One Minute to Live.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 238, 8 October 1935, Page 19

One Minute to Live.

(By SIDNEY BOWEN.)

(SHORT STORY.)

The idea of murder came into Corbin's mind shortly after he had kicked PropWash in the ribs. Prop-Wash was a playful hound dog belonging to Jackson, number two stunt man on the Ajax lot. Corbin was number one stunt man; but he was fast losing liis rating, if he had not already lost it.

For two weeks now, Corbin and Jackson hacl been doing the stunt flying in Ajax's .air extravaganza, "Golden Eagles." The cool daring of Jackson had won the frank admiration of everyone. Corbin hated him more and more each day; he could not stand being shoved out of the spotlight by a better man.

And then kicking Prop-Wash climaxed everything. It happened this way. Seething under the caustic remarks of the director, Prouty, for a poor showing during a preliminary take, Corbin slammed in through the door of the dressing room, slammed his parachute pack on to its hook and sank down on the bench. In one corner of the room, Prop-Wash was contentedly chewing at the sleeve of an old flying coat that belonged to him. And Prop-Wash belonged to Jackson!

Corbin charged toward the dog.

"Drop that, you d?lmn dog!" Prop-Wash pricked up his cars, wagged his stubby tail. This was a game he had often played with his master. Usually, though, it was a shoe", or something not so bulky as a flying coat. However—

Ho waited until the outstretched hands were almost on him, then he jumped nimbly to the side and scampered across tho room, sharp teeth still crunching tho sleeve of tho old flying coat. Hands grabbed the trailing coat, and jerked so hard that he was spun around 011 all fours. Very well, then a tug of war it would be! He braced his paws, wagged liis tail and inado noises in his thoat.

Prop-Wash did not see the 'booted foot lash out. It sank into his ribs. He yelped with pain and collapsed. Tho coat sleeve was wrenched savagely from his mouth. Unable to move, lie looked with hurt, puzzled eyes up into tho die tor ted face bending over him.

At that moment a shadow appeared in tho doorway. Prop-Wash whimpered weakly as his master leaped at Corbin and spun him around.

"Here, what tho devil?" Corbin shook off tho hands that held him.

"I'll break every bono in his body, if ho doesn't leave my stuff alone!" 110 shouted.

"Corbin, if you ever hit that dog again, I'll give you tho worst beating of your life! And you can kiss the book 011 it, too. Come here, old fellow. Hurt you much, huh?" Trembling with Iblind rage, Corbin swung his clenched fist. But his fist only fanned thin air; Jackson had. struck first. From the floor and through a haze of spinning stars and comets, ho saw Jackson and Prop-Wash go out the dressing room door. It was when the stars and comets stopped spinning, that the idea of murder occurred to him. It did not havo to be murder exactly. He could do it in such a way that it would not even look like murder. A stunt pilot's life was a dangerous one; accidents wero always happening. Take the case of Brady, last week. No reason in the world why his wings should have come off. But they did. And Brady's parachute had not helped him at all.

Now if Jackson's wings came off during that final take to-morrow. No —- that would not bo suro enough. For ono thing it Svas problematical if he had the chance to doctor the plane. There wero always one or two mechanics in the hangar. Another thing, too, Jackson might notice something was wrong and have the plane rechecked. And lastly there was always tho chance that Jackson might jump free. No, it had to bo some way that was sure. Absolutely sure. and. not the slightest suspicion cast in his direction. Perhaps ho had better wait. A perfect opportunity might present itself in time. But, 110. Ho could not afford to wait. Jackson would have his job before "Golden Eagles" wan finished. Ho would bo another has-been. Prouty, damn him, would see to it that he would not get a job on any'of the lots. Prouty had said that he was getting yellow. And when a stunt pilot got the reputation of 'being yellow, well — No, he could not afford to wait. He had to get Jackson out of the way. He —'wait a minute! The perfect opportunity was staring him right in tho face. Over there on tho wall hook. Jackson's parachute, hanging beside his own, why, certainly! They were both scheduled to jump at the end of that final take to-morrow. Perfect! He had only to slip back here to-night, open the flap of the 'chute just enough to allow him to get at the shroud lines. A sharp kniife blade would fray them just enough, hut not noticeably so, even if the unexpected should happen and Jackson his 'oliuto before he went up. He had never done it before, though. But, even if lie did, 110 certainly would not notice the weakened shrouds. And when he bailed out—-

"All right, you two," director Prouty's voice carno crisply. "I don't want to spoil a single foot of film, so listen carefully, as I go over it for the last time. You two go up to SOOO. You, Jackson, to the east side of the field. And you, Corbin, to the west. Wait until you see me fire the green Verey light from the camera plane. Then head for each other, and start mixing it up. This is World War stuff, and I mean, mixing it up! No cream-puff stuff to-day, Corbin, you understand? Now when I fire the red Verey light, you are both to yank the smoke release lever, see? In the deadly combat you're each got your man, see ? "Now, as soon as you yank the smoke release, twist away from each other, and jump clear of your ships. Rather than be burned alive, you've jumped, see? Now, for heaven's sake, don't open your parachutes until you're dropped out of camera range. You've got to free-fall out of the picture, before you use your 'chutes. Now from the time you yank your smoke release, you have a full minute in which to get clear before the .time bomb goes off an the gas tank. One whole minute, which is plenty. Okay! Any questions? None, hull? All right. Up and at it!"

No cream-puff stuff! Face smarting, Corbin walked over to his 'plane and legged in. A minute or two later he sent it thundering across the narrow field, pulled it clear, and went arching up toward the western skies. Little beads of sweat studded his forehead, but his mouth was bone dry. For the 10,000 th time, he retraced in thought every step he had taken last night. No, there had not been a tingle slip up.

Jackson had been wriggling into the parachute harness when he went into the dressing room this morning. He had only been a few seconds behind Jackson, so that he knew that the other pilot had not refolded his 'chute.

Sure, everything was jake. It was just that his nerves were jumpy. After all, he had never killed a man in his life. But lie really was not killing Jackson. Jackson was killing himself. Certainly! It would be Jackson's hand that would pull the rip-ring of the parachute. He would take a rest after this, though. Go away some place, and forget. Then, he would come hack better than ever. And no Jackson, damn him, around to —

The green Verey light! It seemed that he had been in the air only a couple of minutes or so. Time was whipping past. That was what he wanted, though.

Here conies Jackson. Make it good, Prouty ? You are damn light I will make it good. I will give you a piece of flying you won't forget in a long time. God —not so closc, Jackson! You will get it soon enough without wrecking us botli. Cut it out. blast you! Your wheels almost touched the top wing that time. Showing me up, eh? Well, it will be the last time. The very last flight for you, Jackson. I wonder what you will think when you see those shroud lines part, and the silk fold up? I wonder if you will guess, Jackson? I hope you do. I really hope you do! Look out! Damn you, look out! Ah, the red light! Goodbye—Jackson!

There! He is going over in a half roll. There he jumps out. A whole minute. I want to see him open up. I will still have plenty of time. There — there! He is down below camera range. His pilot 'chute—he has pulled the ripring. Now —now, Jackson! Now, watch the silk. Now—

My God! The silk has billowed out, and the shroud lines are holding! They were not frayed enough! Not a single one of them lias parted. But, they should, they should! But Jackson was floating down! He—

His own 'chute? Had he made a mistake? Had he hung Jackson's 'chute on the wrong hook? No, he could not have done that. He put 011 his own 'chute this morning, it was on him now. Or was it? If he could only twist round and see the name tag sewed 011 the back of the pack. God Almighty, Jackson was still floating, so he must be wearing the defective 'chute. He had made a mistake!

Jackson's plane! It had exploded! His own ship would go up any second. Time had whipped past. There was only a few second's leeway. Get up— bail out of the ship! Maybe you have not made a mistake! Get up —get up! Move your legs! Move your legs! Move your arms! Get up —get up and jump!

Director Prouty, Jackson and the Ajax property man stared puzzle-eyed at the dirt and blood-smeared parachute pack 011 the dressing-room table. A bit of white cloth was sewed to the back of tlje pack, and stencilled in ink on it was the name Corbin.

"Something must have happened to him," Prouty said in a hushed voice. "Maybe, he fainted. He had plenty of time."

"Maybe," echoed the property man. "But he'd started to jump. He'd unsnapped his safety belt. T could tell that from what was picked up after the 'plane exploded. But he didn't get out in time. Look at that rip ring. His body hitting the ground didn't even jerk it loose. The explosion got him before he was free. Tough, when a guy lias to go out that way."

"Yeah," agreed Jackson thoughtfully. "By the way, how come you put a different 'chute on my hook this morning? Where's my regular one?"

"In the afHi can," was the blunt reply. "I found that damn poocli of yours chewing oIT one corner. He'Yl pulled 'ein both off the hooks, but he was making a meal out of yours. Shroud lines all frayed to liell. You'd bettor keep him tied up. He'll be getting you into real trou! 10, one of these days!"