“That’s right, Beak. But I want to back a hunch. If it don’t go through—you can’t be blamed any, Beak.”
Suddenly Beak’s rough fingers met Jerry’s. The roll of bills was jerked out of his fingers.
“Ready to take her over?”
“Wait a minute!” Hastily Jerry groped in the cockpit to make sure that none of the duffel was apt to jam the controls. “All right, Beak!”
“Take her! How about some altitude? This ’chute’s got to have plenty room to open.”
“Right!” Jerry’s hand was controlling the ship now, and his feet were on the rudder bar. Danger was lost in exultation. The ship was his. His to fly—his to own. For a while, anyhow. He notched up the throttle.
The motor picked up. With gentle pressure he eased the stick toward him. The ship straightened out and began to climb. He had held her on her upward course for fifteen minutes when Beak kicked his seat.
“All right,” he said, when Jerry throttled down. “Let her glide. D’you see anything?”
His hoarse voice had an appealing note. But there was unbroken gloom beneath them. Jerry had been looking, too.
“Nothing nearer than the stars,” he answered.