Dying For A Drink.

I left Shirleys Pub with a promise of a hot bath and company at the town hall dance - if I could get the booze.
The Cub was sitting in the afternoon heat in a patch of Veldt near the overgrown field that used to be the grass strip. A few cattle kept the grass down, but made the availability of the strip variable. Especially after dark.

The little plane rattled and creaked as I climbed aboard. Switches on, plenty of juice. I got out, checked the dipper - plenty of petrol. Okay. Start her up. Quick magneto check - there are old pilots, there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. Fine Buckle up and swing onto the strip.
A few yards and we clawed into the air.

I flew at about 500 feet, keeping an occasional eye on the engine and looking over the side.
At one point I saw a lion, a female, a small herd of Zebra. They didn't look startled. The cub wasn't a startling sort of plane.

Eventually I spotted the rail depot at Morrisville, where the holding warehouses for the region were. I circled until I saw a roadway between the tracks. Then I landed. Again, I pulled up in a few yards.
Switching off, the silence wasn't complete. There was a faint buzz in the air. I paid no attention.
Robbie Reiker had seen me; I got out as he came running up.
"Hiya Pratty!"
"Hello Robbie!"
"What can I do for you?"
"Need whisky and rum. Crate of each for the pub."
"Can do, Pratty. Old surplus stock do? Usual price?"
"Yes man."
The drone was getting louder. We both looked up. Coming in on the very same roadway was a contraption looking like a gnat, still about 50 feet up.
It was a Fiesler Storch.
What the hell?