoke sharply. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it, Russ--only we’ve got
three pilots on the injured list and--”

“And you want a couple more fixed the same way!” Russ cut in. “Nothing
doing!”

The girl laughed again. Only this time her laugh wasn’t so pleasant.

“We’ll all have ’chutes,” she said icily. “I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Healy.”

Russ was getting sort of white around the lips. I could see that he was
thinking back, remembering.

“Nothing doing!” he muttered for the third time. “If you keep the
camera-ship out of the air, boss--”

“We’re doing it _for_ them!” Bob cut in. “The _National News_ people
want something snappy. We’re in this business to make money--and this
means we’ll make some. You’ve got to fly the high plane, Russ.”

I knew right away that Brooks had made a mistake. Russ’ eyes and his
words got cold.

“There’s only one thing I’ve _got_ to do,” he stated grimly. “And I’ll
do that in a natural way if I don’t fall for this picture stuff.”

The girl had a derisive expression.

“Maybe it’s just as well,” she said slowly. “If that wreck over there is
the one he was going to fly--I doubt if it could get enough altitude for
me to pull the stunt!”

I held my breath. Russ Healy was rigid; his eyes narrowed to little
slits. If a man had made that statement about the Old Lady, there would
have been plenty of action.

The Old Lady was an ancient Jenny. She was battered and patched,
oil-stained and weather-beaten. But Russ had worked over the old
Hall-Scott engine. He’d redoped the wings and fuselage fabric again and
again. He’d kept that Jenny in the air year after year--and he loved
her. She’d let him down once or twice, but she’d always done it
decently, given him a fair break. When any human slammed the Old Lady--

“Boss,” Russ’ voice was grim but steady, “I don’t like picture stuff.
You know that. But there’s something else I don’t like, too. I’ll fly
the Old Lady tomorrow!” He looked the girl squarely in the eyes.

“I’ll let you climb up on one of the Old Lady’s wings tomorrow,” he said
grimly. “And when you get aboard, and get through playing around on the
wing--you just tuck yourself in the rear cockpit. Lady--won’t we have
fun!”

Then, abruptly, Russ turned his back on us and walked away. I stared at
Bob, and he stared at me. Joan West shrugged her slender shoulders, and
laughed. It was supposed to be sort of a gay laugh--but somehow it
didn’t seem to register that way. Bob spoke.

“He’ll be all right by tomorrow, Miss West. Russ is all right. A
camera-ship tangled with him six months ago--and he’s off them. But
he’ll be all right. You stirred him up.”

There was plenty of truth in that statement. The girl sure had stirred
Russ up!

“But what did he mean? What will he do, after I make the transfer?”

Her voice trembled slightly. Brooks was trying to think of a good
answer, and I couldn’t help getting in a little dig.

“It’ll be all right,” I said slowly. “We’ll all have ’chutes, won’t we?”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The girl wasn’t around in the evening, and just before dark, when the
air was pretty calm, Russ and I took a couple of ships up and played
around a bit. Russ had the Old Lady and he had her within three feet of
my left wing-tip several times. When we came down Bob grinned at us.

“It’ll go fine!” he stated enthusiastically. “She could have reached up
and made the transfer a half dozen times--just now.”

Russ nodded. “Sure she could,” he returned grimly. “But there wasn’t any
camera-ship in the air.”

Bob eyed Russ narrowly. “Look here,” he said slowly. “This little girl’s
all right, Russ. The camera people picked her for the stunt--she didn’t
pick them. I don’t like the way you talked to her today.”

Russ swore softly. “How about the way she talked to _me_?” he asked.
“She thinks the Old Lady is an air wreck. And I aim to show her that--”

“Oh, that--you don’t worry me any there,” Bob cut in. “That lady has
looped a ship sixty-two times in succession. She jumped twelve times.
You can’t scare her any. I’m not bothering about that any. But she’s a
lady and--”

“So’s the Jenny!” Russ interrupted grimly. “She’s no wreck, that plane.
Lady West said she doubted if that Jenny could get altitude. Well, I
hope she dresses warm tomorrow.”

I stared at Russ. That was the bunk. The ceiling of the Old Lady wasn’t
so much that either Russ or the girl would be apt to catch even a mild
cold, and he knew it. So did Bob Brooks. He shook his head slowly.

“It’s a nice job, this transfer,” he said slowly. “And we need the coin.
Don’t muss it up, either of you fellows.”

“Give the same advice to the camera-ship pilot,” Russ muttered. “He’ll
need it most.”

Bob had started away, but he turned around, a grin on his face.

“Not _that_ boy,” he said quietly. “He’s the guy who gave Miss West that
little sparkler she’s wearing on a certain finger.”

I chuckled. Russ Healy groaned.

“Makes it worse yet!” he stated. “He’ll be nervous when she starts to
grab for the loop on the Old Lady’s wing-tip. Well, maybe she’ll get
sick before tomorrow, or something.”

I grinned. “That queers your game, Russ,” I stated as Bob walked away.
“If you pull anything funny after the girl gets aboard the Old
Lady--that camera-ship pilot will be waiting for you to come down.”

Russ Healy’s eyes were narrowed. He had a peculiar expression on his
lean, browned face.

“Mac,” he said slowly, “they can say things about me--but not about that
Jenny. The Old Lady is all right. When they talk like that girl
talked--I’ve got to show them they’re wrong. Tomorrow--I’m showing her.”

I didn’t like his tone. It was a little too grim. “How?” I asked
curiously.

But Russ just lighted another pill and glanced up toward the darkening
sky.

“Maybe we’ll get a break, Mac,” he returned after a little silence.
“_Maybe_ the picture stuff will go all right. And if it does--well,
you’ll see how a certain clever little lady learns something about the
Jenny.”

“Remember, Russ,”--my voice was almost persuasive,--“she’s a woman.”

Russ sighed heavily. But when he spoke his tone was hard.

“Ain’t it the truth!” he stated.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was about ten minutes of four, and there was a pretty fair crowd on
the field which we were using for the outfit. The Old Lady was on the
deadline, and I had the DeHaviland that I was going to pilot alongside
of her. The camera-ship had flown up from Los Angeles, and was a
racily-lined two-seater. She was resting on the other side of the
battered Jenny.

Bob Brooks came along the deadline with the girl on one side and a
short, good-looking chap on the other. As they neared the three ships
Bob gestured toward them. Russ was fooling around with his pack-’chute
and watching the three at the same time. So was I.

The good-looking bird halted, stared at the battered Jenny. I could see
that he was taking in her patches, the slight sag of her under-carriage,
the lack of varnish on her struts. With the D.H. and the camera-ship for
contrast, the Old Lady looked more of a wreck than ever.

Russ Healy gave his pack-’chute a final pat, and moved toward the group.
I tagged along. There was a broad grin on the short fellow’s face as we
came up.

“That the one you go up to, Joan?” he asked, and she nodded her head.

He groaned loudly. “When you get inside don’t snap the safety-belt,” he
advised in a grim tone. “It’ll be easier for you to go over the side
when she starts to break up under the added weight of your one hundred
and fifteen pounds.”

The girl laughed. It was a musical laugh, but I could see it didn’t
sound that way to Russ Healy. He glared at the good-looking chap.

“Meet Steve Lott, Russ.” It was Bob Brooks who spoke. “He’s piloting the
shoot-ship.”

Russ nodded. But he didn’t raise his right hand from his side. Lott kept
right on grinning.

“If we’re all set--let’s go up and get it over with,” Russ said slowly.
“I don’t like the job, anyway.”

Lott grunted. “Shouldn’t think you would,” he agreed. “Not flying that
piece of junk!”

I grabbed Russ by the right arm, and hung on. But the funny part of it
was that he just sort of smiled. He stared at Lott, and then at the
girl. When he spoke his words were addressed to her.

“I’m kind of sorry for you,” he said slowly. “You might have picked out
a _real_ man.”

Lott glared at Russ, and Bob Brooks started to talk fast and give final
instructions. He wanted the stuff pulled at four thousand, so that the
camera would get some of the earth detail in. And he wanted every one to
take their time.

I saw that the girl was watching Russ a lot, and I felt kind of sorry
for her. It looked to me as if she were a little scared. So just before
she climbed into the rear cockpit of my D.H., I said a few words to her.

“Don’t let Russ bother you,” I told her. “He was just talking yesterday.
And he’s a flying fool.”

She stiffened. Her chin came up a bit.

“I’m not afraid of him,” she stated in a hard tone. “It’s the wreck he’s
flying that worries me.”

I started to tell her that the Old Lady was all right, and just then
Russ started to rev her up. She had a roar like two ordinary planes, and
there wasn’t much use getting hoarse yelling at Miss West. Anyway, it
was ten to one that she wouldn’t be convinced.

She had her pack-’chute on, and adjusted her helmet. She wore no
goggles. As she climbed into the rear cockpit of the DeHaviland, the
camera-plane took off. I revved up the D.H.’s engine, and Russ taxied
the Old Lady out. He waved a hand, and I waved back.

I jerked my head. Miss West had an expression of intense dislike on her
fair face; it was directed toward the taxiing Jenny. I smiled grimly,
muttered a sort of half-prayer--and advanced the throttle a few notches.
The D.H. rolled out, and I gave her left rudder to get her nosed into
the wind. Then I opened her up--and took off....

We were at four thousand--the three planes. I had the D.H. throttled
down a bit, flying into the wind. We were approaching an airspot almost
directly over the circus outfit’s field. The camera-plane was off to the
right, but not very far off. It had about twenty-five feet more
altitude, and I could see the head and shoulders of the man who was
making the shoot. He was standing in the rear cockpit, and his camera
was mounted on a movable bracket.

I jerked my head, banked a bit--then straightened the D.H. out. The Old
Lady was coming up from behind. Russ Healy had her within a half mile of
the D.H. I twisted around, nodded my head to the girl.

“All right!” I snapped. “Let’s go!”

She understood, of course, though it was doubtful if she heard my words
above the roar of the engine’s exhausts. The next thing I knew, she was
working her way out along the lower wing surface. She moved along as if
she were going somewhere--and without the slightest false effort. I
grinned. The weaker sex? It was almost funny--that line!

The wind zipped her tight-fitting blouse close about her. She grasped
first one strut, then the next. Out near the edge of the wing-tip, she
suddenly threw back her head and laughed, waving a hand. I grinned back
at her. As she reached up toward the loop on the upper surface I thought
my ears picked up the blending of another engine roar with mine. Then
the girl was swinging up--had vanished from sight.

I glanced to the right, saw that the camera-man in the rear cockpit of
the third plane had started to crank. The D.H. was handling nicely;
there was pretty fair air at four thousand.

My job was to keep the D.H. on even keel while the girl did her stuff on
the upper wing, and it wasn’t such a tough job. From time to time I
glanced at the camera-man, cranking away. I could see Lott’s helmeted
head. The pilot of the third ship had her in pretty close; I guessed
that Russ Healy was almost above me now--with the Old Lady.

Then, glancing to the left, I saw the battered Jenny. Russ waved a hand;
the ship banked back over the D.H. I kept the nose of the plane lined up
on the horizon, corrected for even the slightest bump with the ailerons.
We were just passing over the outfit’s field--when it happened.

I felt the D.H. jerk madly around--to the right! There was a ripping,
tearing sound. The joy-stick was twisted from my grip. The right wing
surface warped before my eyes!

                  *       *       *       *       *

As I cut the throttle I realized what had happened. A wing of Healy’s
ship had tangled with mine. And the D.H. was finished--I knew that in
one flashing second. And I knew, as my hands fumbled with the
safety-belt, that the ships had freed themselves again.

I tried to hold the nose of the D.H. up--it wouldn’t come up. As we went
slowly into the first turns of a spin--a plane flashed downward, off to
the right. No--_two_ planes!

The Old Lady was going down tangled with the camera-plane! There had
been a triple crash!

And even as I saw the two ships going down, in a slow spin and almost
flatly--my eyes picked up the form of the girl. She was lying flat on
the upper surface of the Old Lady’s right wing. Lying motionlessly! She
had made the transfer--and then had come the triple crash.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I stood up in the cockpit, swung a leg over the side to the left, lower
wing. We were spinning to the right, and I wanted to get clear on the
outside. My right hand gripped the stick, trying to keep the D.H. from
going into a tight spin, while my left groped for the dangling ring of
the ’chute rip-cord.

It found it, and I hooked a finger through the ring. Then I let go of
the stick, got my other leg out of the cockpit--let myself be
wind-battered away from the ship.

I counted five--jerked the ring. There was the crackling sound of the
pilot-’chute, as it snapped open--and almost immediately the greater
crackling of the bigger spread of silk. The harness tightened about my
body. My head was jerked upward. Then I was drifting, shaking off the
effects of that plunge--and staring beyond the falling arc of my
wing-warped plane.

The camera-ship and the Old Lady were above me. My drop had been faster
than their slow-spinning fall. And they were close--too close for
comfort. I could see things clearly. The girl was out of sight; I
couldn’t see above the upper wings of the Jenny. Even as I stared, two
objects shot downward from the camera-ship. Lott and the camera-man were
getting clear!

[Illustration: The camera-ship and the Old Lady were above me--too close
for comfort. The girl was out of sight.]

Their ’chutes functioned perfectly. They drifted down, within twenty
feet of each other. I stared at the crashed, tangled planes. Why hadn’t
the girl jumped? And what was the matter with Russ Healy?

It hadn’t been a wide-open crash. And I couldn’t tell whose fault it had
been. But I could guess--the nose of the camera-ship seemed jammed into
the rear cockpit of the Jenny; her left wing slanted up over the
tail-assembly of the Old Lady. It looked as if the camera-ship had
banked to the left--and crashed the Jenny.

“Get clear!” I muttered hoarsely. “Get clear--you two!”

The tangled planes were spinning faster now. They were dropping below my
drift-level, within fifty yards of me. I got a glimpse of Russ Healy’s
head. It moved. He wasn’t out. I screamed at him.

“Get clear, Russ!”

The two ships were nosing down now, not dropping flatly. I could hear
the wire scream. The prop of the camera-plane was splintered--but the
Old Lady’s seemed to be turning, throttled down to a low-revolution
speed.

Then, with the ships below me, I saw the girl again. As I stared at her
form, lying across the wing surface, I saw that her left arm was hooked
through the loop placed there for stunting purposes. And I saw her move,
raise her head slightly.

                  *       *       *       *       *

There was a crash--my D.H. had dug in. I looked down, saw the ship burst
into flames. The field was less than a thousand feet below, the clipped
grass seemed to be rising up at a tremendous speed. I stared down,
kicking around in the ’chute harness, at the tangled ships again.

And I saw why the girl hadn’t jumped. Dangling from her back, hanging
over the trailing edge of the upper wing surface, was her ’chute pack.
Even as I watched her right hand groped toward the harness, tried to
find that rip-cord ring.

“Too late now!” I groaned. “Less than eight hundred feet--”

And then, suddenly, it happened. Once before I’d seen the same thing
happen. And that had been in France. There was a jerking of the two
ships--they drifted apart! The spin had flung them apart!

The camera-plane went instantly into a side-slip. I kicked around
furiously, tried to watch the Old Lady. She nosed down, her left wing
dropping under the weight of the girl. Then her nose came up, just as I
thought she was going into a final spin--her left wing came up, too. I
heard the roar of her exhausts. The Old Lady was trying to fly--was
trying to fly out of it!

There was a second crash as the camera-plane struck the field. I flexed
my legs--seventeen feet a second was my drop-speed. The force of a
ten-foot drop would be my landing jolt. The earth came up--I struck
heavily, rolled over once, crawled out from beneath the collapsing silk
spread.

It took me ten seconds to get out from the harness. And as I freed
myself--the Old Lady came in!

She was headed into the wind. Her fuselage, near the rear cockpit, was
battered. The fabric was in shreds. But she was flying. And as her
exhaust roar died, and her wheels and tail-skid touched the clipped
grass, I raised my eyes. Still clinging to the wood loop, on the upper
surface of the right wing, was the girl. The Old Lady had brought her
down!

                  *       *       *       *       *

We were grouped around Miss West. She was pale, and she spoke in a voice
that was slightly shaken. But she spoke bravely. She was that kind.

“The crash came just as I lifted myself up over the wing surface of the
Jenny. It nearly knocked me loose--twisted me around. I hung on,
though--pulled myself up. But I ripped the ’chute pack loose from part
of its harness. I wanted to get clear--couldn’t find the rip-ring. So I
lay there--and waited. You know the rest.”

Bob Brooks nodded his head. Steve Lott said excitedly:

“Lord, it was close! I wanted to get in, get a perfect shot for the
camera. We hit a bump--and I tried to zoom. But we crashed before she
nosed up. All three ships got it. We’ll stand the loss, of
course--but--”

He stopped. He was too shaken to go on. The girl’s eyes were on Russ
Healy, who was frowning.

“I’m sorry!” she said simply. “No use saying what I think--you _know_.
Man--that battered crate is--” She stopped, groped for a word, found
it--“wonderful! Can she fly? I’m here--to tell you _she can_!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Russ smiled, but he didn’t say much. Later, while he was patching up the
fuselage of the Old Lady, I caught him alone. It had been a tight jam
for all of us. Two planes gone--and three of us using ’chutes. No
pictures, of course. All smashed--all that had been taken. But if it
hadn’t been for Russ--and the Old Lady-- Well, Joan West wouldn’t laugh
_that_ way again at a battered plane.

I told Russ that, and then I asked a question. It had been worrying me a
bit.

“Supposing things had gone right, Russ--what were you figuring on doing
with the girl? How were you going to prove--”

Russ Healy grinned. “Mac,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t going to do a
thing. What in hell _could_ I do? That kid had nerve.”

I chuckled. Russ Healy throwing a bluff! It was almost funny.

“She had nerve,” he repeated grimly, “and believe me, Mac, that’s what
you’ve got to have--when it comes to picture stuff!”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March, 1928 issue of
_Blue Book_ magazine.]



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76115 ***