“I tell you, jump!” the pilot snarled. “Jump, I said! Jump, you—” His voice ran on in a tangle of oaths.
“I’m not going to jump,” said Jerry.
“You sap! You fool! You got a chance. Take it! Take it—quick!”
“I’m not jumping. D’you want the ’chute?”
“You trying to make a coward out of me?” Beak shrieked. “You can’t do it, you blasted little pup! Not me! I was in a ship when you was in a cradle! I’ll nose her down and dive her to hell before I’ll take a ’chute off you!”
His voice was keyed as high as the note of a flying wire under diving strain. Coming to him out of the darkness behind, it didn’t make Jerry feel any more secure.
“I’m sticking to the ship,” Jerry said stubbornly. “It’s half mine, and I’m sticking.”
Beak burst into high, jeering laughter. “You fool! Don’t you know there won’t be enough left after we hit to make you a coffin?”
“We’ve got a chance. Beak! Listen, Beak!” Jerry’s voice became vibrant with urgency. “You want to gamble on this? I’ll give you the ’chute and three hundred—about all I’ve got—for the ship—just as she flies, Beak.”
The man in the rear cockpit was mute. Jerry, turning to squint at his head and shoulders in the blackness, could see no sign or motion. But the ship, responding to Beak’s hand on the stick, shuddered in the air.