The big stratoliner slowed rapidly as it approached the Peiping People’s Airfield. The pilot, a big-boned Britisher who had two jobs to do at once, watched the airspeed indicator. As the needle dropped, he came in on a conventional landing lane, aiming for the huge field below. Then, as the needle reached a certain point, just above the landing minimum, he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second and thought, with all the mental power at his command: NOW!
For a large part of a second, nothing happened, but the pilot knew his message had been received.
Then a red gleam came into being on the control board.
“What the hell?” said the co-pilot.
The pilot swore. “I told ’em that door was weak! We’ve ripped the luggage door off her hinges. Feel her shake?”
The co-pilot looked grim. “Good thing it happened now instead of in mid-flight. At that speed, we’d been torn apart.”
“Blown to bits, you mean,” said the pilot. “Let’s bring her in.”
By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, falling like a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew that the Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedly picked up two objects dropping from the craft—the door and one other. Candron had caught the pilot’s mental signal—anything that powerful could hardly be missed—and had opened the door and leaped.