[pshrynk]

Howard Hughes was having problems. His co-pilot had quit somwhere over New Mexico and had used one of the two prototype parachutes that were in the Flying Plane. He vaguely hoped that it was one of the few that actually worked. Hughes was not certain why the fellow had quit. He screamed something about the suicidal autopilot and then something about taking his chances with the 'chute.

That was just silly, Hughes thought, once they'd cleared the mountains, there weren't any upright edifices to fly into whenever the M.A.R.V.I.N. was switched on. As long as the piolot ket a careful eye on the altimeter, there was not much at all for the autopilot to fly into. Piece of cake.

"Where on this gods forsaken planet are we flying to?" intoned the depressive electronic apparatus.

"I thought we'd just nip on over to Cuba. There's a poker game going on there that I'm just dying to get into."

"Don't talk to me about dying. I could make you bald talking about dying."

"Have you ever played poker, Marvie?"

"Don't call me Marvie. Is that anything like flying straight at a mountain with the intent of crashing horribly high up in the air and causing millions of dollars of collateral damage in the ensuing avalanche?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Then, no. Not yet."