Bob spoke sharply. “I wouldn’t ask you to do it, Russ--only we’ve got three pilots on the injured list and--” “And you want a couple more fixed the same way!” Russ cut in. “Nothing doing!” The girl laughed again. Only this time her laugh wasn’t so pleasant. “We’ll all have ’chutes,” she said icily. “I wouldn’t worry, Mr. Healy.” Russ was getting sort of white around the lips. I could see that he was thinking back, remembering. “Nothing doing!” he muttered for the third time. “If you keep the camera-ship out of the air, boss--” “We’re doing it _for_ them!” Bob cut in. “The _National News_ people want something snappy. We’re in this business to make money--and this means we’ll make some. You’ve got to fly the high plane, Russ.” I knew right away that Brooks had made a mistake. Russ’ eyes and his words got cold. “There’s only one thing I’ve _got_ to do,” he stated grimly. “And I’ll do that in a natural way if I don’t fall for this picture stuff.” The girl had a derisive expression. “Maybe it’s just as well,” she said slowly. “If that wreck over there is the one he was going to fly--I doubt if it could get enough altitude for me to pull the stunt!” I held my breath. Russ Healy was rigid; his eyes narrowed to little slits. If a man had made that statement about the Old Lady, there would have been plenty of action. The Old Lady was an ancient Jenny. She was battered and patched, oil-stained and weather-beaten. But Russ had worked over the old Hall-Scott engine. He’d redoped the wings and fuselage fabric again and again. He’d kept that Jenny in the air year after year--and he loved her. She’d let him down once or twice, but she’d always done it decently, given him a fair break. When any human slammed the Old Lady-- “Boss,” Russ’ voice was grim but steady, “I don’t like picture stuff. You know that. But there’s something else I don’t like, too. I’ll fly the Old Lady tomorrow!” He looked the girl squarely in the eyes. “I’ll let you climb up on one of the Old Lady’s wings tomorrow,” he said grimly. “And when you get aboard, and get through playing around on the wing--you just tuck yourself in the rear cockpit. Lady--won’t we have fun!” Then, abruptly, Russ turned his back on us and walked away. I stared at Bob, and he stared at me. Joan West shrugged her slender shoulders, and laughed. It was supposed to be sort of a gay laugh--but somehow it didn’t seem to register that way. Bob spoke. “He’ll be all right by tomorrow, Miss West. Russ is all right. A camera-ship tangled with him six months ago--and he’s off them. But he’ll be all right. You stirred him up.” There was plenty of truth in that statement. The girl sure had stirred Russ up! “But what did he mean? What will he do, after I make the transfer?” Her voice trembled slightly. Brooks was trying to think of a good answer, and I couldn’t help getting in a little dig. “It’ll be all right,” I said slowly. “We’ll all have ’chutes, won’t we?”