Gianfranco Mancini’s Reviews > Rocketeer: Jet-Pack Adventures > Status Update

Cliff tightened his grip on his own hand controls, racing after her. Millie veered from a straight ascent to heading west toward the Pacific Ocean, and as Cliff corrected his own trajectory to follow, he was dimly aware of hundreds of upturned faces and pointing hands below. The air-show crowd was certainly getting its money’s worth today. The two Rocketeers were putting on a hell of a fight for them.

Cliff’s jaw dropped as he stared in disbelief. “Rose?” Yes, it was the hostess he’d met at the party, but “Rose” had lost the red hair, which he now realized had been a wig, and when he saw her with her real, dark brown hair cut close around her face, he knew her. “Millie Marker! Of course. You’re the one who’s been flying the rocket suit!” Executing a curtsey, Millie answered, “Miss Rocketeer, at your service.”

When they reached Cliff’s place, Betty parked, leaned over and gave Cliff a kiss that left him flushed and shaking. “What was that for? Not that I object, mind you.” “That was for taking my side after all.” Cliff made a mental note to let Betty win all of their arguments in the future.

After he’d finished lunch, Cliff tucked the paper under his arm and went to check in with Peevy at his workshop. He needed to talk to someone smart, someone who could tell him if it was really possible that the Rivet Gang were women. Dainty, delicate, beautiful, fragile women.

Glancing at the cracked and frayed leatherette around him, Cliff just nodded and assured the cabbie that it wouldn’t happen. Besides, he had bigger things to worry about…like how bad Peevy was going to kill him when he found out that the rocket pack was now residing with the bones of prehistoric animals in the La Brea Tar Pits.

He took a deep breath and put her file back in the drawer without looking. He was sure Betty would never cheat on him, not even for her career’s sake. But thinking about her put a knot in his stomach again. He wished she were safe at home, or with Peevy, or at the Bulldog Café—anywhere but out in the open where the killer could find her if he wanted to.

“It’s just as well,” Burton said. “You know what they say about men in masks, don’t you? The masks don’t hide their true faces. The masks are their true faces. Makes you wonder about the Rocketeer, doesn’t it? What that says about him?” Burton put the photograph back on the table, tipped his hat and took his leave.

“Oh, Cliff, won’t the pictures be beautiful?” He sighed. Every instinct was warning him to talk Betty out of doing this, but those same instincts told him she would never listen. Not when her first leading role in a Hollywood picture beckoned. Cliff looked at Rogell. The producer’s lascivious leer was back on his face as he watched Betty model the costumes.

That was another thing. Rogell’s picture was hardly destined to be the Casablanca of 1943. No, this masterpiece was called The Mask of the Pharaoh and was about a woman who goes to Egypt, discovers she’s the reincarnation of an ancient Egyptian princess and gets chased by the mummy of the pharaoh Sekhemkhet as well as a gang of ruthless, mob-connected treasure hunters.

“The invasion?” Chiodo said nothing, but Cliff didn’t need a response. Across the tops of the buildings, over toward the main wharves and the Delaware River, the sky was hemorrhaging a thick cloud of green light. In that light hovered the specters of armored zeppelins and seemingly endless squadrons of rocket-men. They were shimmering and translucent as yet, but their potential filled Cliff with rock-solid terror.