“Sure. Your ship’ll be No. 8.”
Moran dreaded the prospect of learning to land a D.H. on that field, but it had to be done. Why hadn’t he been man enough to admit his ignorance of big ships, and practise landings up at Donovan?
He knew that the bombers were considered too frail to stunt, so he went on with assumed carelessness—
“Do you people down here live up to that ‘no stunt’ stuff on those babies?”
“Of course!” snapped Kennard. “We don’t make a habit of slapping God in the face.”
The others grinned, their eyes on Moran.
“Perhaps you twist ’em around regularly?” inquired Slim Evans, and Moran flushed.
“Just wanted to know,” he said awkwardly, and went out.
Ten minutes later he was in the front cockpit of No. 8, trying out the already warm motor. A mechanic held each wingtip, another sat on the tail and leaned against the airblast as he covered his eyes from the dust which swirled upward in a dense, cone-shaped cloud. The tires strained against the wheelblocks as Moran held the throttle wide open, his eyes sweeping his instruments. Air pressure, three; battery charging rate, two; temperature, eight degrees Centigrade; tachometer showing, 1750; oil pressure, twenty-five—all was as it should be, as far as he knew. He turned off one switch of the double ignition system, and listened. Not a miss. Then a brief tryout of the other switch, and he eased the gun back to idling. He adjusted his goggles and nodded to the crew, with a lump in his throat.
They pulled the wheelblocks, and he taxied to the northern end of the field. He turned safely, and gave it the gun. He knew he could take off all right. Pressing forward on the stick, feet braced against the rudder, he sent his ship roaring across the field, nose low to the ground. It took the air by itself, almost, and he swept across the buildings with twenty-five feet to spare.