The Third Level

by Jack Finney

  It had been standing last week, I knew, and after a while, off across the grass to the east, there it was, a stone building with towers like a castle, looking just the same as always, the windows now blank and white in the moonlight. Still standing, sir, I said.

  Good, said the major. Reconnaissance approach, now, and we went on to a cross street and turned into it. Up ahead were several buildings I'd never noticed before, and we went up to them and swung down off our horses. Walk between these buildings, the major said, leading his horse. Quiet, now; we're reconnoitering.

  We crept on, quiet as could be, in the shadows between the two buildings. The one to the right looked just like the Smithsonian to me, and I knew it must be a part of it; another building I'd never seen before. The major was all excited now, and kept whispering. Some new kind of weapon that will destroy the whole Rebel Army is what we're looking for. Let me know if you see any such thing, boy.

  Yessir, I said, and I almost bumped into something out there in the open in front of the building at the left. It was big and made entirely out of heavy metal, and instead of wheels it rested on two movable belts made of metal; big flat plates linked together.

  Looks like a tank, said the major, though I don't know what they keep in it. Keep moving, boy; this thing is obviously no use on a battlefield.

  We walked on just a step, and there on the pavement in front of us was a tremendous cannon, three times bigger than any I'd ever seen before in my life. It had an immense long barrel, wheels high as my chest, and it was painted kind of funny, in wavy stripes and splotches, so that you could hardly see it at first in the moonlight that got down between the buildings. Look at that thing! the major said softly. It would pulverize Lee in an hour, but I don't know how we'd carry it. No, he said, shaking his head, this isn't it. I wonder what they've got inside, though. He stepped up to the doors and peered in through the glass, shading his eyes with his hand. Then he gasped and turned to me.

  I went up beside him and looked through the glass. It was a long, big building, the moonlight slanting in through the windows all along one side; and all over the floor, and even hanging from the ceiling, were the weirdest-looking things I ever saw. They were each big as a wagon, some bigger, and they had wheels, but only two wheels, near the front; and I was trying to figure that out when the major got his voice back.

  Aircraft, by God! he said. They've got aircraft! Win the war!

  Air what, sir?

  Aircraft. Flying machines. They fly through the air. Don't you see the wings, boy?

  Each of the machines I could see inside had two things sticking out at each side like oversize ironing boards, but they looked stiff to me, and I didn't see how they could flap like wings. I didn't know what else the major could be talking about, though. Yessir, I said.

  But the major was shaking his head again. Much too advanced, he said. We could never master them. What we need is an earlier type, and I don't see any in here. Come on, boy; don't straggle.

  We walked on, leading the horses, toward the front of the other building. At the doors we peeked in, and there on the floor, with tools and empty crates lying around as though they'd just unpacked it, was another of the things, a flying machine. Only this was far smaller, and was nothing but a framework of wood like a big box kite, with little canvas wings, as the major called them. It didn't have wheels, either, just a couple of runners like a sled. Lying propped against a wall, as though they were just ready to put it up, was a sign. The moonlight didn't quite reach it, and I couldn't read all the words, but I could make out a few. World's first, it said in one place, and farther down it said, Kitty Hawk.

  The major just stood there for maybe a minute, staring like a man in a trance. Then he murmured to himself. Very like sketches of da Vinci's model; only apparently this one worked. He grinned suddenly, all excited. This is it, boy, he said. This is why we came.

  I knew what he had in mind, and I didn't like it. You'll never break in there, sir, I said. Those doors look mighty solid, and I'll bet this place is guarded like the mint.

  The major just smiled, mysterious again. Of course it is, son; it's the treasure house of a nation. No one could possibly get in with any hope of removing anything, let alone this aircraft — under ordinary circumstances. But don't worry about that, boy; just leave it to me. Right now we need fuel. Turning on his heel, he walked back to his horse, took the reins, and led him off; and I followed with mine.

  Off some distance, under some trees, near a big open space like a park, the major set the lever inside his black box, and pressed the button. Back in 1864, now, he said then, and sniffed. Air smells fresher. Now, I want you to take your horse, go to garrison headquarters, and bring back all the petrol you can carry. They've got some for cleaning uniforms. Tell them I'll take full responsibility. Understand?

  Yessir.

  Then off with you. When you come back, this is where I want you to meet me. The major turned and began walking away with his horse.

  At headquarters the guard woke a private, who woke a corporal, who woke a sergeant, who woke a lieutenant, who woke a captain, who swore a little and then woke up the private again and told him to give me what I wanted. The private went away, murmuring softly to himself, and came back pretty soon with six five-gallon jugs; and I tied them to my saddle, signed six sets of receipts in triplicate, and led my horse back through the moonlit streets of Washington, taking a nip of applejack now and then.

  I went by the White House again, on purpose; and this time someone was standing silhouetted against the lighted east window — a big man, tall and thin, his, shoulders bowed, his head down on his chest — and I couldn't help but get the impression of a weary strength and purpose and a tremendous dignity. I felt sure it was him, but I can't rightly claim I saw the President, because I've always been one to stick to the facts and never stretch the truth even a little bit.

  The major was waiting under the trees, and my jaw nearly dropped off, because the flying machine was sitting beside him. Sir, I said how did you —

  The major interrupted, smiling and stroking his little beard: Very simple. I merely stood at the front door — he patted the black box at the saddle near his shoulder —and moved back in time to a moment when even the Smithsonian didn't exist. Then I stepped a few paces ahead with the box under my arm, adjusted the lever again, moved forward to the proper moment, and there I was, standing beside the flying machine. I took myself and the machine out by the same method, and my mount pulled it here on its skids.

  Yessir, I said. I figured I could keep up this foolishness as long as he could, though I did wonder how he had got the flying machine out.

  The major pointed ahead. I've been exploring the ground, and it's pretty rocky and rough. He turned to the black box, adjusted the dial, and pressed the button. Now, it's a park, he said, sometime in the nineteen forties.

  Yessir, I said.

  The major nodded at a little spout in the flying machine. Fill her up, he said, and I untied one of the jugs, uncorked it, and began to pour. The tank sounded dry when the petrol hit it, and a cloud of dust puffed up from the spout. It didn't hold very much, only a few quarts, and the major began untying the other jugs. Lash these down in the machine, he said, and while I was doing that, the major began pacing up and down, muttering to himself. To start the engine, I should imagine you simply turn the propellers. But the machine will need help in getting into the air. He kept walking up and down, pulling his beard; then he nodded his head. Yes, he said, that should do it, I think. He stopped and looked at me. Nerves in good shape, boy? Hands steady and reliable?

  Yessir.

  All right, son, this thing should be easy to fly — mostly a matter of balance, I imagine. He pointed to a sort of saddle at the front of the machine. I believe you simply lie on your stomach with your hips in this saddle; it connects with the rudder and wings by cables. By merely moving from side to side, you control the machine's balance and direction. The major pointed to a lever. Work this with your ha
nd, he said, to go up or down. That's all there is to it, so far as I can see, and if I'm wrong in any details, you can correct them in the air with a little experimenting. Think you can fly it, boy?

  Yessir.

  Good, he said, and grabbed one of the propellers at the back and, began turning it. I worked on the other propeller, but nothing happened; they just creaked, stiff and rusty-like. But we kept turning, yanking harder and harder, and pretty soon the little engine coughed.

  Now, heave, boy! the major said, and we laid into it hard, and every time, now, the engine would cough a little. Finally, we yanked so hard, both together, our feet nearly came off the ground, and the motor coughed and kept on coughing and like to choked to death. Then it sort of cleared its throat and started to stutter but didn't stop, and then it was running smooth, the propellers just whirling, flashing and shining in the moonlight till you could hardly see them, and the flying machine shaking like a wet dog, with little clouds of dust pouring up out of every part of it.

  Excellent, said the major, and he sneezed from the dust. Then he began unfastening the horses' bridles, strapping them together again to make a single long rein. He posed the horses in front of the machine and said, Get in, boy. We've got a busy night ahead. I lay down in the saddle, and he climbed up on the top wing and lay down on his stomach. You take the lever, and I'll take the rein. Ready, boy?

  Yessir.

  Gee up! said the major, snapping the rein hard, and the horses started off, heads down, hoofs digging in.

  The flying machine sort of bumped along over the grass on its skids, but it soon smoothed out and began sliding along, level as a sled on packed snow, and the horses' heads came up and they began to trot, the motor just chugging away.

  Sound forward! said the major, and I unslung my trumpet and blew forward; the horses buckled into it, and we were skimming along, must have been fifteen, maybe twenty miles an hour or even faster.

  Now, charge! yelled the major, and I blew charge, and the hoofs began drumming the turf, the horses whinnying and snorting, the engine chugging faster and faster, the propellers whining in back of us, and all of a sudden the grass was a good five feet below, and the reins were hanging straight down. Then — for a second it scared me — we were passing the horses. We were right over their backs; then they began slipping away under the machine, and the major dropped the reins and yelled, Pull back the lever! I yanked back hard, and we shot up into the air like a rocket.

  I remembered what the major had said about experimenting and tried easing back on the lever, and the flying machine sort of leveled out, and there we were, chugging along faster than I'd ever gone in my life. It was wonderful fun, and I glanced down and there was Washington spread out below, a lot bigger than I'd thought it was and with more lights than I'd known there were in the world. They were bright, too; didn't look like candles and kerosene lamps at all. Way off, toward the center of town, some of the lights were red and green, and so bright they lighted up the sky.

  Watch out! yelled the major, and just ahead, rushing straight at us, was a tremendous monument or something, a big tall stone needle.

  I don't know why, but I twisted hard to the left in the little saddle and yanked back on the lever, and the wing heaved up and the flying machine shot off to one side, the wing tip nearly grazing the monument. Then I lay straight again, holding the lever steady. The machine leveled off, and it was like the first time I drove a team. I could feel in my bones that I was a natural-born flying-machine driver.

  Back to headquarters, said the major. Can you find the way?

  Yessir, I said, and headed south.

  The major fiddled with the dial in his black box and pressed the button, and down below now, in the moonlight, I could see the dirt road leading out of Washington back to headquarters. I turned for a last look at the city, but there were only a few lights now, not looking nearly as bright as before; the red and green lights were gone.

  But the road was bright in the moonlight, and we tore along over it when it went straight, cut across bends when it curved, flying it must have been close to forty miles an hour. The wind streamed back cold, and I pulled out the white knit muffler my grandma gave me and looped it around my throat. One end streamed back, flapping and waving in the wind. I thought my forage cap might blow off, so I reversed it on my head, the peak at the back, and I felt that now I looked the way a flying-machine driver ought to, and wished the girls back home could have seen me.

  For a while I practiced with the lever and hip saddle, soaring up till the engine started coughing, and turning and dipping down, seeing how close I could shave the road. But finally the major yelled and made me quit. Every now and then we'd see a light flare up in a farmhouse, and when we'd look back we'd see the light wobbling across the yard and know some farmer was out there with his lamp, staring up at the noise in the sky.

  Several times, on the way, we had to fill the tank again, and pretty soon, maybe less than two hours, campfires began sliding under our wings, and the major was leaning from side to side, looking down at the ground. Then he pointed ahead. That field down there, boy; can you land this thing with the engine off?

  Yessir, I said, and I stopped the engine, and the machine began sliding down like a toboggan, and I kept easing the lever back and forth, watching the field come up to meet us, growing bigger and bigger every second. We didn't make a sound now, except for the wind sighing through the wires, and we came in like a ghost, the moonlight white on our wings. Our downward path and the edge of the field met exactly, and the instant before we hit, my arm eased the lever back, and the skids touched the grass like a whisper. Then we bumped a little, stopped, and sat there a moment not saying a word. Off in the weeds the crickets began chirping again.

  The major said there was a cliff at the side of the field and we found it, and slid the machine over to the edge of it, and then we started walking around the field in opposite directions, looking for a path or sentry. I found the sentry right away, guarding the path lying down with his eyes closed. My applejack was gone, so I shook him awake and explained my problem.

  How much you got? he said; I told him a dollar, and he went off into the woods and came back with a jug. Good whisky, he said, the best. And exactly a dollar's worth; the jug's nearly full. So I tasted the whisky — it was good — paid him, took the jug back and tied it down in the machine. Then I went back to the path and called the major, and he came over, cutting across the field. Then the sentry led us down the path toward the general's tent.

  It was a square tent with a gabled roof, a lantern burning inside, and the front flap open. The sentry saluted. Major of Cavalry here, sir. He pronounced the word like an ignorant infantryman. Says it's secret and urgent.

  Send the calvary in, said a voice, pronouncing it just that way, and I knew the general was a horse soldier at heart.

  We stepped forward, saluting. The general was sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet, in old army shoes with the laces untied, propped on a big wooden keg with a spigot. He wore a black slouch hat, his vest and uniform blouse were unbuttoned, and I saw three silver stars embroidered on a shoulder strap. The general's eyes were blue, hard and tough, and he wore a full beard. At ease, he said. Well?

  Sir, said the major, we have a flying machine and propose, with your permission, to use it against the rebs.

  Well, said the general, leaning back on the hind legs of his chair, you've come in the nick of time. Lee's men are massed at Cold Harbor, and I've been sitting here all night dri— thinking. They've got to be crushed before — A flying machine, did you say?

  Yessir, said the major.

  H'mm, said the general. Where'd you get it?

  Well, sir, that's a long story.

  I'll bet it is, said the general. He picked up a stub of cigar from the table beside him and chewed it thoughtfully. If I hadn't been thinking hard and steadily all night, I wouldn't believe a word of this. What do you propose to do with your flying machine?

  Load it with gren
ades! The major's eyes began to sparkle. Drop them spang on rebel headquarters! Force immediate surrend—

  The general shook his head. No, he said, I don't think so. Air power isn't enough, son, and will never replace the foot soldier, mark my words. Has its place, though, and you've done good work. He glanced at me. You the driver, son?

  Yessir.

  He turned to the major again. I want you to go up with a map. Locate Lee's positions. Mark them on the map and return. Do that, major, and tomorrow, June third, after the Battle of Cold Harbor, I'll personally pin silver leaves on your straps. Because I'm going to take Richmond like — well, I don't know what. As for you, son — he glanced at my stripe — you'll make corporal. Might even design new badges for you; pair of wings on the chest or something like that.

  Yessir, I said.

  Where's the machine? said the general. Believe I'll walk down and look at it. Lead the way. The major and me saluted, turned and walked out, and the general said, Go ahead; I'll catch up.

  At the field the general caught up, shoving something into his hip pocket — a handkerchief, maybe. Here's your map, he said, and he handed a folded paper to the major.

  The major took it, saluted and said, For the Union, sir! For the cause of —

  Save the speeches, said the general, till you're running for office.

  Yessir, said the major, and he turned to me. Fill her up!

  I filled the tank, we spun the propellers, and this time the engine started right up. We climbed in, and I reversed my forage cap and tied on my scarf.

  Good, said the general approvingly. Style; real calvary style.

  We shoved off and dropped over the cliff like a dead weight, the ground rushing up fast. Then the wings bit into the air, I pulled back my lever, and we shot up, the engine snorting, fighting for altitude, and I swung out wide and circled the field, once at fifty feet, then at a hundred. The first time, the general just stood there, head back, mouth open, staring up at us, and I could see his brass buttons gleam in the moonlight. The second time around he still had his head back, but I don't think he was looking at us. He had a hand to his mouth, and he was drinking a glass of water — I could tell because just as we straightened and headed south, he threw it off into the bushes hard as he could, and I could see the glass flash in the moonlight. Then he started back to headquarters at a dead run, in a hurry, I guess, to get back to his thinking.