A cleft of stars

The plane was really near now. But as I flung myself over the wall I saw Rankin kneeling, rifle to shoulder. The range was down to point-blank; there was nothing I could do. The plane's engine drowned the sound of the shot, but I knew Rankin had fired-and hit his target. "Rankin! You bloody murdering bastard!" But my words were swamped by a tearing crash as the plane hit the side of the mountain... "His story-telling has a drive that is compulsive." Scotsman