Free Trouble on His Wings by L. Ron Hubbard Page B

“was mistaken by our airmen for Mr. Wu and was sent, I trust,
to his fellow birdmen in heaven. I saw him sink. It is to be regretted.
Military expediency, Mr. Brice, is a God difficult to serve. There is one thing
I can do.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œNaturally you are
interested in your pictures. They are very excellent. We have, of course, complete
facilities aboard, and we took the liberty to finish them. It has become
customary for us to record our activities, and perhaps foreign works and
vessels, wherever possible, and we are indebted to you for your aerial views of
our diving battle planes. We can learn much from them. The technique of our
pilots was most ragged and, with the aid of your pictures, may be pointed out.
Perhaps, if you would like to see them—”
    â€œIt’s the sadist in
him,” growled Johnny. “All right, I’ll look at them.”
    â€œIt is I who offer the
favor,” quietly reminded the captain.
    He led the way down
into the officers’ salon where, copying the fashion of the United States Navy,
motion pictures took up part of the burden of morale. After the evening show,
the projector was still in place and the captain rang for the operator. With
some pride he indicated the projector.
    â€œIt is much different
from the day of the samurai, eh, Mr. Brice? Japan has come far. Our Navy is
every bit as modern as your own and, who knows, may some day be as large.”
    The operator came and
went away again to bring back Johnny’s film. There was no positive print, only
the negative, and though black and white were reversed, making the diving
planes like weird ghost ships against a black sky, the excellence of the photography
was apparent even to the Jinx.
    Johnny sat very still.
He watched the planes coming down, watched the water coming up, saw his shot of
Mr. Wu’s secretary getting hit, witnessed the testimony of his own news sense
in every foot of that film. It was all there, the man-o’-war, the ship’s gig,
the rising sun insignia on the warplane wings. It was, he knew, the action shot
of the year, done in brilliantly clear photography. As the film whirred out, he
felt a little sick at his loss, realizing that, in his pride, he had forgotten
it for a moment. He heard the operators clattering the reel into its flat can
and then gathering up all his equipment.
    â€œLovely, eh?” said the
captain.
    The Jinx stifled a
sob. She knew what Johnny was thinking and feeling. She got up and started
toward the hatchway at the rear of the salon, dabbing at her eyes with the
handkerchief. The operator failed to see her, and his arms were so loaded that
he failed to realize his course. He bumped her and the cans clattered in every
direction. The ship was rolling so that many went far, and the sailor, with one
tortured eye on the captain, hastened to pick them up. The Jinx was quick to
help him, stacking the cans into his arms. The operator glanced at that most
precious of the containers—Johnny’s—to make sure it was still there. Then he
stumbled out into the passageway and was gone.
    Johnny went up on
deck, following her. They stood at the rail once more.
    â€œIf I’d had a chance
like that!” snapped Johnny. “You dope! Why didn’t you try to grab that can?”
    â€œHe checked it. It
wasn’t any use. You saw him look at it. Besides . . . I felt so bad . . . I
didn’t even think—”
    â€œBah!” snarled Johnny.
He was aware of Irish standing morosely in the dimness. “You know what
happened? She had her hands on our film and didn’t even make an effort to steal
it!”
    Irish looked sadly at
the Jinx. “There’s one thing you’ve got to learn in this business,” he said.
“If we was all honest, how do you think we’d ever get any pictures?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” wept the
Jinx.
    â€œWe couldn’t have
gotten away with it anyhow,”