“Blast you!” came the pilot’s voice, but that was all. The air-man was busy.
Korin was beyond thought of anything now except the money scattered about his feet, and what would happen somewhere in France, three thousand feet below. He stooped, caught up the packets of notes, stuffed his pockets with them, then straightened again.
Durant realized now that, given any half-decent landing-place, they stood in little actual danger. It all depended on the landing place—but this was a big gamble. Sharply banked, the De Haviland plunged earthward, gathering speed for the final straightening out; struts and braces quivered, thrummed madly; wind whistled and shrieked through the smashed side windows. His eyes going to the altimeter on the cockpit wall, Durant saw the needle shake and turn, twenty-five hundred—two thousand—fifteen hundred—a thousand feet! The whole ship was roaring, shivering, shrieking to the wild plunge earthward.
Something stirred in Durant’s brain—wonder at it. Why would Korin do such an insane thing? He must know that he could not escape, that mere landing would not save him, that at each moment the pilot must have been reporting into the microphone what was going on, that on the earth below must be a scurry of cars and motorcycles, police converging on wherever the landing-place would be! Yet there the Russian stood, furiously exultant, carried out of himself by the sheer sweeping excitement of the moment, pouring forth a stream of laughing oaths as he held himself braced and looked out upon the rising earth!
Then the explanation swept upon Durant in all its simple truth. Korin, as a matter of fact, knew nothing about the microphone! Very few people did know that these planes were so equipped, all of them.
The needle was nearly down, now. Korin was waiting, expectant, hawklike. The ship came to an even keel, floated—the pilot was cursing frantically as he worked. Then silence again, a shout from Korin, a heavy bump—and a crash. No—safe! The ship was bumping, rolling over ground, slowing down.
After this, the end was sharp, swift, dramatic enough even to Durant, who could see nothing of what passed outside the ship. Korin seized a suitcase and beat out the glass of the broken window beside him—needlessly, for he might have drawn the sash—and then crawled out. The voice of the pilot sounded:
“Here, I say! You can’t do it, you know—”
Korin laughed, and the sound of a shot brought silence.
A little after, Durant was aware of Larson bending over him, fumbling at his wrists, shaking, excited, yet also laughing.