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tube behind him, went forward, reached down into the map rack, and closed the
valve on the cylinder of cyanide. He verified George and adjusted the cabin
pressurization to help clear the poison gas. He then went back to his seat to
wait for fifteen minutes.
They had said fifteen would be enough, but at the last moment he gave it
another ten and then, still with his oxygen mask on, he went forward again and
began slowly, for the oxygen made him rather breathless, to pull the bodies
back into the fuselage. When the cockpit was clear, he took a small phial of
crystals out of his trousers pocket, took out the cork, and sprinkled the
cabin floor with them. He went down on his knees and watched the crystals.
They kept their white color. He eased his oxygen mask away and took a small
cautious sniff. There was no smell. But still, when he took over the controls
and began easing the plane down to 32,000 and then slightly northwest-by-west
to get into the traffic lane, he kept the mask on.
The giant plane whispered on into the night. The cockpit, bright with the
yellow eyes of the dials, was quiet and warm. In the deafening silence in the
cockpit of a big jet in flight there was only the faint buzz of an invector.
As he verified the dials, the click of each switch seemed as loud as a
small-caliber pistol shot.
Petacchi again checked George with the gyro and verified each fuel tank to see
that they were all feeding evenly. One tank pump needed adjustment. The
jet-pipe temperatures were not overheating.
Satisfied, Petacchi settled himself comfortably in the pilot's seat and
swallowed a benezedrine tablet and thought about the future. One of the
headphones scattered on the floor of the cockpit began to chirrup loudly.
Petacchi glanced at his watch. Of course! Boscombe Air Traffic Control was
trying to raise the
Vindicator. He had missed the third of the half-hourly calls. How long would
Air Control wait before alerting Air Sea Rescue, Bomber Command, and the Air
Ministry? There Would first be checks and double-checks with the Southern
Rescue Center. They would probably take another half hour, and by that time he
would be well out over theAtlantic .
The chirrup of the headphones went quiet. Petacchi got up from his seat and
took a look at the radar screen. He watched it for some time, noting the
occasional  blip of planes being overhauled below him.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Would his own swift passage above the air corridor be noted by the planes as
he passed above them?
Unlikely. The radar on commercial planes has a limited field of vision in a
forward cone. He would almost certainly not be spotted until he crossed the
Defense Early Warning line, and DEW would probably put him down as a
commercial jet that had strayed above its normal channel.
Petacchi went back to the pilot's seat and again minutely checked the dials.
He weaved the plane gently to get the feel of the controls. Behind him, the
bodies on the floor of the fuselage stirred uneasily. The plane answered
perfectly. It was like driving a beautiful quiet motor car. Petacchi dreamed
briefly of the
Maserati. What color? Better not his usual white, or anything spectacular.
Dark blue with a thin red line along the coachwork. Something quiet and
respectable that would fit in with his new, quiet identity. It would be fun to
run her in some of the trials and road races---even the Mexican  2000. But
that would be too dangerous. Supposing he won and his picture got into the
papers! No. He would have to cut out anything like that. He would only drive
the car really fast when he wanted to get a girl. They melted in a fast car.
Why was that? The sense of surrender to the machine, to the man whose strong,
sunburned
hands were on the wheel? But it was always so. You turned the car into a wood
after ten minutes at 150
and you would almost have to lift the girl out and lay her down on the moss,
her limbs would be so trembling and soft.
Petacchi pulled himself out of the daydream. He glanced at his watch. The
Vindicator was already four hours out. At 600 m.p.h. one certainly covered the
miles. The coastline ofAmerica should be on the screen by now. He got up and
had a look. Yes, there, 500 miles away, was the coastline map already in high
definition, the bulge that wasBoston , and the silvery creek of theHudson
River . No need to check his position with weather ships Delta or Echo that
would be somewhere below him. He was dead on course and it would soon be time
to turn off the East-West channel.
Petacchi went back to his seat, munched another benezedrine tablet, and
consulted his chart. He got his hands to the controls and watched the eerie
glow of the gyro compass. Now! He eased the controls gently round in a fairly [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]