Marvel: The Complete Pulp Fiction by Various

Author:Various [Various]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jerry eBooks
Published: 2021-07-29T21:00:00+00:00

HILT sat biting his lip; finally he shrugged. “We might just make it,” he muttered. “Try anyway: depends on the fuel. Better send out a radio call in case we get into difficulties.”

“In ease!” Cranby echoed blankly, then sat down at the apparatus. “Hilton Read World Hop plane calling!” he intoned repeatedly into the mike, until at length the accented tongue of the Pernambuco radio station responded.

“Call received, Hilton Read. Go ahead.”

“Carried some two thousand miles off our course by hurricane. Flying now over North West Brazil, approximately 650 longitude and zero latitude. Will call again. Heading for Rio or Pernambuco. Please relay.”

“O.K. We’ll keep in touch. Weather ahead is good. Hope you make it.”

“You and us both, sweetheart . . .” Cranby switched off and lighted a cigarette. “Pity we failed. I’d cleared the sideboard for the trophy.”

Hilton waggled the useless rudder control furiously. Finally he gave it up and concentrated on the compensating controls, held the plane as near to a straight course as possible by the compass.

Far below the terrain changed slowly as they moved with bullet swiftness over the pure virgin greenness of the Brazilian interior. The main worry to Hilton was the strong head wind into which they drove. His face grew gradually grimmer as with the passing time the fuel indicator level sank lower and lower . . .

In two hours, with only half the distance covered, it had sunk to zero. Motionless, he and Cranby sat staring at it, then they looked at each other, and finally the world of green below.

“This head wind!” Hilt raved. “We’re sunk, Cran, good and proper—”

He broke off as the giant engines gave an ominous splutter. For the first time since the start they coughed over the dwindling fuel, banged and backfired furiously. Desperately, Hilton eased in the last drops.

“Calling Pernambuco!” Cranby shouted, slamming on the radio transmitter. “Hilton calling! We’re falling! Send help! Longitude 47, latitude 15—”

He twirled round as the engines went dead, sat motionless in his seat. Like two images he and Hilton stared down at the sea of green rushing up swiftly to meet them. The wind soughed through the streamlining as they dropped with increasing swiftness. Hilt maneuvered frantically, as well as he could without a rudder. He dipped and tilted to ease the fall, his whole being concentrated on the task.

But Cranby saw something else during those wild plungings, something in the distance perhaps five miles away. It glittered with silvery brightness in the dying light of the sun. Like a mirror—

Then he held his breath as gargantuan trees swept up to meet the ship.

There was a monstrous splintering and rending, a stunning concussion that hurled him out of his seat. Hilton shouted hoarsely as tree branches smashed through the window, as he belted backwards against the wall with an impact that knocked the senses out of him. Darkness closed on his racked body . . .

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