“Is this the plane you got to Boston in last year?” I said.
“No, we couldn’t get it certified in time. Last year we flew a C-Forty-Seven—a flying boxcar. But I’ve taken this plane up.
She handles very well once you get used to her; the main problem is in landing, because of the odd configuration. I don’t
anticipate any trouble.”
I didn’t anticipate any
specific
trouble either. But I had a hunch that a man who invariably gets kicked when he bends over to pick up a ten dollar bill had
no business boarding the Hawkes Flying Tail, even on an inspection tour.
“I’m afraid Dr. Elvers isn’t going to make it,” Jayne was saying. “It’s too bad. We did so want the two of you to meet.”
“There’ll be another time,” the Commodore said abstractedly over the pictures. Jayne’s remark, however, reminded me that it
was getting late. I looked at my watch.
“Oh, oh,” I said. “If I’m going to catch my train home, I’ll have to hump for it. Thanks very much for the drinks. I’ll be
seeing you again shortly, of course. When is the take off scheduled for?”
“Monday, April twenty-ninth,” Farnsworth said. “Glad you’re going with us, Julian.”
“I’m sure your scientific training will be a great asset,” Jayne said, uncoiling, and giving me a glowing smile of a kind
I have never before seen bestowed on scientific training.
“I’ll go along with you,” Harriet said.
And she did; and so I missed my train after all. Harriet insisted that we stop off in a bar for another drink, and since I
was indebted to her, I couldn’t very well refuse.
“You can catch a later train,” she insisted. “I want to talk to you.”
Once we had our drinks, she came at me directly. “Are you really going to go along with that big blowhard?” she demanded.
“It looks that way,” I said. “I’ll admit that I see a few drawbacks I hadn’t seen before. I don’t like the looks of that aircraft
one bit. And Jayne rather alarms me, too. But on the whole I think the Commodore’s rather likeable. And the expedition’s worth
while, after all.
“That I don’t see at all. It’s just a grandstanding stunt. Him and his asteroids.”
“The asteroids are at least harmless, and he might even be on the right track. And the IGY seems to think the expedition will
be valuable.”
Harriet scowled into her drink. “What is this IGY, anyhow? I keep seeing stuff about it in the papers, but I never did find
a coherent account of what it’s all about. Is it just this artificial satellite business Ike announced in ’55?”
“No, there’s a lot more to it than that. The period itself runs from July 1st, 1957, to December 31st, 1958. Essentially it’s
a world-wide co-operative study of the Earth itself. Geophysics covers the land, the atmosphere, the oceans, and all the things
outside the Earth that affect it—the sun, for instance, and cosmic rays. During the Year, the scientists are concentrating
on fields of study that require simultaneous observations to be made all over the world. I can’t give you the whole list—it
keeps growing constantly, anyhow—but some of the problems they’re tackling are the aurora borealis and the airglow, the magnetism
of the Earth, its gravitational field—let me see—glaciers, and the weather, oceanography, earthquakes…. I forget the rest,
but it’s a large order. There’s a rocket programme for studying the upper atmosphere, and of course the satellites—they ought
to yield all kinds of basic information.”
“I can’t quite picture the Commodore as part of a vast fellowship of dedicated basic research men,” Harriet said gloomily.
“But I suppose it takes all kinds. I was hoping you’d see through him, and give me some ammunition for separating him from
his Pfistner sponsorship. I can’t do it by myself, I’ve proven that. But you let me down.”
“Sorry, carrot-top. He’s peculiar, but I think his expedition
is worth while. Otherwise I’d be backing out of it as fast as ever my little legs could run.”
“Well, the least you can do is to see me home.”
I had had just enough to drink so that the idea tempted me, but I didn’t need much Super-Ego to see what my personal devil
would make of such an opportunity. I backed out, ungraciously but fast.
I was half-way back to Pelham on the 8.35 before I realized that I had completely forgotten to ask the Commodore about salary.
J
UST
to be on the safe side, I called Ellen Fremd the next day and gave her the meat of Farnsworth’s pet idea. To my surprise,
she was interested, though she showed her usual intellectual caution.
“I think the chances are very much against his finding anything,” she told me over the phone. “I he whole idea of an asteroidal
protoplanet is speculative. It’s just as likely that the asteroids are the debris of a planet that failed to form in the very
beginning, because the mass of Jupiter kept scattering the components. But there is this recent work on the helium content
of meteorites; that’s what you saw in
Nature.
It suggests that certain types of them were molten only a few million years ago, and that they weren’t exposed to space at
the time. It’s difficult to understand how that could be possible, unless they were part of some quite sizeable solid body
back then.”
“Frankly, Ellen, you flabbergast me. I thought the idea was a fugitive from a science-fiction story. If Farnsworth did grapple
up a big chunk from the ocean bottom up North, would the IGY be interested in it?”
“Certainly,” Ellen said. “As a matter of fact, at least two of the projects on the satellite Flight Priority List have a bearing
on it. Let’s see if I have the list here…. Yes. There’s ESP-4, measurement of interplanetary matter, under Maurice Dubin at
Cambridge; and ESP-7, measurement of meteoric dust erosion of the satellite skin, under Singer at the University of Maryland.
So if Farnsworth finds anything that leads US to alter our current ideas of meteor density in space—as
any data tending to support the protoplanet hypothesis would do—we would be most interested.
“Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “the Arctic Ocean isn’t heavily iced over, as most people seem to think. And Farnsworth’s
notion that it’s been ice-covered ever since the end of the Pliocene is possibly a little simplistic. After all, the last
Ice Age ended less than 11,000 years ago. Anyhow, Julian, it’s well worth looking into, I think.”
I thanked her and hung up, feeling a little dizzy. I was not in spectacularly good shape anyhow, thanks to a protracted argument
with Midge which had lasted for three quarts of ale after I had gotten home the previous night. I think Midge might have passed
over my new association with a Notorious Woman like Jayne Wynn, or my being much too late for dinner without having phoned,
or my having been out drinking with Harriet. The combination, however, was too much for her. The argument was dull and lengthy,
as are all arguments which are essentially about nothing, and the end-product was one of those awful hangovers which fill
the whole of the next day with an inexplicable sense of guilt and impending disaster, like the first intimations of schizophrenia.
Indoles in the blood, I suppose.
But I couldn’t go back to bed today, all the same. There was still too much that I didn’t know.
The first thing I wanted to do was to get out to Teterboro and get my own personal look at the Flying Tail. Somewhere during
the day I had also to repair my omission to ask the Commodore about salary, too. But the aircraft came first.
Getting to Teterboro from Pelham, since it involves going through Manhattan, is much more difficult than going from New York
to Chicago, but I made it by two in the afternoon. I showed my credentials to the Port of New York Authority administrator
who runs the airport, and went out to look for the Hawkes Flying Tail.
It wasn’t there.
I couldn’t see any place on the field where such an object could be hidden. I went to the nearest hangar, which turned out
to belong to the Peterkin Flying School; a mechanic told me that Peterkin was out with a student, but would be down soon.
After a while a Piper Tri-Pacer which I had seen circling the field at about 800 feet came in for a landing and taxied toward
us.
“Sure, I know the ship you mean,” Peterkin told me. “She’s been sitting off in this corner of the field since about 1942.
Old Squats, we called her. Every so often the Air Force would tune her up a little. Then they’d fill up her fuel tanks and
leave her again.”
“Why’d they fill her up?”
“Corrosion,” Peterkin said, with the superiority of the flier for the groundlubber. “If you don’t keep tanks full, they corrode.
Water condenses on the inside.”
“Oh. Well, where is she now?”
“You got me,” Peterkin said. “All I know is, a bunch of characters in green uniforms came over here last week and inspected
her from top to bottom. Then they came back about three days ago and took her off, without even anybody checking ’em out
in her. She hasn’t been back since. Funniest looking thing in flight since birds.”
Green uniforms? I hightailed it back to the operations office.
“Why, sure,” the operations officer said. “It was all perfectly in order. She was sold to the Venezuelan Air Force, and they
came and got her, that’s all. They didn’t need to be checked out in her, since she was an X Model; I don’t know who’d be qualified
to check a pilot out in her anyhow, except maybe Rupert Hawkes.”
“My boss flew it,” I said. “Commodore Bramwell-Farnsworth.”
“Oh,” the operations officer said, “him. I saw him do it. He may be hell on wheels in a Ford Trimotor, but I wouldn’t send
my worst enemy up with him in that ship. Half the time he was flying her upside down.” He thought a moment and then added,
“It is a little hard to tell which side is supposed to be the upside.”
“This is going to cause a whale of a stink,” I said. “The Air Force gave the use of that aircraft to the Commodore. He’s supposed
to fly it on a North Pole expedition at the end of April.”
“Well, he’s lucky,” the operations officer said. “He wouldn’t have gotten Old Squats as far as Boston. Even Chuck Yaeger wouldn’t
fly that plane.”
I regarded the reference to Boston as singularly unfortunate, but at least the Commodore wasn’t around to hear it.
“Look,” I said. “This has got to be a clerical error of some
kind. The Air Force can’t give two different outfits the same aircraft. Maybe the Venezuelans don’t have title yet; can’t
you call them back until this thing’s settled?”
“How can I do that? It doesn’t take all year to get to Venezuela. They must have landed in Caracas the day after they left
here, at the latest. She’s probably flying bananas by now. If your boss still wants her back, he’ll have to take it up with
the Air Force—it’s out of my hands. As far as I’m concerned, the kids had all the proper papers, they had a right to Old Squats,
and they took her away. I’m glad to be rid of the old eyesore.”
I didn’t know what to think. I hadn’t been eager to ride in the Flying Tail, but I didn’t want. to be part of a grounded expedition,
either. I retired in confusion to the bar, and thence to a phone booth from which I called Harriet at MACB(eth). She wasn’t
in the office and the receptionist couldn’t say when she’d be back; was there any message? I left a message, and began wending
my sweaty way back to Pelham. This was going to be a nasty piece of news to have to break to the Commodore, and I wasn’t going
to break it to him without prior consultation with someone who knew him at least a little better than I did. I have many defects,
but there’s one good thing you can say about me: I’m a genuinely thorough-going coward.
I was playing roll-the-ball with the baby after dinner when Harriet called. Midge’s expression as she transferred the phone
to me was one impossible to describe to bachelors; it was, well, tentatively grim. I put on the standard answering expression,
Righteous Reproof No. 2, and said: “Harriet?”
“Hello, Julian,” Harriet’s voice said dolefully.
“Oh. Hello. You sound like the North Orange Crematorium. I gather that you got the news.”
“Noose? How did you know? I was just told today. This afternoon.”
“You got it the easy way. I had to hunt for it.”
“Hunt for what?”
“The gawdam aeroplane, what else?”
“Julian,” Harriet said. “What aeroplane? What are you talking about?”
“I’m beginning to wonder. Let’s start over. Hello, Harriet. What’s new?”
“I’ve been fired.”
I groped for a chair, caromed off the piano with a noise like a Reader’s Digest condensation of a Roger Sessions symphony,
and wound up perched on a corner of the piano-bench. “Cripes, Harriet.”
“Well, I’m bearing up bravely. Actually I’m not fired yet. It’s just that Pfistner dropped MACB(eth) today, and I got two
weeks’ notice. But I’ve got to start hunting. You know how it is for a woman in this game.”
I did. I said, “What are you planning?”
“There’s not much I can do. I’ve got to use the only solid contact I have. That’s the Commodore, damn his golden hide. If
you’ll help, maybe he’ll take me on as publicity gal for the expedition.”
I wormed my bottom off the corner of the bench on to the edge and just breathed for a moment. Considering the multiple drawbacks
such an arrangement would ha for Harriet, it was hard to imagine why she could even entertain it. But then, I didn’t know
how badly off she really was; in her own mind she had already fallen from the high Miltonian heaven of being a “public relations
counsel” to the dismal universal hiss of “publicity”, at least inside her own carefully coiffed skull. I didn’t underestimate
the length of that fall, imaginary though it usually seems to the people who do the useful work of the world.
“What would you like me to do?” I said cautiously.
“Well, maybe you can give me a few extra assets to offer, outside of my experience and so on. The Commodore needs names with
scientific status to put on his letter head. If I could bring him somebody like Robert Willey, not to go with the expedition,
but just to act as technical adviser or something…. What do you think?”