What The Left Hand Was Doing

s message had been received.

Then a red gleam came into being on the control board.

"What the hell?" said the co-pilot.

The pilot swore. "I told 'em that door was weak! We've ripped the luggage door off her hinges. Feel her shake?"

The co-pilot looked grim. "Good thing it happened now instead of in mid-flight. At that speed, we'd been torn apart."

"Blown to bits, you mean," said the pilot. "Let's bring her in."

By that time, Spencer Candron was a long way below the ship, falling like a stone, a big suitcase clutched tightly in his arms. He knew that the Chinese radar was watching the jetliner, and that it had undoubtedly picked up two objects dropping from the craft--the door and one other. Candron had caught the pilot's mental signal--anything that powerful could hardly be missed--and had opened the door and leaped.

But those things didn't matter now. Without a parachute, he had flung himself from the plane toward the earth below, and his onl