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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

A white-haired man stands on a tall wooden platform in an old aviator getup, ignoring the confusion below as he shouts a pitch he’s probably barked out a thousand times: “Tethered rides, ten dollars a person. No reason to be afraid, we’re not going to Oz. Come one, come all, there’s nothing like riding in Houlihan’s hot-air balloon!”

This is our escape?

The Dark Army will never anticipate it. You said yourself they’re looking for us in cars, trucks, and anything with a combustion engine. I would guess that there aren’t many hot-air balloons floating around a thousand years from now.

True, but they’ve got helicopters that fly as fast as your jet planes. Once we’re up in that thing, when they figure it out, we’ll be target practice.

At least we’ll be up, up, and away. Do you have a better idea?

No, but that doesn’t make your idea good. The dog and I race up the steps of the platform.

“Hi,” I tell the man, “we’re ready for our trip.”

He’s wearing what looks like a World War I flying ace’s uniform. Helmet. Goggle glasses. Flying jacket. Leather gloves and boots. “I don’t take animals up,” he says. “It’s against the law.”

I open my wallet. Hold out a hundred dollars in soggy twenties. A week’s worth of stacking crates in Boston. “Are you sure? He’s a very well behaved dog.”

The old balloonist glances at Gisco appraisingly, then looks at the money, and licks his lips. “Well, I suppose I could make an exception. Are you sure Fido there won’t panic and jump out of the gondola?”

My dear fellow, once we’re airborne, a force-five hurricane couldn’t dislodge me.

“Positive, but we need to go up right now.”

The flying ace hesitates a second more and then takes the cash. “I don’t know what your hurry is,” he says, “but climb in.”

19

19

We climb into the wicker basket. “How high does this go?” I ask. “Hot air rises, so theoretically it can keep going up and up, right?”

The old aviator bends to the controls, switching on a small propane heater. “We’re anchored,” he points out. “The tether rope is fifty feet. You’ll get a good view when we’re all the way up.”

We start to rise gently. This certainly beats the Death Coaster. Feather-soft and uplifting in the truest sense of the wood. Ask the gentleman if a meal is included with the flight.

I hesitate, but I’m also ravenous. “Do you by any chance sell food up here?”

He looks at me like I’m mad. “What?”

“Like theme snacks?”

“This is a balloon ride, not a buffet.”

I smell pastrami. He’s holding back.

Chill, dog. “So, how far can one of these fly?” I ask the grumpy balloonist.