Trouble on His Wings by L. Ron Hubbard

idol of—”
    â€œOf what?” snapped England. “The
passengers? Hell, you’ll be telling me this job is romantic in a minute.
La-de-da. You’re a punk.”
    Duffy blinked and squirmed in the
bucket seat.
    â€œYou’re dumb,” added England, as an
afterthought. “A guy would have to be dumb to like this.”
    â€œB-But you’re tops!”
    â€œYou’ve got to get on top to look
back, don’t you? Fun! What kind of fun is what I’d like to know. New York to
Washington. Washington to New York. Flying a kite. Lugging sixteen passengers
north for a lunch date, sixteen passengers south for a session with Congress.
What kind of fun is that? I know every silo from here to New York. I know every
spot on every cow. I can take a bearing on the number of milk cans sitting
outside a gate. What’s the fun about that?”
    â€œB-But gee!” said Duffy. “You don’t
seem to realize what an honor it is—”
    â€œTo what? Cart sixteen passengers
around, and half of them airsick? ‘Mister Pilot, please don’t hit the bumps so
hard.’ Damn the passengers. Maybe ten years ago this was romantic. But that was
ten years ago. There was some element of danger then. Not now. This is as
common as pushing a locomotive from Podunk to Punkin Center. If it wasn’t for
the pay, I’d have quit long ago. Say, what in hell is keeping those damned
passengers?”
    Duffy looked down the tunnel made by
the awning and saw a group of people standing around the dispatcher. An
argument was evidently in progress.
    â€œThat fat dame,” said England, “is
Mrs. Blant. She’s going to see her daughter’s wedding. She better put a waddle
on or she’ll miss the bells.”
    â€œGee, do you know all of them?”
    â€œThere’s a
fellow there in brown I don’t know,” said England. “But the rest of them . . . That guy in the blue overcoat is
sealing a construction job this afternoon and he’s just about got time to make
it. That young gentleman is Secretary Lansing’s boy, on his way back—”
    â€œHere comes a girl and an old dame,”
said Duffy. “Know them?”
    Pete England leaned forward and
looked across Duffy’s uniformed chest. He scowled and shook his head.
    â€œNope,” said England, “and what’s
more, we haven’t got room for them. Boy, that old gal sure would break a
mirror.”
    â€œThe girl ain’t so bad. Look there,
Mister England! If that isn’t sable she’s wearing, I’ll eat it hair by hair.”
    â€œProbably rabbit,” said Pete. “What
the hell is Dan up to?”
    The dispatcher was following the pair
out to the ship. Above the mutter of the props, the pilots could hear the angry
protest of the regular passengers.
    â€œNow what in the name of the devil is
this all about?” scowled England.
    The dispatcher thrust his face
through the door and balanced upon a wheel. “All right, Pete. On your way.”
    â€œAll right hell,” said Pete. “You
sending me north empty?”
    â€œYou’ve got two,” said the
dispatcher.
    â€œBut what about Mrs. Blant?” said
Pete. “Her gal’s getting married this—”
    â€œNever mind,” said the dispatcher. “Number
Six will hit here in about thirty minutes. We’ll send Johnson right back with
this bunch.”
    â€œYou mean,” said Pete, ominously, “that
you’ll gow up the whole day’s schedule and maybe leave me overnight in New York
just to send this dame and her grandma north? You’re dizzy as a cuckoo clock,
Dan.”
    â€œNever mind how dizzy I am. On your
horse, Pete.”
    â€œShe must be awful damned important,”
said Pete.
    â€œShe paid double for every seat in
the ship. She’s plenty important. Take it easy, Pete.”
    Savagely, England gunned the four
throttles. The big kite rushed