Trouble on His Wings by L. Ron Hubbard Page A

away from the awning, braked in a half circle, charged
toward the end of the runway, whipped into the wind and stopped.
    Out of habit, Pete swept his glance
over the panel.
    â€œWait a minute,” said Duffy.
    â€œWhat the hell—”
    A hand fell on Pete’s shoulder. He
turned and looked back into the cabin. Right behind him and looming over him
stood the old lady. Her face was proud and haughty. She had the appearance of a
battle-scarred general commanding troops in a charge. Her beady eyes drilled
twin holes in England.
    â€œI beg your pardon, sir,” said the
old lady, “but I must be quite certain that you are competent to fly this
machine.”
    Pete gulped. He turned red. A blast
of hurricane intensity almost left his lips. He swallowed it, choked on it and
then managed, “Quite competent, I am sure, madam.”
    â€œI must see your pilot’s license,
sir.”
    Pete swallowed again. He dug angrily
into his pocket and yanked out a compact folder stamped “Master Airline Pilot,
D of C.”
    The old lady took it and carried it
back to the girl.
    Pete’s view of the young lady was
obscured by her companion’s back, but he did see that the coat was really sable
even at that distance. She was, he grudgingly muttered, a looker, damn her.
    The old lady came back and handed
Pete his license. “Her Highness is quite satisfied, sir. You may proceed.”
    Pete blinked at the title, but for a
second only.
    The old lady added in a wintery tone,
“You will, of course, fly low and slow, sir. And please avoid the bumps.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” gritted Pete.
    The four throttles leaped ahead under
his savage hand. The kite lashed down the runway, bit air, came off as lightly
as a puff of smoke, streaked around to the north, climbing, and leveled out for
New York.
    â€œShe said ‘Her Highness,’” said the
awed Duffy. “Gee, Mister England, you don’t suppose she’s royalty or something,
do you?”
    â€œI’d like to crown her with a
crankshaft,” vowed Pete.
    To find out more about The Battling Pilot and
how you can obtain your copy, go to www.goldenagestories.com .

L. Ron Hubbard in the
Golden Age of
Pulp Fiction

I n writing an adventure story
a writer has to know that he is adventuring
for a lot of people who cannot.
The writer has to take them here and there
about the globe and show them
excitement and love and realism.
As long as that writer is living the part of an
adventurer when he is hammering
the keys, he is succeeding with his story.
    Adventuring is a state of mind.
If you adventure through life, you have a
good chance to be a success on paper.
    Adventure doesn’t mean globe-trotting,
exactly, and it doesn’t mean great deeds.
Adventuring is like art.
You have to live it to make it real.
    â€” L. Ron Hubbard

L. Ron Hubbard
and American
Pulp Fiction
    B ORN March 13, 1911, L. Ron Hubbard lived a life at least as expansive as the stories with which he enthralled a hundred million readers through a fifty-year career.
    Originally hailing from Tilden, Nebraska, he spent his formative years in a classically rugged Montana, replete with the cowpunchers, lawmen and desperadoes who would later people his Wild West adventures. And lest anyone imagine those adventures were drawn from vicarious experience, he was not only breaking broncs at a tender age, he was also among the few whites ever admitted into Blackfoot society as a bona fide blood brother. While if only to round out an otherwise rough and tumble youth, his mother was that rarity of her time—a thoroughly educated woman—who introduced her son to the classics of Occidental literature even before his seventh birthday.
    But as any dedicated L. Ron Hubbard reader will attest, his world extended far beyond Montana. In point of fact, and as the son of a United States naval officer, by the age of eighteen he had traveled over a quarter of a million miles.