‘I’ll remember that. As a matter of fact I’m going to need an overdraft pretty soon.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re going to buy a house.’
‘Struth! At a time like this he has to go all domestic on me! Well, just don’t forget to put the stairs in, like some friends of mine did in the heat of the moment. Nearly wrecked the poor chap’s marriage.’ Crooke checked the clock on the instrument panel. ‘In exactly eight minutes Fleming will be calling us. Geoff?’
‘I’ll have everything ready by then.’
‘What about the emergency axe?’
‘I’ll grab the one from the aft bulkhead. This one’s a bit unwieldy and he won’t have much room down there as it is.’
Crooke took a brief glance at the large axe that was strapped to one side of the cockpit entrance. ‘Oh well, if Hubb is going to start chopping up the aircraft he’d better be able to take a good swing at it . . . Where the devil is Hubb?’
‘Talking to Susan.’
‘Dr Rogers was right when she said he was predictable . . . Do you think he can do the job? In the time?’
Geoff hesitated a long time before replying. His was not the fatuous task of fobbing-off the captain of an imperilled airliner with dehydrated bravado. The question amounted to a surgeon’s probe into basic, simple truths. What Geoff Simmonds was being asked to assess was nothing less than their chance of surviving one mile of unforgiving concrete.
So Geoff fell silent awhile, and thought about this question. Do you think he can do the job? In the time? Well, could he?
Geoff was an engineer through and through. As such, he would search for a parameter—something to measure something else against. Well, there was no foot-rule for this. In his experience there was no precedent which might guide him in his answer. Major repairs are not habitually carried out aboard aircraft in flight . . .
In the time?
And Geoff began to think about a little workshop . . .
*
‘Son, that’s not the way to go about a job.’
Robin looked at him in some annoyance. ‘Can’t you stop criticising?’
‘All right. Do it your way. If you want me I’ll be helping mother with the dishes.’
‘Wait a minute! What’s wrong with what I’m doing?’
‘It isn’t what you’re doing that’s wrong; it’s how you’re doing it.’
The boy had a long, cylincrical piece of wood in the lathe. Although one end was fitted eccentrically into the chuck, he was trying to shape the wood into the stem of a table lamp. Since the wood was mounted off-centre, the bit kept jabbing into the wood and knocking little chunks out of it, instead of cutting a smooth neck which he had intended for the upper end of the stand.
‘Stop the lathe,’ said Geoff.
The boy switched off the motor, and the machine ran down to a standstill. Robin looked at Geoff defiantly. His work had been interrupted. Dad was making a nuisance of himself, as usual. And the most annoying part of all was that he would probably be right. ‘Well? Now what?’
‘Undo the chuck.’
‘But I’ve just done it up.’
‘It’s crooked.’
‘Yes, I know.’ said Robin irritably, and started to undo the chuck furiously, as if he owed it some personal grievance.
Geoff ran his finger along the cutting edge of the bit. ‘You can’t cut with a blunt tool, either. You’ll have to grind it first.’
‘It’ll take ages!’ said the boy. ‘I was getting on fine until you started pulling everything to pieces.’
‘It would have been some table lamp,’ said Geoff.
‘Yes. Awful,’ agreed Robin, examining the pitted piece of wood with increasing displeasure.
‘Well? What have you learned?’
‘I’ve learned how to make an awful table lamp that wouldn’t stand up.’
‘Want to learn how to make one that will?’
The boy folded his arms. ‘Yes please. Will you show me?’
‘I don’t have to show you. You know how to work the lathe. You could see the chuck wasn’t done up properly. And if you’d looked at the bit before you began working it you’d have realised it needed grinding. Isn’t that right?’
Robin felt rather ashamed. ‘Well, I suppose it is, really.’
‘Don’t look so crestfallen! In engineering, like everything else, we have to learn by our mistakes. That’s the way I learned. Now look, before you begin a job—think! What tools are you going to need? Are they to hand? Are they ready for use? If not, go and find them, sharpen them, test them. See?’
‘Of course I see!’
‘Good. Then next, work out in your mind exactly what it is you are setting out to do. Okay, it’s a lamp. But don’t just cut grooves in the stem without deciding, first, what you want it to look like. Make a drawing. Doesn’t matter how rough. Just something to help you make up your mind where to set that bit. Then make up your mind how long the job is going to take. One?—two?—three hours? How long? You didn’t know, did you?’
‘No. I just wanted to get it finished before bedtime.’
‘Fair enough. What time will that be?’
‘Seven.’
‘What time is it now?’
‘It’s about quarter past four.’
‘So how long would that give you?’
There was a fairly long silence while mathematics were brought creakily into play. ‘Er, two hours and three quarters. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Is it long enough for the job?’
Robin smiled suddenly and then began a few calculations. He hadn’t thought of doing it this way before . . . Let me see: if I do a drawing (have I got a pencil? Yes, but it needs sharpening) and I grind the bit and take more time getting the wood fixed in the chuck properly, that’s half an hour gone. Oh, I may as well oil the machine because it’s squeaking somewhere and that belt looks as if it’ll come off any moment. That’s another fifteen minutes or so. Gosh! That leaves me with two hours to shape the stem. More than enough!
Having satisfied himself on these points, Robin said: ‘I’ll have time to spare!’
Geoff said: ‘That will allow a few minutes if something goes wrong, won’t it?’ His eyes were fixed on the loosened belt, and he wondered whether Robin had thought of it as a potential snag.
Robin said: ‘Well, nothing ought to go wrong. Once I’ve fixed that pulley——’
‘—Ah! Good boy. You’re learning fast. Yes . . . I think you’ll have time to spare, as you say.’ He walked across to the door. ‘Let me see the stem when you’ve finished it. Then I’ll show you how to finish it off with emery paper.’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘What happens if you start thinking things out like that, and then you realise that you can’t finish the job in time?’
Geoff hesitated. He was trying to see what lay behind this question. It was not the first time Robin had shown a similar sort of anxiousness. He said: ‘Why? Would it have mattered if you hadn’t finished that stem before bedtime?’
The boy tried to reason this too. Eventually he said: ‘Yes, I think it would. Somehow I felt I’d got to finish it. Haven’t you ever felt something awful would happen if you don’t do something sort of special, before it’s too late?’
Geoff thought, if you had always been my son, Robin, I would never have let you feel like that.
But outwardly he smiled and said: ‘I should think of it this way: never set out to do something unless you know it can be done. Then you’ll never get that feeling. See what I mean?’
*
‘Well, Geoff?’
‘Captain, when you asked me my final opinion, a few minutes ago, I based my answer on a computed deadline.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Crooke frowned, very slightly. ‘Are you asking me to consider reversing my decision?’
‘No.’ Geoff check-listed the items briefly, as much for himself as for his captain. ‘According to Fleming, this is Hubb’s order of event
s: One, unbolt the centre strut from Bulkhead C. Two, locate the correct place in the flooring of Number Three Systems Bay, and cut through it with the axe . . . that’s no mean task; there’s a mass of cable and piping running underneath and if he cuts through any of that we start losing ancillary equipment. Anyway, Three, when he’s, ready he tells you to lower the undercarriage. That, obviously, is the moment when there’s no going back. Four, lash the strut he swiped from the bulkhead, so that it’s wedged into position and acts as a jury-strut to keep the down-lock engaged. Four, he repeats the whole process on the other side, using the centre strut of Bulkhead D. (That’s the same length as the other one.) Fleming thinks it will be quicker to do the two sides separately as the experience he gets from the first sequence will speed up the second. Estimated time so far: two and a half hours.
‘Having got both legs firmly locked down, the job is to get the wheels facing fore-and-aft. According to Truman—and I see no reason to disbelieve him—the visible mechanism (port side) is badly damaged and possibly jammed, and we know from the ground that the starboard cam was knocked right off. The only way to twist the wheels into position, therefore, is to use a wrench on the top of the axles which run, via a splined sleeve, right up through the legs to the top. I’ve allowed half an hour per side for that—it’s generous but those bogies are damn heavy and the slipstream will be broadside against the wheels until they’re in position.’
‘I should have thought the wind would tend to help, not hinder. The bogies are eccentrically pivoted, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but the slipstream will force them hard against the stop. Getting enough leverage is going to be the problem.’
‘So that leaves half an hour?’
‘Yes. But in it he’s got to do one very important operation or the undercarriage will still be useless.’ Geoff had made a rough drawing and produced it now. ‘The main locking device which keeps the wheels in line-of-flight, once they’re lowered, is integral with the cam mechanism which we know isn’t going to work. But there’s a further electrical lock, solenoid-operated, which is applied automatically from . . . here.’
Crook examined the drawing. ‘But . . . that isn’t going to work either, surely? Doesn’t it work from the cam-actuator boxes?’
‘It won’t work automatically. But it will work if he shorts out the switches. The connections are quite simple and it can all be done from electrics panel 18, which is in the systems bay.’
Crooke pulled at his beard. ‘It’s a gimcrack arrangement, I must say!’
‘To be fair, I don’t suppose the designers expected a situation like this to develop.’
‘Yes . . . and how often have we heard that phrase!—Anyway, you’re still within the four hour time limit. What’s the new problem?’
‘We forgot one factor. The extent to which it matters depends on the man doing the job. And the capacity of his lungs.’
Crooke was there. ‘Altitude! The rarefied air will slow him down.’
Geoff thought aloud. ‘He can’t wear a mask; it will impede him too much.’
‘And if we go lower than ten thousand feet into richer air we won’t have enough fuel to last the time. How much would our fuel consumption increase if we flew lower?’
‘No good. We need that four hours and she’d drink fuel like a dried-up camel at an oasis.’
‘That’s a neat little trap,’ said Crooke grimly. ‘The devil and the deep blue . . . Wait a minute!’ He buzzed the interphone. ‘Susan? Ask that woman doctor—what’s her name?—yes, ask her to come up here at once, will you? Quickly as you can . . . good girl.’ Crooke clapped the receiver back on the hook.
Perkins seized the opportune silence. ‘We’re five miles from the end of the northerly leg, sir. Rate one-half turn and steer one-nine-zero magnetic, right turns.’
‘Okay Perk. Turning right on to one-nine-zero.’ Crooke set the turn on the auto-pilot and checked the zero-reader.
All instruments normal.
Dulcie walked into the cockpit without fuss. ‘Captain Crooke?’
‘Dr Rogers, at a guess, what’s the physical condition of Jack Hubb, would you say?’
‘I can’t swear that for certain without examining him.’
‘There isn’t time. The point is we’re up against the clock. He’ll have to work fast.’
‘Yes . . . you’re thinking of the rarefied air. I gather that there isn’t quite so much time to spare as you implied over the loudspeakers.’
‘I’m afraid there isn’t.’
She nodded. ‘It will slow him down; there’s no question about it. Especially on a long job. How long will it take him?’
‘Four hours.’
Dulcie raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s quite a long time.’
‘Yes. Any suggestions?’
‘There are certain stimulant drugs that would help.’
‘Got any?’
‘No.’
Crooke pulled hard at his beard. ‘How the devil do we find out if any of the passengers have some, without alarming them all?’
‘When does he have to start the job?’
‘In three minutes.’
‘We won’t find any in that time.’
‘I know. But can you start looking? Then if you strike lucky we’ll get it down to him then.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Dulcie, and left at once.
In the short silence she left behind her, Geoff suddenly looked at his captain and said: ‘Do you ever pray?’
‘Yes. As a matter of fact you caught me at it.’
*
Susan watched Jack Hubb finishing an unofficial meal in the forward galley. It was from here that she had taken Crooke’s last phone-call.
Hubb said: ‘Why did he want Dulcie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wonder,’ said Hubb thoughtfully, as he handed back his empty plate, ‘what made her suggest me? She certainly didn’t know I was any sort of mechanic, until she squeezed the information out of me as if my brain were a tube of toothpaste!’
Susan threw him an honest look. ‘Perhaps she just knew you had guts.’
He smiled. ‘People always say that courage and stupidity go together. I guess I must have been pretty stupid, trying to date you a while back.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ said Susan.
‘Yes. Isn’t it strange, how tin e seems to run at a different speed in a crisis. I suppose I feel that a lot more has happened than really has.’
‘No. Quite a lot has happened.’
They were looking at each other for a moment, but nothing was said. He took a deep breath. ‘I’d better go. It’s almost time.’
Another brief message passed. It was elusive, but definite. And for the first time in his life, Jack Hubb felt shy.
Chapter Fifteen
Fleming looked up from a plate of ham and eggs as Gregg almost filled a doorway.
‘Can I talk?’ said Gregg.
‘Please do. I’ve got a few minutes left before I call them up. In that time I don’t want to think about it.’
‘Very wise.’ Gregg entered and sat down. He looked very tired. It was a relief to flop his aching body into a chair. ‘Dawlish was most impressed with you.’
Fleming drained his coffee cup. ‘I’m not letting that fool me. If I last out that four hours it will be something of a miracle. You know damn well people just don’t make startling recoveries from my sort of sickness overnight.’
‘It depends what you want.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m not sure that you aren’t just sorry for yourself, to be quite frank. If that’s a sickness then you can go on having it for the rest of your life.’
‘You’ve changed your tune somewhat.’
‘No, you have. I’ve been watching you rather closely, during all this. You’re like a man with a stammer. You trip over yourself when there’s no need. What you have to do is cure the stammer—not replace your larynx, if you see what I mea
n.’
‘That isn’t what your doctor thought when I was grounded.’
‘What makes you think the situation has been static since then?’
Fleming fiddled with his fork. ‘What, exactly, did that medical report say?’
‘Oh, does it really interest you?’
‘It would if there was any hope of my being able to fly again.’
‘First things first, Robert. You’ve got a much more important job tonight than the mere act of proving yourself. That’s just boring.’
‘Perhaps. But there’s a good deal of self-proof wrapped up in this operation. Isn’t there?’
‘Possibly. But that isn’t what is going to get Flight Forty-Six safely down on the airfield. Anyway, supposing this plan fails, through no fault of your own?’
‘I’m not considering failure.’
‘Quite right. Nevertheless you mustn’t make a life or death issue out of it for yourself. That’s just using it.’
Fleming shot him a look. ‘Using it? Then you think the same as Dawlish?’
‘No, Dawlish can’t see the wheat from the chaff. I’m saying this for your benefit. I know you’ll do the best job that can be done; so the issue of why you are doing it doesn’t really matter, as far as the aircraft is concerned. But a doctor doesn’t give up his practice when a patient dies of an incurable disease, yet that’s what you would do, given the chance.’
Fleming got up. ‘If that undercarriage can’t be fixed,’ he said, ‘I don’t believe I can be either.’
‘You’re betting everything? Why?’
‘I just feel it.’
Gregg said: ‘Then you’d better make out.’
‘Yes.’
Nothing more was said. Fleming left the room, and left Gregg sitting there.
The walk along the corridor was unforgettable. It felt more as if the corridor was moving along past him—a sensation something akin to standing on a travelator.
It was as if, too, he were passing through a number of archways, each of them meaning a different thing. It seemed, as he moved beneath them, that he was being in some way processed, just as the meal he had just eaten was beginning to be processed by the secretions of the pancreas.
With each arch the tension within him rose, until the fifth in the sequence, a dark, odious monstrosity in odious baroque, shifted the tension to a level almost unendurable.
The Higher They Fly Page 18
