When he came back from his next trip to New York and Washington, he called up Bill at the plant. “Hay, Bill, how’s the boy? Your wife still do what you say, ha, ha. Me, I’m terrible, very exhaustin’ business trip, understand… never drank so much in my life or with so many goddam crooks. Say, Bill, don’t worry if you get fired, you’re on my private payroll, understand… We’re goin’ to fire the whole outfit… Hell, if they don’t like it workin’ for us let ’em try to like it workin’ for somebody else… This is a free country. I wouldn’t want to keep a man against his will… Look, how long will it take you to tune up that little Moth type, you know, number 16… yours truly’s Mosquito?… Check… Well, if we can get her in shape soon enough so they can use her as a model, see, for their specifications… Jesus, Bill, if we can do that… we’re on easystreet… You won’t have to worry about if the kids can go to college or not… goddam it, you an the missis can go to college yourselves… Check.”
Charley put the receiver back on the desk. His secretary Miss Finnegan was standing in the door. She had red hair and a beautiful complexion with a few freckles round her little sharp nose. She was a snappy dresser. She was looking at Charley with her lightbrown eyes all moist and wide as he was laying down the law over the phone. Charley felt his chest puff out a little. He pulled in his belly as hard as he could. “Gosh,” he was saying at the back of his head, “maybe I could lay Elsie Finnegan.” Somebody had put a pot of blue hyacinths on his desk; a smell of spring came from them that all at once made him remember Bar-le-Duc, and troutfishing up the Red River.
It was a flowerysmelling spring morning again when Charley drove out to the plant from the office to give the Anderson Mosquito its trial spin. He had managed to give Elsie Finnegan a kiss for the first time and had left her crumpled and trembling at her desk. Bill Cermak had said over the phone that the tiny ship was tuned up and in fine shape. It was a relief to get out of the office where he’d been fidgeting for a couple of hours trying to get through a call to Nat Benton’s office about some stock he’d wired them to take a profit on. After he’d kissed her he’d told Elsie Finnegan to switch the call out to the trial field for him. It made him feel good to be driving out through the halfbuilt town, through the avenue jammed with trucks full of construction materials, jockeying his car among the trucks with a feeling of shine and strength at the perfect action of his clutch and the smooth response of the gears. The gatekeeper had the New York call for him. The connection was perfect. Nat had banked thirteen grand for him. As he hung up the receiver he thought poor little Elsie, he’d have to buy her something real nice. “It’s a great day, Joe, ain’t it?” he said to the gatekeeper.
Bill was waiting for him beside the new ship at the entrance to the hangar, wiping grease off his thick fingers with a bunch of waste. Charley slapped him on the back. “Good old Bill… Isn’t this a great day for the race?” Bill fell for it. “What race, boss?” “The human race, you fathead… Say, Bill,” he went on as he took off his gloves and his well tailored spring overcoat, “I don’t mind tellin’ you I feel wonderful today… made thirteen grand on the market yesterday… easy as rollin’ off a log.”
While Charley pulled a suit of overalls on the mechanics pushed the new ship out onto the grass for Bill to make his general inspection. “Jesus, she’s pretty.” The tiny aluminum ship glistened in the sun out on the green grass like something in a jeweler’s window. There were dandelions and clover on the grass and a swirling flight of little white butterflies went up right from under his black clodhoppers when Bill came back to Charley and stood beside him. Charley winked at Bill Cermak standing beside him in his blue denims stolidly looking at his feet. “Smile, you sonofabitch,” he said. “Don’t this weather make you feel good?”
Bill turned a square bohunk face towards Charley. “Now look here, Mr. Anderson, you always treat me good… from way back Long Island days. You know me, do work, go home, keep my face shut.” “What’s on your mind, Bill?… Want me to try to wangle another raise for you? Check.”
Bill shook his heavy square face and rubbed his nose with a black forefinger. “Tern Company used to be good place to work good work good pay. You know me, Mr. Anderson, I’m no bolshayvik… but no stoolpigeon either.”
“But damn it, Bill, why can’t you tell those guys to have a little patience… we’re workin’ out a profitsharin’ scheme. I’ve worked on a lathe myself… I’ve worked as a mechanic all over this goddam country… I know what the boys are up against, but I know what the management’s up against too… Gosh, this thing’s in its infancy, we’re pouring more capital into the business all the time… We’ve got a responsibility towards our investors. Where do you think that jack I made yesterday’s goin’ but the business of course. The oldtime shop was a great thing, everybody kidded and smoked and told smutty stories, but the pressure’s too great now. If every department don’t click like a machine we’re rooked. If the boys want a union we’ll give ’em a union. You get up a meeting and tell ’em how we feel about it but tell ’em we’ve got to have some patriotism. Tell ’em the industry’s the first line of national defense. We’ll send Eddy Sawyer down to talk to ’em… make ’em understand our problems.”
Bill Cermak shook his head. “Plenty other guys do that.” Charley frowned. “Well, let’s see how she goes,” he snapped impatiently.
“Gosh, she’s a honey.”
The roar of the motor kept them from saying any more. The mechanic stepped from the controls and Charley climbed in. Bill Cermak got in behind. She started taxiing fast across the green field. Charley turned her into the wind and let her have the gas. At the first soaring bounce there was a jerk. As he pitched forward Charley switched off the ignition.
They were carrying him across the field on a stretcher. Each step of the men carrying the stretcher made two jagged things grind together in his leg. He tried to tell ’em that he had a piece of something in his side, but his voice was very small and hoarse. In the shadow of the hangar he was trying to raise himself on his elbow. “What the devil happened? Is Bill all right?” The men shook their heads. Then he passed out again like the juice failing in a car.
In the ambulance he tried to ask the man in the white jacket about Bill Cermak and to remember back exactly what had happened, but the leg kept him too busy trying not to yell. “Hay, doc,” he managed to croak, “can’t you get these aluminum splinters out of my side? The damn ship must have turned turtle on them. Wing couldn’t take it maybe, but it’s time they got the motor lifted off me. Hay, doc, why can’t they get a move on?”
When he got the first whiff of the hospital, there were a lot of men in white jackets moving and whispering round him. The hospital smelt strong of ether. The trouble was he couldn’t breathe. Somebody must have spilt that damned ether. No, not on my face. The motor roared. He must have been seeing things. The motor’s roar swung into an easy singsong. Sure, she was taking it fine, steady as one of those big old bombers. When he woke up a nurse was helping him puke into a bowl.
When he woke up again, for chrissake no more ether, no, it was flowers, and Gladys was standing beside the bed with a big bunch of sweetpeas in her hand. Her face had a pinched look. “Hello, Glad, how’s the girl?” “Oh, I’ve been so worried, Charley. How do you feel? Oh, Charley, for a man of your standing to risk his life in practice flights… Why don’t you let the people whose business it is do it, I declare.” There was something Charley wanted to ask. He was scared about something. “Say, are the kids all right?” “Wheatley skinned his knee and I’m afraid the baby has a little temperature. I’ve phoned Dr. Thompson. I don’t think it’s anything though.”