Tomorrow Is Too Far

by James White

  The first really pleasant subject to occur to him was Dr Marshall and he kept a close mental hold on it, wishing that the hold was even closer and physical, on the way to his flat. But even then Pebbles kept creeping in, looking wide-eyed, innocent and without his shirt on ...

  It rained all day Saturday but Sunday morning looked promising. Carson, with a drive of seventy-odd miles ahead of him, set out shortly before eleven-thirty intending to have lunch at the club-house. The thought of having lunch out was pleasant--he would not have to cook it himself and, even if he would be unable to read or have his hi-fi blasting while he ate, neither would he have to do the washing up.

  Carson had not been aware until then of just how discontented he was becoming. He was no psychologist, but even he knew that preferring a round trip of a hundred and fifty miles to making his own lunch was indicative of something seriously wrong somewhere. His depression was not being helped by the weather. A warm front was going through earlier than had been forecast and he was driving into a thickening overcast. By the time he reached the club, visibility was down to two miles, the wind-sock hung like a limp yellow rag and the cloud-base was only six hundred feet and weeping steadily.

  He called first at the tower, a brightly painted hut towering all of nine feet. It was occupied by a young man wearing glasses and talking on the telephone. He nodded, raised the level of his voice to include Carson, and went on, ‘ ... The Met office says the wind will probably freshen late this afternoon, so this muck will be with us for another five hours at least. I don’t think it is worth your while driving down today, Mr Collins, unless you leave it until a couple of hours before dusk. No. Yes, definitely. I’m sorry, too--I was booked for a cross-country to ... Fine, I’ll do that. G’bye.’

  To Carson he said, ‘You heard that, friend. No flying this afternoon. But if you’re looking for the CFI he’s in the bar. Everybody’s in the bar.’

  ‘Actually I’m looking for Mr Pebbles,’ said Carson. ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘Really? Not so far. But if you should see Bob Chambers in there will you remind him, not too politely that he was supposed to relieve me twenty minutes ago?’

  The bar occupied one side of a large room whose walls were covered with pictures of aeroplanes, flight safety posters and beer advertisements. There was a one-armed bandit standing in a corner, a TV which was not yet switched on--the weather had not yet driven them to utter desperation--in the opposite corner and a large number of leather armchairs which time and hard usage had rendered form-fitting. As Carson entered someone, probably the tardy Bob Chambers, hurried out. Everybody, he saw at a glance, comprised twelve people.

  They were standing at the bar in groups of twos and threes. One of the groups comprised Maxwell, the club’s chief flying instructor, another man Carson did not know and ... Wayne Tillotson. Carson walked through to the dining room to organise his thoughts and to order lunch.

  The second was easy but the first was made virtually impossible by the arrival of the man he had already met in the tower whose duties apparently included those of honorary PRO.

  ‘My psychiatrist worries if I talk to myself,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Do you mind if I sit with you? Thanks. I’m Jeff Donnelly. We ...’ He hesitated delicately, glanced at Carson’s tie, then finished, ‘... haven’t seen you around recently.’

  ‘Joe Carson,’ said Carson, laying down his knife to shake hands. ‘You haven’t seen me around for about six years. I’m afraid my membership has well and truly lapsed and, until I can find your current treasurer, I’m wearing this quiet but distinguished neck-piece under false pretences. You see, when I first joined it was late summer and all your instructors were fully booked. I did mean to try again later but other things kept cropping up ...’

  The truth was that he had just joined Hart-Ewing’s and he had thought, erroneously, that a little knowledge of flying would be useful in his new job. Looking back, there had not been all that much difference between Pebbles and himself...

  ‘You’ve found him,’ said Donnelly, laughing. ‘Welcome back, and don’t bother paying me until after dessert--I don’t want to give the impression that I’m rushing you or that the club is short of funds. Do you know any of the other members?’

  ‘Well...’ began Carson.

  ‘I’ll introduce you around. And don’t worry if you appear to be ignored at first. Their minds are usually on something else--beer, girls, sometimes even flying--and your presence will eventually register. What do you do in real life?’

  ‘I’m security officer at Hart-Ewing’s.’

  ‘Is that so? I personally would have expected something more obnoxious, with jutting jaw and suspicious, steely eyes. Anyway, you’ll see lots of Hart-Ewing faces around here--you’ve probably seen Wayne Tillotson already. And if you’re wondering why he belongs to a flying club like this, he’ll tell you that flying fifty tons of computer makes him lose touch with reality and removes his brain an uncomfortable distance from the seat of his pants.

  ‘Of course,’ Jeff Donnelly went on cheerfully, ‘Tillotson trusts the seat of his pants. I couldn’t trust mine if it was sitting on a stack of Bibles--my instrument flying is atrocious ...’ He broke off, waved and called, ‘Bob, over here!’

  Tillotson and Maxwell, who had been about to sit down at another table, turned and came towards them. Carson swore under his breath. Tillotson’s presence had come as an unpleasant surprise and he needed time to decide on an approach which would not make the chief test pilot suspicious.

  If only the well-meaning Donnelly would not mention that he had asked about Pebbles...

  ‘...really be a fatted calf instead of cold ham salad,’ Donnelly was saying. ‘After a six-year pause for reconsideration, Joe has decided to learn to fly one of these newfangled heavier-than-air machines. And he has asked for John Pebbles, too...’

  You, thought Carson helplessly, and your big mouth! ‘Really?’ said the instructor, looking mildly surprised. He was the kind of quiet, deliberate and imperturbable person who would react mildly to the crack of doom. He went on, ‘John will be very pleased about that. Not many people do, you know. He’s good and we all like him, but a certain amount of caution is to be expected, wouldn’t you say?’

  Carson had the panicky feeling that he had missed something even though he had heard every word the other had said. What was Pebbles here? He was good at his job, but people were wary of him. Was he a combination club mascot and village idiot? Were they sorry for him and tolerated him for laughs? Did he sweep the floor or maybe do odd jobs in the hangar, just for the privilege of being close to aeroplanes and pilots? Did some softhearted flyer sometimes take him up for a flight? Carson did not know but, because he had asked for Pebbles, he was expected to know.

  Know what?

  When in doubt, he thought desperately, say something so obviously ridiculous that it can only be a joke instead of a display of ignorance. While they were laughing he might gain some idea of what it was he was supposed to have said...

  ‘Does Pebbles do much solo flying these days?’

  Nobody laughed.

  Maxwell was mildly serious rather than mildly amused as he said, ‘Mr Carson, we don’t pay our weekend instructors for flying solo.’

  Chapter Eight

  The sun came out for keeps just a few minutes after six o’clock and Pebbles arrived at six-ten. He was the same shy, awkward man Carson had met a few days earlier, but the difference became apparent as soon as he began to talk. In these surroundings he had a sort of diffident, but very real, authority.

  As they walked out to the aircraft he called Carson ‘Mr Carson’ and, with some vague idea that the other’s confidence needed boosting and to show that outside of working hours they were equals, Carson called him Mr Pebbles. As a result the conversation was painfully formal.

  Carson’s introduction to G-ARTZ was equally formal. Pebbles walked around the aircraft, explaining the necessity for checking for external damage which might have been sustained to
the prop, flying surfaces, landing gear and tyres since the last flight check. Then he looked at Carson with the anxious air of a father watching his favourite daughter go off with a boy-friend of dubious character, and finally indicated the wing walkway and the open cockpit canopy.

  ‘B-before you strap in, Mr Carson,’ he said, ‘You’ll f-feel much better without your jacket...’

  Despite the bright sunshine the wind blowing across the wet airfield cut like a knife. Carson took off his jacket as suggested and placed it behind his seat, noting as he did so that Pebbles kept his jacket on, and wondering which of them was mentally retarded.

  Carson had not come to the club with the intention of taking a flying lesson, and certainly not from Pebbles, but somehow he had worked himself into the position of not being able to avoid it.

  ‘At H-Hart-Ewing’s,’ began Pebbles diffidently, ‘you will have picked up a f-fair knowledge of flying theory...’

  There followed a shy but persistent inquisition which proved, much to Carson’s own surprise, that he did in fact know about dihedral, incidence, angles of attack, effect of controls and the theory of flight generally; then Pebbles leaned across and strapped him in very firmly.

  Carson fought the urge to hit the quick-release buckle and run.

  ‘B-before starting the engine,’ said Pebbles, ‘there are a number of checks to be carried out. I’ll tell you what they are as I do them. D-don’t worry if you can’t remember everything the first few times, it will come...’ As he continued talking, pointing and switching-on, Carson became firmly convinced that he would not be able to remember anything. Then Pebbles, his stammer completely gone, was saying ‘... Look around carefully to see that the area is clear and that your slipstream will not inconvenience anyone, then pull this starter and release it when the engine fires.

  ‘Pull the starter, Mr Carson ...’

  Carson did as he was told, thinking cynically that he was being conned into feeling that he was making a contribution, however small, to what was going on. It was probably club policy designed to make the student pilot feel less like shooting himself through sheer inadequacy. The funny thing was that it worked even though he knew he was being had ...

  ‘Before taxi-ing there is a second series of checks which include testing the flying controls. Today you can go through them with me...’ Pebbles began, and about five minutes later ended, ‘... Have another good lookout for people, objects or other aircraft taxi-ing in the vicinity, then release the brakes and open the throttle enough to overcome the aircraft’s inertia, and move off at a fast walking pace.

  ‘Look around,’ Pebbles said clearly over the sound of the engine, ‘release the brake and open the throttle, Mr Carson ... ’

  G-ARTZ lurched forward and rocked across the grass in the general direction of the taxiway. Carson began to sweat. The great unwieldy brute was rolling over the grass out of control, the engine noise made it hard to think and Pebbles was an out-and-out nutcase to allow Carson to risk an expensive aeroplane like this.

  ‘... You are moving too fast, Mr Carson,’ Pebbles was saying. ‘This exaggerates the effect of the nose-wheel steering. Throttle back. More. A fast walking pace, remember? When we come to the edge of the taxiway you will have to turn and travel along it to the end of the runway. Before you turn, throttle back and use the brake to bring us almost to a stop, otherwise you will strain the landing gear which is not stressed to take heavy side loadings.

  ‘Close the throttle. That’s it. Brake ... ’

  They rolled on to the tarmac and came almost to a stop before Carson pressed hard against the rudder bar. G-ARTZ swung round and he straightened the nose-wheel, opened the throttle and began wobbling along the taxiway at the required fast walking pace. It was slightly easier to control the thing on a paved surface than it had been on grass--very slightly easier, and ‘control’ was hardly the word.

  His shirt was sticking to his back, his tie was strangling him and the cockpit felt like a Turkish bath.

  ‘.. . Try to keep in the centre of the taxiway, Mr Carson,’ said the voice in his right ear, ‘and remember that your wings project nearly fifteen feet on each side. Don’t pass too close to that fuel bowser. That’s good. You concentrate on the aircraft and I’ll handle the radio this time ...’

  Pebbles unclipped the mike, brought it to within half an inch of his lips and said something which was lost in the noise of the engines. From the back of the cabin an over-amplified voice rattled, ‘You are dear to the holding point on runway Zero Nine, Tango Zulu. Acknowledge please.’

  Pebbles’s lips moved again, then he racked the mike and said, ‘The holding point is that white line about fifty yards ahead. As you come up to it, close the throttle, brake and swing the aircraft until it is pointing downwind at an angle of forty-five degrees to the runway, then lock the brakes. You will then be in a position to see if the runway is clear and that there are no aircraft making their final approach. If there is an aircraft on finals your attitude will tell him that you are waiting for him to land ... ‘

  ‘That’s good. Now lock the brakes, Mr Carson. We perform our pre-take-off checks at this point. There is a simple mnemonic which will help you remember the sequence, but this time just do it with me. Trim, set. Throttle, set to fast tick-over and friction nut not too tight. Mixture, rich. Carburettor, cold ...’

  He can do multiplication and division, Carson thought crazily, and joined-up handwriting and ... But there was no time to think about that. He could not remember a time in his whole life when he had felt so harassed and frightened and excited. Pebbles was a blithering idiot to expect ...

  But then Pebbles was supposed to be an idiot, so simple-minded that he might very well think that six years in an aircraft factory had given Carson a greater understanding of aeroplanes than Pebbles had gained in three. It was possible that Pebbles’s mind worked like that.

  The sweat running from Carson’s pores changed from hot to cold.

  ‘Tango Zulu,’ roared the voice from the back, ‘you are clear for take-off.’ Pebbles added, ‘Release the brake, Mr Carson, open the throttle and move into the centre of the runway. Line up the nose with that clump of trees on the skyline--that’s a useful landmark during take-offs from zero nine, especially if there is a cross-wind trying to blow you off course. No, we are not quite centred, but it wasn’t bad for a first try ... ‘

  Carson blinked sweat out of his eyes and croaked something which was unintelligible even to himself.

  ‘I’ll handle the take-off if you don’t mind. But keep your feet lightly on the rudder pedals, your right hand on the control column and your left on the throttle--I want you to get the feel of things for next time. Right? I have control

  ‘The words have not been invented,’ said Carson fervently, ‘properly to express my relief.’

  Pebbles nodded seriously and opened the duplicate throttle. The engine roared and they surged forward, picking up speed by the second. Under his feet the pedals made small, almost unnoticeable movements keeping them centred on the runway, and Pebbles was talking about watching the ASI for the unstick speed. The control column moved back a fraction of an inch, the undercarriage stopped rumbling against the ground and they were airborne. The runway dropped away, the club-house and the diminutive control tower slid under the edge of the port wing. The heads of the people standing outside it were exactly the same size as the wing rivets.

  There were things he was supposed to do and remember at three hundred feet and six hundred feet and a thousand feet and Pebbles was telling him about them in detail, but Carson was watching the cars on the main road and Tango Zulu’s shadow flickering across them.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was enjoying the view.’

  ‘You aren’t supposed to enjoy the view in the early lessons,’ said Pebbles. ‘If you’ll look at the airspeed indicator, altimeter, engine rev counter and the attitude of the aeroplane at the moment you will see that our speed is seventy knots and that we are climbing under full power.
I want you to maintain this attitude by judging the position of the horizon in the windscreen and watching the ASI. If the needle falls below seventy it means we are climbing too steeply and may stall--there is an audible warning before this point is reached--unless the climb angle is reduced. Should the speed increase, this means the climbing angle has flattened and we are not gaining height at the optimum rate.

  ‘To decrease the angle of climb,’ he went on, ‘ease the control column very gently forward. To increase the climb, ease it back. If one wing drops, correct by moving the stick to the opposite side. Very small movements of the control column are sufficient. Do you understand, Mr Carson?’

  Carson nodded.

  ‘When the altimeter shows fifteen hundred feet, ease the stick forward to level out,’ said Pebbles. ‘Then close the throttle until the engine rev counter shows 22,000 r.p.m. That is an economical cruising power for level flight. You have control.’

  Carson began to perspire again, freely. The nose started to drop and he eased the stick back. Immediately Tango Zulu tried to stand on its tail and the stall warning beeped querulously. He pushed the stick slightly forward and they arced over into a dive. One wing went down and he compensated for that, then the other wing dropped and he over compensated for that. The horizon was sliding about all over the place and the aircraft seemed to be in a continuous three-dimensional skid that he had no hope of controlling ...

  ‘This is a very responsive aeroplane,’ said Pebbles as he put a steadying hand on the control column. ‘Relax, Mr Carson. Right? You have control.’

  It was like trying to balance on a single stilt. Carson gritted his teeth and laboured furiously at not moving anything more than a fraction of an inch in any direction. When he levelled out at fifteen hundred feet, throttled back to cruising power and held the thing in fairly straight and more or less level flight, he thought he deserved more than five minutes watchful silence followed by directions for making a gentle turn to starboard ...