The Lonely Silver Rain Read Online Free PDF Page B

along the road I heard the three o'clock news. Nothing was happening except that a lot of little people were getting killed in a lot of little wars, and there was an out-of-season tropical disturbance forming beyond the Windwards.
    I drove right to Mick's hangar at Southdale. Carleen Hooper was sitting beside the Mick's desk. She had on a pale green jogging outfit. Her blonde hair was short and tousled, her face sallow and lined, with big dark smudges under her eyes. She smiled at me and said, "McGee, I approve of your suggestion about the answering machine."
    "Didn't think you'd be listening to it, Mrs. Hooper."
    "Carlie, please. Mick should be here any minute. And I've got this big damned form to fill out for the FAA. This afternoon I am right in the groove, coming down from Orlando, assigned to twelve thousand, which is just above some clouds forming. I am skimming the top and all of a sudden this little ultralight pops right in front of me.
    "What's he doing at twelve thousand anyway? I would call it two hundred feet. So I am at about two forty knots, which is about three hundred and fifty feet per second. I was just about to go onto autopilot, and if I had, he would have been dead. I had time for just one little twitch which lifted the right wing over him and I had a glance at his face. I think I took seven years off his life, and he took a least a week off mine. I came back around to get a number but those little suckers don't have to have one. It had an MX on the rudder surface. I was tempted to buzz him a couple of times for luck, but with my luck it would have ripped his wings off. He was heading on down pretty good anyway. He waved at me. Isn't that nice? Excuse me, I've got to get this dumb thing filled out. The way I see it, they should have an operational ceiling of one thousand feet and they shouldn't be allowed to operate those things within twenty-five miles of any airport. They look like big dumb mosquitoes."
    I told her the fellow was lucky somebody with wonderful reflexes was flying her airplane. I roamed around, looking at the souvenirs the Mick has fastened to the two wooden walls of his office. The other two are glass from one yard on up so he can watch what's going on on the hangar floor. One picture was of the Mick standing on the hardpan in flying gear, helmet in hand, in front of what looked to be a World War II Navy torpedo bomber. It was dated February 10, 1942. The Mick looked about fifteen years old.
    When he came in, I took him out into a corner of the hangar far from the two mechanics just finishing up their day, and I told him what I wanted. I showed him the chart. I'd marked the area I wanted covered.
    "Okay," he said. "Lower level. Color. Check the hidey-holes. This is Tuesday. I can't do it before Saturday. It will take the whole day. I'll use the Champ and figure on two gas stops. How does four hundred sound? That's a special rate."
    "Plus gas?"
    "You called it."
    "Damn it, Mick, they left the marina Monday morning, the fifteenth. Saturday is twelve days later. Any way anybody could do that tomorrow? Carlie? Somebody?"
    "Big rush?"
    "I've got a feeling in the lower spine. Lumbar four and five. That's the hunch area. Like they brought something across, and that's a transfer point. Or they're picking something up."
    "Let me take another look at that schedule." He was able to rework his little air force schedule so that he could do a half day tomorrow, in the morning, early.
    He went into the back corner of the hangar to check his little yellow chum, his Aeronca 7AC Champion, about twenty-one feet of high-wing monoplane with a single wooden propeller, weighing 740 pounds empiy, with room for two passengers, thirteen gallons of gas and 40 pounds of baggage, maximum speed at sea level: eighty-two knots.
    "Take me along?" I asked him.
    He looked me over and shook his head sadly. "You and me add up to three people, McGee, and I never stress my little friend here, the Champ. One time I put her