Part 1

THE BOY WHO COULDN’T FLY

By Charles S. Verral

“She’s a Ross Comet, Murph!” Dan Sutherland said. “Look at that wing dihedral and that split undercarriage.”

They stood at the top of Frazer’s Hill and watched the red monoplane go swooping over the town of Newton in the valley below. The April afternoon sun was strong and Dan shaded his face. His blue eyes sharpened with excitement.

Murph glanced uneasily at the intent face. “They all look alike to me,” he said, shortly. “Come on, Dan. I’ve got a tennis date.”

But Dan stayed where he was.

Murph tried again. “Ah, let’s go. That crate’s beating it.”

The red plane wasn’t. It had flown the length of the town and was now coming back, skimming low over Main Street. Dan caught his breath as the Comet roared over the white bank building, barely fifty feet above its roof.

“I’ll bet your Dad’s loving that,” Murph said.

Dan was thinking the same thing. He could visualize the effect the low flying was probably having on his father, the president of the bank. His dad had no sympathy with aviation. It was the one thing Dan could never understand about him.

“You _fly_?” his father had said the one time Dan spoke of it. There had been something like horror in his voice. “No! That’s unthinkable, Daniel!”

His father hadn’t said why, but his eyes had dropped to Dan’s crippled right leg encased in its steel brace. And to Dan that glance had been full of meaning.

He’d wanted to cry out, “You don’t understand, Dad. That’s the very reason I want to fly. I haven’t any freedom on the ground. People feel sorry for me. In a plane it’d be different. I’d be free as the wind.”

But, Dan had said nothing. And from then on he’d kept his increasing interest in flying hidden from his father.

He knew he could never be a transport pilot. All he’d wanted was to hold an amateur license. And after that to enter aviation in some ground capacity where his crippled leg wouldn’t be a handicap.

Dan had worn a brace on that leg as far back as he could remember. His father had told him he’d been hurt in an accident when he was very small, an accident that had killed his mother. But his dad wouldn’t talk about it and no one in town volunteered information. The accident had occurred before the Sutherlands had come to Newton.

And now, as Dan gazed at the sleek monoplane scooting past the bank building he thought bitterly. In two years he’d graduate from senior high and then take the position in the bank that his dad had arranged for. All his life would be spent in that white building. There’d be no red monoplane for him--ever.

Murph’s voice cut in, “Come on, come on,” he said, gruffly.

“What’s biting you, Murph?” Dan asked, his eyes never leaving the plane. “Look at that, will you!”

The Comet had suddenly zoomed and was now racing up, the sun polishing its wings to glistening vermilion. The roar of its engine became a whine. Dan judged it had reached six thousand feet when the ship leveled, humped over and dived. The wings flipped around slowly ... once, twice. Now faster.

“Holy smoke!” Dan said. “A spin. Murph! A spin! He’s aiming right at the school!”

The Ross Comet came plummeting down, wings whipping. Dan’s long face whitened. Maybe the pilot wasn’t stunting. The ship had already dropped two thousand feet without straightening. Maybe the pilot had lost control!

Color welled over Dan’s high cheek bones. “Get her out of it!” He wasn’t conscious that he was shouting. “Jam the stick forward! Give her opposite rudder and aileron. Hurry!”

As if the pilot had heard his words, the Comet’s wings straightened. The machine bulleted down in a power dive. Then, the nose came up. The ship flattened and, with a bellow, careened away.

Dan blew out his breath. The guy was a swell pilot.

“Whew!” Murph gasped.

The monoplane streaked across the residential section, climbing. Dan saw it circle over the grounds of the Blackwell house.

“Maybe he’s a friend of Jerry’s,” Dan said. Jerry Blackwell had been away to flying school the previous summer and had come back flaunting an amateur license.

“Naw,” Murph said. “Jerry hasn’t got a friend.”

But, Dan thought, Jerry had plenty of friends even though _he_ wasn’t one of them. Jerry was the school’s star athlete; he owned a fast roadster; he had lots of money and.... A sudden thought flared across Dan’s mind. Jerry had boasted that his dad was going to buy him a plane....

Dan turned to Murph. “Could that be Jerry’s plane?”

Murph’s full-moon face flushed. “Well--yeah, that’s right, Dan,” he said.

“You knew it all the time?”

“I guess I did,” Murph said miserably. “Jerry was spreading the word around after school that a Ross pilot was flying his crate down. Jerry had him primed to put on that stunt, looks like.”

Dan said, “Oh,” and turned away. “You could’ve told me, Murph.”

“I didn’t because....” Murph stumbled. “Ah, you know.”

* * * * *

Dan shoved back a shock of blond hair that had fallen over his face. Distantly he realized that the Comet was now flying across the valley in the direction of the airport.

“It’s going to land,” Dan said. “I’m going over.”

“Aw, nuts,” Murph said. “Don’t do that. You and Jerry....” He left the sentence hanging.

Dan said, “I’ve got nothing against Jerry. And I want to see that plane.”

Murph scowled. “You got nothing against that guy? How about your smashed model?”

Yes, how about it, Dan thought. That had been his first serious run-in with Jerry. There’d been others since. But that first time ... It’d happened last summer at a local gas model meet. Dan had worked hard on his plane, had turned out a good job. On its first timed run it had flown far across the airport, landing in tall grass. Jerry Blackwell had gone in pursuit of the model in his yellow roadster. When he’d come back, he’d brought the smashed wreckage of the ship with him. He’d said that he’d found it cracked up. It’d been Murph who’d put the first doubt in Dan’s mind. He’d pointed out the buckled fuselage and said, “Jerry never found her like that.”

But there’d been no proof. And when Jerry’s model had won the meet, his father had been so proud he’d given him a flying course. And now--a Ross Comet.

No, Dan hadn’t forgotten. But he turned to Murph and said, “Maybe it was an accident.”

“Nuts,” Murph said. “Well, if you haven’t anything against Jerry, he sure doesn’t love you.”

“Why?” Dan asked. The question had bothered him for months.

“For one thing you’re too smart for him up here,” Murph said, tapping his head. “I know you don’t mean it but you’re always showing him up. Not just in aviation but in everything. A grandstander like Jerry can’t take it. And....”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Murph said. “But I wouldn’t go down there, Dan. Please.”

Dan stood with his legs spread far apart. He thrust his hands deep in the side pockets of his tan corduroy slacks. Then he said, “I’m not afraid of Jerry. And I want to see that plane. I’m going to the airport.”

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, Dan was far down the narrow road, out of earshot, of Murph’s protests. Dull anger had now replaced the thrill the first sight of the Comet had brought. That was envy, wasn’t it? Envy for Jerry, for his amateur license, for his new plane. But Jerry really didn’t care about aviation, Dan thought. He just saw it as another way to grandstand. While he....

The road, which curved through the rolling country like a care-free brook, was muddy from a recent rain. Water stood in shimmering pools, reflecting the blue and cream of sky and clouds. The air was heavy with the full sweetness of April.

But Dan didn’t notice as he hurried awkwardly on. He didn’t see the gently flowing farmland lying in reddish brown molds from the steel of the plow. He didn’t recognize the cheerful hello of the meadow lark. Nor did he hear the car until its horn blasted out from behind.

Startled, he lurched to the side. The long yellow shape of a powerful roadster _swooshed_ past, doing sixty. It was Jerry Blackwell’s car. Jerry was at the wheel and Frenchy Morenz, his sidekick, was with him. The car hurtled on its way, without slowing, without stopping.

Jerry had seen him, all right. You’d think he’d stop and pick a guy up. But the roadster pelted over a rise in the road ahead and was gone.

Dan stopped, shifting his weight to his good leg. Maybe Murph was right. Maybe he was just sticking out his neck. Maybe ... But that was silly. Why should he miss seeing a Ross Comet close up? Jerry shouldn’t mind that.

By the time Dan reached the rise in the road, he was tired. Far ahead, down in the lowland, he saw the air field. Jerry’s car was there, empty and the Ross Comet was racing across the airport and angling into the sky.

The distant drone of its engine was drowned by a clanking of machinery from back on the road. Dan turned and saw an old Ford roadster. Gus Petersen’s famous chariot.

Gus brought the car to a halt beside Dan and threw open the door. “Airport?” he yelled.

Dan said, “Swell,” and climbed aboard, sinking gratefully on the patched cushion.

* * * * *

Gus shot him a lopsided grin. “Sweet crate Jerry’s got, huh?” he said as they got under way.

“I’ll say,” Dan answered.

“Jerry had the gang all waiting outside the school for the show. Some stunting.”

Dan nodded.

Gus ducked down to look through the windshield at the climbing Comet. “They’ll be back. The pilot’s showing Jerry how the ship handles ... Boy, the whole gang’s heading for here. This’ll start the club right.”

“The club?” Dan said.

Gus drew back and looked at Dan out of the corner of his eyes. “Yeah ... yeah....” he said hesitantly. “Jerry’s getting up a flying club ... I thought he’d asked you.”

“No,” Dan said. No, Jerry hadn’t asked him and probably wouldn’t. But now Dan knew why Murph had tried so hard to get him to go home. Murph must’ve known about the club.

Gus drove on in silence. After a while he said, “You should be in the club, Dan. You know more about flying than the rest of us. I’ll speak to Jerry. He just forgot.”

Dan said, “Skip it.”

“It’ll be a flock of fun, Dan,” Gus went on. “Jerry’s going to take us up and teach us to fly.”

“But he’s only got an amateur license!” Dan exclaimed.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Amateur pilots must not carry persons or property for fees, nor instruct students,” Dan quoted. “Jerry hasn’t had enough experience. It’d be dangerous.”

Gus looked disturbed. “I didn’t know that. Saaay.”

* * * * *

The Comet was far over town when the Ford came to a stop beside Jerry’s roadster at the edge of the flying field. And in a matter of minutes the rest of the high school gang showed up. They came on motorcycles and in old cars, the battered jalopies making marked contrast with the sleek perfection of the yellow roadster.

Dan liked all the gang. He found himself caught up in their enthusiasm and for awhile he forgot Jerry.

But now the Comet was coming back. Dan stood with the others and waited while the red ship circled the field and came in for a rough landing. The plane touched her wheels, porpoised, touched again, bounced and finally settled.

“Jerry’s at the controls,” Dan said.

Hank Smith beside him said, “How do you know?”

Dan started to say, “That was a rookie landing.” But he caught himself in time and said, “Just a guess.”

Jerry _was_ at the controls. Dan saw that as soon as the Comet taxied over. The right cabin door opened and Frenchy and a florid-faced man stepped out. That’d be the Ross pilot.

But Jerry remained in the pilot’s seat as the gang of boys crowded around. Dan went with them, staying to the outside.

Although the Comet was a cabin job, Jerry was wearing a white leather helmet. Amber-tinted goggles were over his eyes. His expression was of bored weariness as if he’d just brought the mail in for the thirty-second time. With a slow gesture, he swept the goggles back.

Dan saw that the act wasn’t lost on the gang.

Then, Jerry looked up. His face brightened as if, for the first time, he’d seen his friends. He said in an unnatural husky voice, “Oh, hello, fellows.”

He stepped from the cabin and leaned against the fuselage, his broad shoulders slouched. He was handsome, in a beefy way, dark-complexioned with heavy black eyebrows, a powerful physique. He said, “Fellows, I want you to meet Ace--Ace Cooper.”

The Ross pilot shook his clutched hands above his head. “Hi, gang,” he said.

Jerry went on. “Ace, this is Gus.” He pointed to Gus Petersen. “This is Hank ... and Tom....” He went around the half circle. When he reached Dan, his eyes stopped momentarily and then swept on. He didn’t say, “This is Dan.”

Dan moved away, embarrassed and angry. But he hadn’t come to meet the pilot. He just wanted to see the plane.

He walked slowly around the Comet, taking it all in from spinner cap to the trailing edge of the balanced rudder. He touched the taut fabric almost with reverence. The ship was a honey.

Later, when the gang had broken up and Dan, in his detachment, had lost track of time, he heard Gus Petersen’s voice. He had taken Jerry aside and was talking to him. Dan caught his breath. Surely Gus wasn’t.... But he was. Dan heard enough of his low-pitched words.

Then came Jerry’s reply, loud and clear. “Join the club? No! That cripple can’t fly!”

Dan stepped back, his ears ringing. Then, he turned abruptly and went past the suddenly hushed boys, almost without seeing them. He heard Frenchy snicker. He stumbled as he reached the road for his eyes were hot. He didn’t look back as he headed for home.

“That cripple can’t fly!” But Jerry didn’t realize. Jerry didn’t know. He _could_ fly. He’d “flown” the Night Hawk for hours and hours.

And he’d “fly” her again as soon as he could get to her hangar.

* * * * *

Half an hour later, Dan was hurrying down the driveway of his home. He went past the rambling brick house to the yard beyond. Belle, the colored cook, was at work at the kitchen window. She called out, “Aftahnoon, Mistah Daniel.” But Dan needed more than Belle’s smiling black face. He reached the barn and went inside. He passed the old cutter, thick with dust and cobwebs. He gripped a rung of the ladder which led to the hay loft and clumsily pulled himself up. Near the top, just under the trap door, was the sign he’d crudely lettered years ago:

PRIVATE--THIS MEANS YOU.

He pushed open the trap door and scrambled through. He hadn’t been up in the loft for a long time--the place where he’d spent most of his days as a kid.

He stood there beside the open trap door. He looked across the loft with its peaked roof and rough gray beams. In the sunlight streaming through the small window he saw the Night Hawk, dusty and forsaken.

Its wing was sagging. The covering had fallen away from the left elevator. Cobwebs clung to the fuselage.

Could this misshapen thing be the splendid Night Hawk? Could this be the ship he’d so proudly built with his own two hands out of scrap lumber and odds and ends?

Then, into his mind came a picture of Jerry’s Comet, trim of line, powerful and sure. And Dan saw the Night Hawk as she actually was, a crude, dilapidated plaything.

He leaned back against the wall. There, before him was the ship he’d hurried home to fly.

It had been built five years ago, fashioned with enthusiasm, before he’d attained carpentry skill. Its high wing held extraordinary curves. The framework of the fuselage was covered with strips torn from bed sheets. The undercarriage owed its existence to the remains of a tricycle.

Yet, the Night Hawk had ailerons and elevators that worked when the stick in the cockpit was moved. A rudder that wagged when the pedals were shifted. It had an under-sized propeller with blades cut from sheets of tin and attached to an old electric fan--a propeller that revolved when a switch in the cockpit was snapped.

Dan had spent hours in that cockpit, sitting on a cut-down kitchen chair, with his hand on the control stick and his feet jammed against the rudder pedals. The instrument board was packed with round pieces of cardboard, each in its proper place, each pencilled to represent the dial of a particular instrument. The altimeter ... R.P.M. ... Oil pressure ... Airspeed indicator ... and the rest. The throttle was there. The switches.

The Night Hawk had started as a toy and become much more. Dan had studied every available book he could get on flying--books on meteorology, on the theory of flight, on navigation and aerobatics. And sitting in the Night Hawk, with the cardboard discs becoming real instruments, with the controls working and the tin propeller swishing over, Dan had put himself through a strenuous series of flying lessons--translating the printed word into the movement of rudder and aileron and the flickering of instrument needles--drilling himself patiently until he knew every maneuver, every reaction.

That had been years ago. As he’d grown older he’d felt self-conscious about the crude machine. He’d transferred his books to his room and continued his secret studies there--secret because of his father’s disapproval of aviation.

And as Dan stood alone in the quiet of the loft, with his gaze still on the Night Hawk, he remembered those long-ago flights--and he remembered Jerry’s stinging words.

But now--now the crude ship was dissolving before his eyes. And in its place the real Night Hawk was forming. A Night Hawk sheathed in shining dural; her high wing wide and firm; her fuselage streamlined. She was straight and true and splendid--the splendid ship she’d always been. The ship that had carried him through fog and storms, across oceans and deserts. The Night Hawk was there--waiting for him.

* * * * *

Dan took a step forward. His eyes were bright. And, barely conscious of what he was doing, he reverted to the old game he used to play. It wasn’t hard to go back. It wasn’t kiddish. It was real and fine.

He said, “Hey, Sam. Run the Night Hawk out. I’m taking off.”

He went to a box nailed to the wall, took an old flying helmet from it, shook off the dust and put it on his head. Goggles were slipped over his eyes. He hurried toward the Night Hawk.

“A bad night you say, Sam? ... That fog won’t worry me. I’ve got to get the mail through.”

He stepped into the cockpit and sat down on the chair. He fastened the safety belt around his middle. He gripped the stick with his right hand and inserted his feet on the rudder pedals. Carefully now, he ran his eyes over the instrument panel, checking everything, moving the controls. The ailerons and elevators and rudder moved stiffly, their rusted hinges protesting.

Dan pushed the inertia starter. The hum of the electric fan sounded. The tin propeller blades turned over slowly, shakily. He worked the throttle, listening to the roar of the motor that had now become a powerful radial.

Then, he stuck his head over the cowling and yelled, “Be seein’ yuh, Sam.” He threw off the brakes.

It was night. The runway which headed into the wind was illuminated. Dan guided the Night Hawk to it and threw the throttle wide.

The Night Hawk thundered down the concrete strip, past the blurred rows of red and green lights. The tail came up. The airspeed needle stood at seventy. Dan eased back on the stick and the Night Hawk arrowed up into the darkness.

At three thousand feet he leveled off. He was flying now. In his imagination ... yes. But flying. Look, down there ... those lights ... a town ... Newton ... the main street ... the movie theater ... the neon sign in front of Joe’s Barbecue.

And Jerry had said, “... can’t fly.”

But Jerry hadn’t known about the Night Hawk--the Night Hawk that could fly as well as the Comet. It had been in tight spins just as the Ross ship had that afternoon and come out of them.

And, still in the powerful grip of his imagination, Dan pulled the Night Hawk up, up on her nose until she stalled, until she fell off on one wing and plummeted earthward. Then, he kicked the rudder, threw the stick over and forced his ship into a spin.

The Night Hawk shrieked down, wings whirling. Dan rode the cockpit, feeling the dizziness of the spin. But he knew what to do. Use your head. Keep cool. Above all don’t let panic get you. Now, stick forward ... Full opposite rudder and aileron ... See, she’s coming out. She’s in a straight dive ... Now, neutralize the controls and pull the stick back.

The Night Hawk leveled and went screaming on her way. Dan leaned over the coaming and patted the side of the fuselage. “Nice going, Night Hawk,” he said.

Then, clear and unmistakable, he heard a human sound--a snicker. He looked up. And his imaginary world collapsed.

Standing near the trap door were Frenchy Morenz and--Jerry Blackwell!

* * * * *

Jerry said, “Nifty ship.”

Frenchy snickered.

Dan’s face whitened. He fumbled at the catch of his safety belt. He tried to speak and found his throat dry. How had they ever come up here? Belle must’ve told them where he was.

He said finally. “What do you want?”

Jerry swaggered over. A smirk was on his big face. He looked down at the Night Hawk. “Isn’t she a honey, Frenchy?” he said.

Frenchy was laughing. He peered into the cockpit. “Look, Jerry,” he said. “Look here. He’s even strapped in!”

Jerry roared with mirth. “You oughta be wearing a chute,” he said to Dan. “I’ll report you to the Department of Commerce.”

Dan sat where he was. His face had gone from white to brick red. “What do you want, Jerry?” he said again.

The laughter left Jerry’s face. He moved closer to Dan, stood over him, his broad shoulders squared. “I came to say something to you, wise guy,” he said. “I’ve heard what you said about me not having enough experience to give instruction. The fellows won’t go up with me now. You’ve wrecked my club.”

“I didn’t mean to break up the club,” Dan said. “It’s against the law for an amateur pilot to instruct. I just told Gus for his own safety....”

“And for _your_ safety, you’d better keep your trap shut!” A gleam came into Jerry’s eyes as he looked at the Night Hawk. “I don’t think your word will mean much now.”

“I betcha he’d die of fright if he ever got his feet off the ground,” Frenchy said.

Jerry was glaring at Dan. “I’ve taken enough of your lip. You’ve tried to show me up once too often ... You stay here and play with your toys, and leave _real_ flying to me ... Come on, Frenchy.”

Jerry turned and went down through the trap door. Frenchy followed.

Dan stayed where he was. He heard the two boys leave the barn.

No one had ever known about the Night Hawk ... not even Murph or Dan’s father. But now Jerry knew and Frenchy. What would they do?

* * * * *

Dan went to school the next morning prepared to face ridicule. He was sure that Jerry had spread the secret of the Night Hawk. He hoped that he could take it with a wisecrack and a grin. But nothing happened.

And as the morning wore on, Dan waited in suspense. He knew Jerry wouldn’t let such an opportunity pass. Something would happen.

And at noon, while Dan was in the cafeteria, something did.

It was the day the weekly school paper was issued--a single multigraphed sheet. Dan heard the burst of laughter even before he opened his paper. Then--he knew.

There, spread right across the page in big letters for everybody to see was:

EXTRA! EXTRA! DESPERATE DAN SUTHERLAND REVEALED AS FAMOUS HOT AIR ACE.

Underneath was: Newton’s Aeronautical Genius Unmasked.

Practically the whole sheet was given over to a reporter’s fanciful interview with Desperate Dan Sutherland. It told with cruel exaggeration about the Night Hawk. There was a cartoon of a ramshackled airplane with a caricature of Dan in the cockpit.