“Come in,” said Baird.
He stepped aside, closing the door quickly behind the young man. Spencer’s head snapped up at the sight of the pilots’ empty seats and the controls moving by themselves. Then he wheeled round to the two men stretched on the floor under their blankets.
“No!” he gasped. “Not both of them?”
“Yes,” said Baird shortly, “both of them.”
Spencer seemed hardly able to believe his eyes. “But — man alive” — he stuttered — “when did it happen?”
“The captain went down a few minutes ago. They both had fish.”
Spencer put out a hand to steady himself, leaning against a junction box of cables on the wall.
“Listen,” said Baird urgently. “Can you fly this aircraft — and land it?”
“No!” Shock stabbed at Spencer’s voice. “Definitely no! Not a chance!”
“But you just said you flew in the war,” Baird insisted.
“That was thirteen years ago. I haven’t touched a plane since. And I was on fighters — tiny Spitfires about an eighth of the size of this ship and with only one engine. This has four. The flying characteristics are completely different.”
Spencer’s fingers, shaking slightly, probed his jacket for cigarettes, found a packet, and shook one out. Baird watched him as he lit up.
“You could have a go at it,” he pressed.
Spencer shook his head angrily. “I tell you, the idea’s crazy,” he snapped. “You don’t know what’s involved. I wouldn’t be able to take in a Spitfire now, let alone this.” He jabbed bis cigarette towards the banks of instruments.
“It seems to me flying isn’t a thing you’d forget,” said Baird, watching him closely.
“It’s a different kind of flying altogether. It’s — it’s like driving an articulated sixteen-wheeler truck in heavy traffic when all you’ve driven before is a fast sports job on open roads.”
“But it’s still driving,” persisted Baird. Spencer did not answer, taking a long draw on his cigarette. Baird shrugged and half turned away. “Well,” he said, “let’s hope then there’s someone else who can fly this thing — neither of these men can.” He looked down at the pilots.
The door opened and Janet came into the flight deck. She glanced inquiringly at Spencer, then back at the doctor. Her voice was flat.
“There’s no one else,” she said.
“That’s it, then,” said the doctor. He waited for Spencer to speak, but the younger man was staring forward at the row upon row of luminous dials and switches. “Mr. Spencer,” said Baird, measuring his words with deliberation, “I know nothing of flying. All I know is this. There are several people on this plane who will die within a few hours if they don’t get to hospital soon. Among those left who are physically able to fly the plane, you are the only one with any kind of qualification to do so.” He paused. “What do you suggest?”
Spencer looked from the girl to the doctor. He asked tensely, “You’re quite sure there’s no chance of either of the pilots recovering in time?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. Unless I can get them to hospital quickly I can’t even be sure of saving their lives.”
The young salesman exhaled a lungful of smoke and ground the rest of his cigarette under his heel. “It looks as if I don’t have much choice, doesn’t it?” he said.
“That’s right. Unless you’d rather we carried on until we were out of gas — probably halfway across the Pacific.”
“Don’t kid yourself this is a better way.” Spencer stepped forward to the controls and looked ahead at the white sea of cloud below them, glistening in the moonlight. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’m drafted. You’ve got yourself a new driver, Doc.” He slipped into the lefthand pilot’s seat and glanced over his shoulder at the two behind him. “If you know any good prayers you’d better start brushing up on them.”
Baird moved up to him and slapped his arm lightly. “Good man,” he said with feeling.
“What are you going to tell the people back there?” asked Spencer, running his eye over the scores of gauges in front of him and racking his memory to recall some of the lessons he had learned in a past that now seemed very far away.
“For the moment — nothing,” answered the doctor.
“Very wise,” said Spencer dryly. He studied the bewildering array of instrument dials. “Let’s have a look at this mess. The flying instruments must be in front of each pilot. That means that the center panel will probably be engines only. Ah — here we are: altitude 20,000. Level flight. Course 290. We’re on automatic pilot — we can be thankful for that. Air speed 210 knots. Throttles, pitch, trim, mixture, landing-gear controls. Flaps? There should be an indicator somewhere. Yes, here it is. Well, they’re the essentials anyway — I hope. We’ll need a check list for landing, but we can get that on the radio.”
“Can you do it?”
“1 wouldn’t know, Doc — I just wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen a setup like this before in my life. Where are we now, and where are we going?”
“From what the captain said, we’re over the Rockies,” replied Baird. “He couldn’t turn off course earlier because of fog, so we’re going through to Vancouver.”
“We’ll have to find out” Spencer looked about him in the soft glow. “Where
Janet pointed to a switchbox above his head. “I know they use that to talk to the ground,” she told him, “but I don’t know which switches you have to set.”
“Ah yes, let’s see.” He peered at the box. “Those are the frequency selectors — we’d better leave them where they are. What’s this? — transmit.” He clicked over a switch, lighting up a small red bulb. “That’s it. First blood to George. Now we’re ready for business.”
Janet handed him a headset with the boom microphone attached. “I know you press the button on the mike when you speak,” she said.
Adjusting the earphones. Spencer spoke to the doctor. “You know, whatever happens I’m going to need a second pair of hands up here in front. You’ve got your patients to look after, so I think the best choice is Miss Canada here. What do you say?”
Baird nodded. “I agree. Is that all right, Janet?”
“I suppose so — but I know nothing of all this.” Janet waved helplessly at the control panels.
“Good,” said Spencer breezily, “that makes two of us. Sit down and make yourself comfortable — better strap yourself in. You must have watched the pilots quite a lot. They’ve added a lot of gimmicks since my flying days.”
Janet struggled into the first officer’s seat, taking care not to touch the control column as it swayed back and forth. There was an anxious knocking on the communication door.
“That’s for me,” said Baird. “I must get back. Good luck.”
He left quickly. Alone with the stewardess, Spencer summoned up a grin. “Okay?” he asked.
She nodded dumbly, preparing to put on a headset.
“The name’s Janet, is it? Mine’s George.” Spencer’s tone became serious. “I won’t fool you, Janet. This will be tough.”
“I know it.”
“Well, let’s see if I can send out a distress call. What’s our flight number?”
“714.”
“Right. Here goes, then.” He pressed the button on his microphone. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he began in an even voice. It was one signal he could never forget. He had called it one murky October afternoon above the French coast, with the tail of his Spitfire all but shot off, and two Hurricanes had mercifully appeared to usher him across the channel like a pair of solicitous old aunts.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he continued. “This is Flight 714, Maple Leaf Air Charter, in distress. Come in, anyone. Over.”
He caught his breath as a voice responded immediately over the air.
“Hullo, 714. This is Vancouver. We have been waiting to hear from you. Vancouver to all aircraft: this
