It hadn’t been a wide-open crash. And I couldn’t tell whose fault it had been. But I could guess--the nose of the camera-ship seemed jammed into the rear cockpit of the Jenny; her left wing slanted up over the tail-assembly of the Old Lady. It looked as if the camera-ship had banked to the left--and crashed the Jenny. “Get clear!” I muttered hoarsely. “Get clear--you two!” The tangled planes were spinning faster now. They were dropping below my drift-level, within fifty yards of me. I got a glimpse of Russ Healy’s head. It moved. He wasn’t out. I screamed at him. “Get clear, Russ!” The two ships were nosing down now, not dropping flatly. I could hear the wire scream. The prop of the camera-plane was splintered--but the Old Lady’s seemed to be turning, throttled down to a low-revolution speed. Then, with the ships below me, I saw the girl again. As I stared at her form, lying across the wing surface, I saw that her left arm was hooked through the loop placed there for stunting purposes. And I saw her move, raise her head slightly. * * * * * There was a crash--my D.H. had dug in. I looked down, saw the ship burst into flames. The field was less than a thousand feet below, the clipped grass seemed to be rising up at a tremendous speed. I stared down, kicking around in the ’chute harness, at the tangled ships again. And I saw why the girl hadn’t jumped. Dangling from her back, hanging over the trailing edge of the upper wing surface, was her ’chute pack. Even as I watched her right hand groped toward the harness, tried to find that rip-cord ring. “Too late now!” I groaned. “Less than eight hundred feet--” And then, suddenly, it happened. Once before I’d seen the same thing happen. And that had been in France. There was a jerking of the two ships--they drifted apart! The spin had flung them apart! The camera-plane went instantly into a side-slip. I kicked around furiously, tried to watch the Old Lady. She nosed down, her left wing dropping under the weight of the girl. Then her nose came up, just as I thought she was going into a final spin--her left wing came up, too. I heard the roar of her exhausts. The Old Lady was trying to fly--was trying to fly out of it! There was a second crash as the camera-plane struck the field. I flexed my legs--seventeen feet a second was my drop-speed. The force of a ten-foot drop would be my landing jolt. The earth came up--I struck heavily, rolled over once, crawled out from beneath the collapsing silk spread. It took me ten seconds to get out from the harness. And as I freed myself--the Old Lady came in! She was headed into the wind. Her fuselage, near the rear cockpit, was battered. The fabric was in shreds. But she was flying. And as her exhaust roar died, and her wheels and tail-skid touched the clipped grass, I raised my eyes. Still clinging to the wood loop, on the upper surface of the right wing, was the girl. The Old Lady had brought her down!