The Rocketeer by Peter David Page A

He looked now, in every way, the way he had the previous night in his home in the Hollywood Hills, when he had been holding champagne in one hand and running through the sword motions that he would be using in this day’s filming, when he had told Eddie Valentine exactly what was what.
    When he had phoned Lothar and arranged for the murder of the helpless Wilmer.
    That man was the one who now faced the director, and Neville Sinclair, swordsman supreme, ignored the director’s apologies and said tightly, “Next time find me a worthy adversary. Someone who can fence.” He paused only a moment to call out in a sweet, caring tone to Charlie, who was being carried away on his shield, “Chin up, old boy! You’ll be all right!” The moment the others were out of earshot he turned back to the director, still seething. “And this is supposed to be a closed set. No visitors. I want that girl banned from the lot!”
    Somebody waved to Sinclair, a sympathetic expression on his face. Instantly all warmth, he waved back and then moved off, giving one last significant glance at the director. It was not lost on him, and Victor quickly waved for Fred.
    Standing safely off to the side, Jenny was shaking her head as Cliff tried to explain what he was doing there. “Jenny, I said I’m sorry. I want to patch things up.”
    “You’re off to a great start!”
    “But I had to see you . . . something big has happened.”
    “Couldn’t it wait?”
    “No! Look, you’re always saying you’re the last to know! This is important.”
    She couldn’t understand why his sense of priorities was so warped. “So’s this acting job!”
    “Acting? Honey, c’mon, you’re walking through scenery!”
    “At least I’m not knocking it down! Cliff, you’re not being fair! This is a good job. The director thinks I’m very talented.”
    At that moment Fred strode up and handed her a slip of paper. She looked at it in confusion. “What’s this?”
    “Pay voucher. You’re off the picture. Director’s orders. You know this is a closed set.” They were not words he said easily. He didn’t like firing people, especially lookers like this one. But rules were rules.
    Jenny shot Cliff a furious glance and then stormed off. Cliff raced after her. He caught up to her in front of a free-standing section of castle wall and whirled her around. She was fighting back tears.
    “Jenny, stop! Just let me explain! Me and Peevy found something that will get us back on our feet!”
    She didn’t really care, and tried to pull away. “What do you mean, you found something?”
    “It’s an engine! You wear it on your back. It makes you fly like a plane!”
    He was hoping that his enthusiasm was infectious, but apparently she’d had her vaccine. “You got me fired so you could tell me about an engine !” She yanked away from him and ran off.
    Cliff was about to follow her when Fred showed up, followed by two security guards. “Do you know what closed set means, pal?” he said, and the guards yanked Cliff by the arms and dragged him away.
    And from behind the flat emerged an astounded Neville Sinclair. There was a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and he was holding a copy of Variety, but he wasn’t tasting the cigarette or reading the magazine. Instead, he was in absolute shock over what providence had just handed him.
    That little twerp had his rocket pack!
    Sinclair tossed aside the cigarette and the magazine, and he raced after Cliff.
    It was an abortive attempt, for some grips were suddenly in his path, carrying a huge flat. By the time Sinclair managed to maneuver around it, there was no sign of the young man—of whom he had caught only a brief glimpse—or his escorts.
    What he did find, however, was the assistant director talking intently with the director. He bolted over to them, grabbed Victor, and said, “Where’s that girl I told you to fire?”
    Victor and Fred stared at him in confusion. “I fired her!”
    The girl.
    She was his only