Cabal ignored him. “Who lies with dogs, shall rise with fleas,” he said in an undertone. Sometimes he wished he still lacked a soul. It hurt so much.
“What?” said Moretti, mystified by the muttering.
“I have to go, Signor Moretti,” said Cabal, rising abruptly and gathering his things.
“On to greater things, eh? Look, old man, if it’s a game you’ve got in mind, I’m a reliable partner. Ask anyone.”
Cabal paused and glared down at him. Moretti suddenly had a distinct sense that his offer had been rash. “My
Moretti, who had only ever heard the term “prophylactic” used in a single context, blanched. “My God,” he exclaimed.
“Your god, Signor Moretti, is of no use whatsoever.” Cabal touched the rim of his hat in mocking salute. “Good day, sir.”
He marched out of the railway station and down the main road in the direction of the aeroport. He had purpose and he had a plan, and his soul sang within him. Well, I’m glad one of us is happy, he thought.
To anyone with the slightest sense of self-preservation, there is something unnerving about being in the presence of an entomopter that makes one think that going by train might be a better idea. Or perhaps a narrow boat. Or walking. Or staying at home. Perhaps it’s the lightweight construction, or the whirling wings that cut twin figures of eight on either side of the skeletal fuselage. It may even be the frequent and appalling accidents. In fact, it probably is the frequent and appalling accidents that put all but the most suicidal of thrill-seekers (and military pilots, which is to say much the same thing) off even standing near one at rest.
It should be no surprise, therefore, that finding students for an entomopter flying school was a very hard sell. Signor Bruno, of Bruno’s Aviation College, was a man of lean and hungry aspect, at least financially. To show the slightest interest in the aircraft was to find Signor Bruno — a small muscular man with a thousand-yard stare — making himself at home in one’s personal space and employing one of his many tried, tested, and usually futile sales spiels. He would appeal to potential students’ sense of adventure, the possibilities of employment that a flying licence offered, their pride, their poetical spirit, their vanity, their patriotism, and, as a last resort, telling them that they were a big girl’s blouse if they didn’t sign up right this minute.
When the tall pale man in the black suit strolled up to him where he knelt by his entomopter, checking the oil levels in the port-wing clutch assembly, and asked to be taught to fly without so much as a “Hello” or a “That’s a fine machine you have there,” Signor Bruno was momentarily nonplussed; where was all the foreplay? But, being a manly sort of man, he had a low opinion of foreplay, in any case, and warmed quickly to the forthright Herr Meissner. He didn’t even care that the man was Mirkarvian. There were no actual embargoes in place on training Mirkarvians, not least because they were quite capable of getting the same training in their own country. That the valuable Herr Meissner had decided to get his training here rather than there was of no import except to Signor Bruno and his thin-lipped bank manager.
They went through the necessary paperwork beforehand, and if Herr Meissner hesitated on some pieces of information that should have been at his fingertips, then Signor Bruno saw no reason to mention it. Indeed, he was otherwise engaged in counting the wad of notes that the estimable Meissner had paid him with, so how could he notice any such momentary indecisions?
Herr Meissner did not care to remove his jacket, but that was of no matter; Signor Bruno had a set of flying overalls that easily fitted over it. Besides, as Signor Bruno pointed out, it gets cold up there. Herr Meissner strapped on his flying helmet, and they were ready to go.
The entomopter that they were using — indeed, the only entomopter Signor Bruno had — was a two-seat Symphony trainer. Not the fastest machine, but stable and relatively forgiving, at least compared with its nimble if fractious military brethren, which would whirl into a hillside at the slightest inattention. Signor Bruno took the rear pilot’s seat, while Herr Meissner obediently took the forward co-pilot’s position.
Signor Bruno had a good feeling about Herr Meissner; he had listened intently to the technical lecture Signor Bruno had given him in the hangar on the principles of insect-like flight, asking rare but trenchant questions. The man was undoubtedly a scientist, by inclination if not actual profession, and Signor Bruno was able to finish the lecture in record time without resorting to training aids like Dino the Dragonfly or Bambalina the Bumblebee.
A quick run-through of the controls did nothing to diminish the good feeling. Herr Meissner needed to be told anything only once. Helmet intercom, loud and clear. Cyclic, check. Throttle, check. Collective, check. Torque pedals, check. Electrical systems on, check. Fuel and oil levels, check. Ignition.
There was a loud crack at the rear of the entomopter as the ignition cartridge in the Coffman starter fired. Signor Bruno was impressed that Herr Meissner did not jump with surprise. The radial engine turned over and quickly caught, barely spluttering at all before producing a powerful throaty roar. Signor Bruno smiled and patted his cockpit edge as he would a favoured dog or horse. Good girl. A quick check of the oil pressure, and he told Herr Meissner they were ready to go. His student nodded, and laid hands on his controls. With more confidence than was usual at this stage, Signor Bruno slid forward the lever that deactivated his own controls and enabled the co- pilot’s.
The man had the touch of a surgeon or a virtuoso. He gently engaged the drive shaft, until the entomopter’s wings started moving in sluggish horizontal figures of eight, carving infinities into the air. He opened the throttle steadily without jerking, and then simultaneously increased the collective to angle the whirling wings, making them bite. The suspension springs in the landing struts creaked, audible even above the engine, as the aircraft started to lift. A few seconds later, they were airborne, holding their altitude at about ten metres in a hover.
Signor Bruno was delighted. Such a fine student! Bravo! Meraviglioso! But he did not remove his hand from the control shift, because even prodigies make mistakes. From there, Herr Meissner brought her down to a gentle landing. Then up again, with translation into forward flight, to a halt, to another landing. Signor Bruno was full of happiness, although, regretfully, he knew that Herr Meissner would not be requiring very many lessons before he would qualify for his solo license.
They flew up and down the field, Herr Meissner bringing the Symphony to gentle hovers and briefly experimenting with backwards, and even, to Signor Bruno’s mild alarm and a tightening of his hand on the control shift, sideways flight.
After an hour, the lesson was over, and Herr Meissner landed the entomopter with great precision from where he had first lifted off. They unstrapped and climbed out, Signor Bruno extolling his student’s natural ability to the heavens. Herr Meissner said it was nothing, nothing but a good understanding of the principles at play and a calculated degree of handling with the controls, neither tremulous nor violent. Signor Bruno said such a balance was a rare thing in itself. Herr Meissner replied that it was the secret to how he lived his life.
They parted then, Herr Meissner bidding Signor Bruno a polite farewell and the promise of another lesson the following day, if Signor Bruno was available. Signor Bruno mentally reviewed his empty appointments book and replied that he was sure he would be able to squeeze another lesson in somehow. He watched Herr Meissner walk away towards the administrative block with pleasure and a distinct sense of financial relief. Things were definitely looking up. He set off for the field exit, intent on having something nice for lunch.
A quarter of an hour later, Herr Meissner returned from the administrative block, where he had occupied his time by locking himself into a toilet cubicle and reviewing what he had learned. He wandered around Signor Bruno’s hangar, as if looking for him, until he was sure he was alone. Then, pausing only to put on the same flying suit and helmet that he had so recently doffed, and to take a handful of cordite cartridges for the Coffman starter, he walked out to where the Symphony trainer sat patiently.
Then he stole it.
CHAPTER 16
in which much is explained and derring is done
