The two men dropped together as the long arms of Burt wrapped themselves about his partner.
The plane disappeared instantly from their view; they plunged downward in a free drop, locked together, face to face. Air was all about them; the thunder of the machine died away in their ears. Beneath, the countryside was slowly expanding, opening up before them like a magically blossoming flower.
“R-r-r-r-rip-cord!” roared Burt Minster. His own arms tightened their clutch on Del O’Connell until the little man’s breath was squeezed out of his chest. But even before Burt had spoken the quick right hand of Del was wriggling downward, between Burt’s shoulder and his own, toward the release ring. He found it. He pulled.
Burt Minster’s breath followed Del O’Connell’s out of his body as an iron band tightened across his breast; his thighs were squeezed as if a boa had wrapped his constricting merciless folds about them. Del felt a repetition of that shock that had hurled him from the fuselage.
Burt emitted a sound, half expiration, half grunt. His parachute had opened.
It spread above them like a shield. The country below ceased its eerie expansion. Burt Minster’s grip about Del O’Connell’s chest relaxed slightly, and the smaller man breathed again—deep, lung-distending mouthfuls of sweet air. There was no longer any rush of wind or roar of motor; nothing but a gentle, lulling sway from side to side under that great canopy of silk.
Burt Minster spoke first.
“These things are supposed to handle up to four hundred pounds, so I guess we’re all right,” he remarked, with an effort at a casual tone.
Del blinked.
“If you’ll loosen up on those arms of yours, I’ll be able to get a grip myself,” he answered. They adjusted their positions, and Del took some of his weight from his hands by fastening his belt about Burt’s harness. They continued to drift downward. The sudden cessation of hubbub and speed made this gentle movement dreamlike.