Pete gunned the motor and kicked hard right rudder. The little airplane bounced into a right turn—away from the ops building, away from the old man with the rifle, and towards the runway, forty yards away. The tarmac didn’t lead to the runway that way, but Pete didn’t feel picky right then. The grass was short and the ground fairly level. Good enough. He ignored his unexpected passenger in the right-hand seat.
“Take off!” Mallard screamed. “For God’s sake, take off!” They bounded up out of a slight dip and plopped onto the runway. Pete swung the rudder far right again, and the Taylorcraft swerved in that direction. Its metal tailskid skipped over the runway’s surface. The floodlights back above the tarmac allowed Pete to see the unlit runway that stretched a short distance ahead. When they were centered up on it, Pete neutralized the rudder and moved the push/pull throttle forward halfway to the instrument panel to hurry the plane along.
“You’re headed the wrong way!” Mallard yelled. He jabbed Pete in the ribs with an elbow. “The runway ends just ahead!”
“No shit, Doc,” Pete said. “You’ve a keen eye for this sort of thing.”
“What in hell are you doing?”
“Got to get some space.” Pete answered. He pulled the throttle back and, once again, pushed the rudder hard over. The Taylorcraft swung around and pointed back up the runway.
Now the runway stretched out ahead until it disappeared into the black void beyond the two rings of light thrown down by the floodlights. Pete could see the watchman just inside the far edge of the lighted area. The old man hustled towards the runway, headed for a spot a couple of hundred yards ahead of their plane.
