Iron master, p.35
Iron Master, page 35
Steve felt a twinge of remorse. ‘You’re reading it wrong,’ he said softly. ‘Your life’s not falling apart. It’s coming together.’
Cadillac kept his head down. ‘Oh, yeah?’ he sniffed.
‘Yeah! What the eff-eff are you complaining about? Mr Snow’s taught you all he knows. Add in everything you picked up from me and the other guys here and what you’ve learned from these hairless wonders, hell – you’re like a two-legged version of COLUMBUS!’
‘Except I may not be walking around on two legs much longer.’
‘Don’t even think about it!’ cried Steve. ‘You gotta stay on top of this thing! Okay. Maybe the Japs are planning to take over this operation, but that won’t be until after you’ve shown ’em you can put these birds in the air and keep ’em there.’
‘Yeah, but… supposing we fail?’
Boy! thought Steve. When this guy hits a downer he goes straight to the bottom of the shaft…
He didn’t know that alcoholic elation could flip over into manic depression between one swallow and the next. ‘It’s not going to fail! We’re going to do the best job we can and we’re going to put this place on the map – because when this project finally takes off, so do we.’
Cadillac slowly raised his head and fixed his eyes on Steve. ‘Oh, yeah? Just how do we do that?’
Bad move, thought Steve. Bad move! ‘Leave all that to me,’ he said hastily. ‘You’ve got enough to worry about.’ He moved the bottle out of reach. ‘And go easy on this stuff. Otherwise you’ll end up with a headful of boiled rice instead of brains.’
‘What about Clearwater?’
‘Don’t worry. When, and if, the time comes, she’ll be right with you.’
‘Okay, but promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you won’t make any moves – do anything foolish – without clearing it with me. I want to know what’s happening – before it happens.’
‘Sure.’
‘And if it turns out I got it wrong and Min-Orota decides he is not going to re-staff the Heron Pool with his own people, then we forget the whole thing. If you want to take Clearwater back – fine. But I’m staying. Is that understood?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Okay. But… ’ Cadillac jabbed his forefinger at Steve while he searched for the words. He was fading fast. ‘… if I, uhh – if I find you’re trying to shaft me –’
‘Christopher Columbus!’ hissed Steve. ‘What kind of person do you think I am? You saved my life! How many times do I have to tell you? What happened with Clearwater wasn’t my fault–’
‘I don’t care about that!’
‘Well I do! And I’m trying to make it up to you! There may be times when you have cause to doubt me, but I’m your friend! I told Mr Snow I’d come and find you, but if you want to stay, well – that’s tough on him but its okay by me. Clearwater and I will just fade away quietly. You won’t even know we’ve gone.’ Steve thrust his right hand across the table and radiated sincerity. ‘You have my word on that. Is it a deal?’
Cadillac eyed the offered hand. ‘Maybe. I’ll sleep on it.’
Steve picked up the bottle of sake he’d removed and set it down in front of the Mute. ‘Be my guest…’
*
Cadillac’s reading of the situation turned out to be correct. Permission to take Steve up in the newly modified glider was granted, and after stage-managing a few hesitant approaches and hair-raising landings, he went solo with twenty hours of instruction.
On the ground, Steve was still obliged to act out his public role as a menial subordinate. His newfound ability to fly brought a few belligerent comments about ‘uppity Mutes’, but Cadillac smoothed the ruffled feelings of the Tracker linemen by stressing the risky nature of the first proving flights. The fair-haired grass-monkey was a sacrificial victim who, if things did not work out, could end up as a burnt offering.
The modified glider was powered by five slim rockets attached to the underside of a metal tray mounted beneath the fuselage pod. The trolley was fitted with two short-burn boosters ignited, as before, by means of a length of safety fuse; those under the aircraft were fired in succession by an ingenious trigger system which detonated a wad of the same paper caps used to fire bullets from the rifles which Lord Yama-Shita had supplied to the M’Calls.
The glider was to be launched from a redesigned three-wheeled trolley based on the one used by Steve. This new model had a low, ground-hugging profile to give extra stability during the take-off run and four quick-release shackles that kept the trolley attached to the glider until it was jettisoned by the pilot.
Since the Iron Masters did not possess the precise measuring devices and the computer-modelling techniques employed by the Federation, Cadillac’s flying-horse had been constructed using the simplest calculations. The same applied to the rockets. Using the mathematical formulae transmitted by AMEXICO, Steve was able to make a guesstimate of the foot/pounds of thrust generated during the burn. But the figures didn’t mean much when your employers didn’t measure in feet and inches, or calculate weights in pounds and ounces.
In his guise as errand boy, Steve shadowed Cadillac throughout the assembly process to make sure that everything was done to his own exacting standards. At his suggestion, Jodi and Kelso were picked to work with Cadillac behind closed doors through the night prior to the launch, enabling him to take an active part in the final adjustments. By first light, they had tested and checked every joint and attachment and passed them A-OK. One big question mark remained. The tests with the weighted ground trolleys had shown the rockets were powerful enough to move it through the air – but just how fast was this silk-winged coffin going to travel?
In a few hours Steve was due to get the answer. The flight, which was to be staged before the same high-ranking delegation of Iron Masters, was scheduled for mid-morning, and it was rumoured that the Consul-General of Ro-diren and Masa-chusa might grace the occasion with his presence. The cadre of Japs who ran the Heron Pool drafted in an extra squad of cleaners and gardeners and hung out some banners and bunting, but they did not work themselves into a frenzy. They were required to treat the Shogun’s permanent representative with due deference, but they weren’t government employees like the post-master and his quivering clerks. The Consul-General only exercised absolute power within the borders of his estate. The Heron Pool formed part of the domain of Lord Min-Orota, and everyone who worked there was subject to his rule – and under his protection.
Steve didn’t return to his shack until four in the morning, but since it was his big day he was allowed to skip the obligatory quota of yard work. Around 0500 he felt like getting up and strangling the cockerel, but he managed to fall asleep again, and did not wake until one of the servants banged on the door three hours later.
As a Mute, Steve wasn’t allowed to use the bath-house, only a tub in the yard, but on this occasion Cadillac summoned him into the section reserved for the house-owner and invited him to take the plunge. Steve slipped off his work-stained clothes and jumped in. Since the deep tub was already occupied by Cadillac and two of his body-slaves, things were a little crowded at first, but they eventually managed to disentangle themselves and proceed with the serious business of getting clean.
The two dark-eyed Thais, wearing nothing but polite smiles and headscarves, were somewhat disconcerted to find themselves sharing the same tub as a Mute, but hunting the elusive bar of soap proved a real ice-breaker. After a memorable scrub back and front, Steve attempted to climb out, but the girls, egged on by Cadillac, hauled him back in and started to give him a second going-over just for luck. Ordinarily, Steve would have been more than happy to co-operate, but at that moment he had more on his mind than fun and frolics. As they ducked him playfully he slipped out of their grasp and plunged between their legs to the bottom of the tub. The move caused considerable excitement but their squeals of delight turned to cries of disappointment when he surfaced holding the big wooden plug and hurled it across the room.
*
Besides learning the Iron Masters’ tongue-twisting language, Cadillac had picked up their love of ceremony. The communal bath was followed by an invitation to eat breakfast in the house wearing one of Cadillac’s wrap-around robes – supplied courtesy of Lord Kiyomori Min-Orota.
‘Feel nervous?’
‘Haven’t given it a thought,’ said Steve lightly. It was a lie of course, and he could see Cadillac didn’t believe him.
When they had finished eating, one of the body-slaves brought Steve a white cotton outfit: the usual loose square-sleeved jacket and wide, calf-length trousers. On top of the neatly folded garments were a fresh set of underclothes, white cotton socks and rope-soled, lace-up sandals. There was also a white headscarf bearing several blood-red Japanese word-symbols.
Cadillac folded it carefully, laid the portion with the symbols across Steve’s forehead, then knotted it on the nape of his neck. ‘That too tight?’
‘No, just right.’ Steve looked at himself in the small, square wall-mirror. ‘What does all this junk mean?’
‘“We praise the wisdom of Lord Min-Orota and the greatness of all his works.” ’
‘Hmmmph… D’you write that?’
‘I could have, but that would have been unwise. So I composed the line in Basic and got one of the scribes to translate it for me.’
Steve pushed the headscarf clear of his eyebrows. ‘You’re turning into a real toady.’
‘It’s part of the basic survival kit, Brickman. You should know that better than anyone.’
‘Just kidding. C’mon, let’s go.’
Cadillac escorted Steve over to the Heron Pool. The aircraft they had worked on till dawn stood poised on its launching trolley at the edge of the field, with a short stepladder leading up to the cockpit. Jodi Kazan and Dave Kelso, still red-eyed from their extended nightshift, stood by in fresh worksuits. A long stretch of fishing net had been raised on poles on the far side of the field to snare the speeding trolley, and most of the Tracker workforce were ranged behind it – presumably to pick up the pieces if Steve should fail to get off the ground.
Cadillac and Steve positioned themselves on the straw mats placed by the nose of the aircraft and knelt to pay homage to the assembled Iron Masters, who were seated some fifty yards away on a cloth-covered dais with their aides ranged behind them. Long bamboo poles with narrow banners bearing three different emblems fluttered above their heads.
‘The ones on the left are the Min-Orota,’ whispered Cadillac. ‘Those on the right belong to Yama-Shita, and the group in the middle are the Toh-Yota – the Shogun’s house.’
‘A neat way of saying we’ve got you surrounded,’ said Steve.
They bowed again, touching the mat with their noses. Behind them, Jodi and Kelso did the same.
‘Okay, let’s go for it,’ said Steve. He checked the movement of the five hammers that would fire the rockets, then settled into the cockpit. After satisfying himself that the control surfaces responded to movements of the stick and rudder bar, he pulled the row of triggers that had been fitted to a rudimentary dashboard.
Cadillac confirmed that all five firing-pins had slammed home.
‘Okay. Prime the chambers!’
Jodi and Kelso pushed the wads of percussion caps into the firing chambers fixed to the rear of the rocket tubes.
‘Chambers primed, hammers cocked,’ cried Cadillac.
Steve closed his right hand firmly round the stick and looped his left forefinger through the ring-pull that would fire the first rocket. ‘Light the boosters!’
Cadillac applied the taper. ‘Lit and burning!’
Steve settled back firmly in his seat and began the countdown through clenched teeth. Ten-nine-eight…
Jodi and Kelso put their shoulders to the push-bars on each side of the trolley and heaved. It started to move forward. The black powder safety fuse sputtered and sparked; the flame divided and burnt its way towards the crimped nozzles of the two boosters.
Five-four-three… Steve checked the front-wheel steering by moving the rudder bar… two-one-zero—
SHHHhooowwaAHHH! The boosters ignited with a swishing roar. Jodi and Kelso leaped clear and watched anxiously as the trolley bolted across the field, its rear end wreathed in fire and smoke.
‘Go! Go! Go! GO!’ they chanted, double-punching the air on each exclamation mark.
Once again Steve felt himself pressed back into his seat as the trolley continued to accelerate. From the rough measurements they had made during the ground tests with the aid of marker poles, he knew that the trolley reached its maximum speed in eight seconds.
…five-four-three-two-one-IGNITION!
Steve triggered the centre rocket and, as he heard it ignite, he reached outside the cockpit, yanked the toggle that released the aircraft from the trolley, pulled back on the stick and aimed for the clouds.
Whooossshhh! It was a fantastic feeling. He had never climbed so steeply or so fast before. Glancing down, he saw the ground drop rapidly away. The upturned faces of the spectators became featureless pale dots – like tiny flowers scattered across a meadow.
In less than fifteen seconds he was nearly 2,000 feet up. The hissing sound ceased abruptly as the rocket reached the end of its burn and the drumming vibration that had threatened to shake his teeth loose was replaced by an eerie silence. Steve rolled out of the climb, going over and down in a descending right-hand turn. Straightening out his line of descent, he fired the second rocket.
Shuwahh-pa-powwW! Another giant kick in the pants.
Steve kept the nose down. With no instruments, he could only gauge his speed by the keening noise of the air as it rushed over the silken wings and the sickening judder generated by the stresses on the airframe. Now! He pulled up into a loop, rolled off the top and went straight into another loop – an aerobatic manoeuvre known as an upward-S.
The rocket cut out as he came off the top of the second loop, but he had enough speed to go into a barrel roll. Steve was forced to admit Cadillac had done a good job – with a little help from his friends. As a glider, its performance had been no more than average, but under power, the aircraft handled well.
Yep, she was a sweet bird…
The upward-S had added another thousand feet of altitude, enabling Steve to see Ba-satana, perched on the edge of the Eastern Sea. That was one big stretch of water. Was that the edge of the world – or did something lie beyond? He used up the next two rockets in a variety of aerobatic manoeuvres, working his way closer to the ground as he gave serious thought to buzzing the display stand from behind to give the dinks the fright of their lives. He came to the conclusion that it might not appeal to their warped sense of humour, and settled for a low-level, high-speed pass across the field, scattering the watching Trackers and clearing the stone wall by inches.
Up again he went, during the final seconds of the fifth and last burn, finishing off with three victory rolls before turning back towards the field for an immaculate landing.
The total burn time had been seventy-five seconds, but by gliding in between firings he had been able to stay aloft for about twenty minutes. He had deliberately kept it short to sustain the Iron Masters’ interest, but could have remained airborne for much longer – and flown further. A westward climb using four rockets would have taken him close to 8,000 feet, leaving one in reserve. From that height he would have been able to glide all the way to the Hudson – with a passenger. Yeah. Things were coming together just fine…
His spectacular handling of the flying-horse and its faultless performance put the Iron Masters in a convivial mood. Anxious to demonstrate that his flying skills were the equal of Steve’s, Cadillac made the next two flights with Jodi, then Kelso, riding in the front passenger seat. To the casual observer his performance was every bit as good as Steve’s. Jodi and Kelso, who knew the difference, were impressed but not bowled over. Cadillac’s flying lacked that indefinable something that separates the gritted-teeth routine of a competent pilot trying to do his best from the easy brilliance of the born-to-fly aces who simply can’t do it any other way.
After an alfresco lunch, the Iron Masters sent a samurai from Min-Orota’s party up with Cadillac. He burned off two rockets in a steep eastward climb, circled silently over the port of Ba-satana, then made a swooping dive over Lord Min-Orota’s palace. The samurai had maintained a white-knuckled grip on the rim of the cockpit during the climb-out, but as the minutes passed his initial terror eased. And when he saw the field-workers pause in their labours, and the soldiers and servants stream out of the palace to catch a glimpse of them as they flew overhead, he chortled happily and waved with both hands. Cadillac fired the third rocket to regain altitude and expended the remaining pair doing gentle aerobatics in sight of the field.
When Cadillac landed, Shigamitsu, the samurai in command of the Heron Pool, announced that the Shogun’s Herald had expressed the wish to be taken into the air by the pilot who had made the first flight of the morning. After a new set of rockets had been fitted to the glider and trolley, Toshiro Hase-Gawa was ushered forward with the usual elaborate courtesies. Once he was settled comfortably in the front seat, Steve was allowed back on the scene. Shigamitsu had overcome the ticklish problem of protocol by ordering up a pair of gloves and a straw mask for Steve to wear. In this way, the Herald would not come face to face with a Mute slave.
Since sheet glass was in short supply and Perspex was unheard of, the windscreens on the glider were pretty basic. Cadillac had managed to get a couple of pairs of goggles made up, and a cotton scarf tied across the nose and chin completed the flying kit. Steve, who could only see the back of his passenger’s head, had no inkling of his identity until he heard a muffled voice say: ‘Okay, take it away, sport.’
In response to Toshiro’s request for a brief scenic tour, Steve followed Cadillac’s flight pattern, taking in Basatana and the Min-Orota’s family estates. On the way back he circled above the Consul-General’s residence and Two Island Lake. Clearwater was down there. Was she in the garden, looking up at the white stiff-winged bird floating lazily overhead? With the power off, the only sounds were a gentle swish of air over the glider’s silken skin and the flip-flapping tail-ends of their headscarves.
