The Last Bridge

Chapter Thirty 1135 Hours

McKuen eased the control yoke back. A yard-long chunk of ice broke off the port wing’s leading edge and clanged against some part of the fuselage. The plane dragged wearily against the air; ice, blunting the wings, reduced their lift, and he was burning fuel at a frightening rate. On its rubber mountings the panel of instruments vibrated, blurring the dials. A faint luminescence bloomed through the clouds — the sun trying to break through. He suffered an intense moment of heavy vibration, and then calm, with the engines throbbing in low-pitched struggle. The airspeed needle wavered between a hundred fifteen and a hundred twenty-five. Number two’s head-temperature had gone up fifteen degrees in as many minutes — indication enough that ice had begun to clog the airscoop. His mixtures were far too rich as it was; he dared not increase them. Slicing through the heavy sky, the props were barely visible; the exhausts were faint orange blossoms of light.

The plane lurched and righted itself. In a little while he would have to backfire number two to get rid of the ice in the air intake. He tightened his seat belt until he could feel its steady pressure on his belly. His lips were pressed together too tightly. He peered down through the window, trying to make out the ground, trying to find landmarks; but the ground was fogged in. All he could see was a secondary cloudbank unrolling beneath him.

Mister Shannon had gone stiff in cold death. McKuen’s gaze was expressionless when it fell on the body; he had put the presence of death out of his conscious lexicon.

He found a cigarette in his pocket. It was bent at the middle. He straightened it with great care before he put it between his lips and stretched back in the seat to get his lighter out of a pocket. The lighter flame burst at him like an explosion, batted fiercely around by the crosscurrents of wind buffeting through the cockpit. He inhaled deeply and blew smoke toward the instruments. His face was wholly without feeling, numbed by cold. The plane chattered and smoothed out; the sky seemed subterranean, like a womb. McKuen flew alone through an alien world, his emotions suspended by shock. A sudden grin split his face when he said, “To hell with it. Kicks.”