Tomorrow Is Too Far

by James White

  They went charging down the centre of the runway with Carson working hard to keep them there. The ASI needle crept up towards sixty-five knots and he eased back on the control column. The wheels stopped rumbling and, relieved of ground drag, the aircraft picked up speed. They climbed away steadily with the airspeed indicator needle nailed firmly on to the seventy knots mark and the stall warning shamed into silence.

  At three hundred feet he raised the flaps smoothly so as to avoid a sudden loss of altitude and switched off the standby fuel pump. The fuel gauge said that the mechanical pump was working perfectly. He continued the climb to six hundred feet, checked that the area was clear of other aircraft and made a climbing turn through ninety degrees to port. The angle subtended by the horizon and the lateral axis of the aircraft was no more than a degree plus or minus that required for a Rate One turn. He continued climbing and, anticipating slightly, eased the stick forward so that he levelled off at exactly one thousand feet.

  He switched the carburettor to heat to prevent icing, closed the throttle until the ASI showed the recommended cruising speed of eighty knots. He scanned the area again, made another ninety-degree turn to port and flew downwind parallel to the runway. He unclipped the mike.

  ‘Tango Zulu downwind,’ he said.

  ‘Tango Zulu you are clear to finals.’

  ‘Tango Zulu.’

  ‘Are you happy with this aeroplane, Mr Carson?’ said Maxwell suddenly.

  Carson examined the question for implications. Perhaps he did not look happy with it. Maybe he was not flying it properly, in the CFI’s opinion, and Maxwell was letting him know about it as tactfully as possible. Or perhaps he just wanted to know.

  ‘I’m getting used to it,’ said Carson, ‘and I don’t think I should change now. Do you?’

  Maxwell ignored the question and asked another. ‘Are you happy with your instructor?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carson.

  ‘You sound a trifle hesitant. Is he rough on you? Exacting? Insists on you doing all the work? Demands an unreasonably high standard of flying?’

  ‘In order,’ said Carson, smiling, ‘the answers are yes, yes, yes and yes. I like him personally, what little I know of him, and as a pilot he is very, well, neat, about everything he does...’

  ‘It rubs off,’ said Maxwell drily.

  The end of the runway was just passing behind the port wing trailing edge. Carson looked around then turned ninety degrees on to the base leg. He reduced power and put the nose down, judging his descent so that he would be about seven hundred feet up when he turned on to his final approach. He set one-half flap for landing and switched on the standby fuel pump in case he needed full power quickly. The patchwork of fields, roads, farmhouses and clumps of trees was slipping past faster now as he lost height. But his attention was on the runway stretching away to the left, paralleling his port wing.

  He began a gradual turn to port while with the other hand he unclipped the mike and said, ‘Tango Zulu. Turning finals.’

  ‘Tango Zulu you are clear to land on runway Zero Four.’

  ‘Tango Zulu.’

  He was turning a shade wide and he knew that Maxwell would not be impressed by an approach in the shape of a series of S-turns. He increased the bank until he was almost lined up with the centre of the runway then smoothly took it off. The runway stretched ahead like a narrow, isosceles triangle--he was properly lined up! He began to drift very slightly to port and gave the starboard rudder just a hair of pressure. There was the beginnings of a starboard drift so he gave the port rudder pedal half a hair. The ASI read seventy-five knots, his attitude was right so far, the engine was just ticking over and the main road was slipping under his nose. The runway was beginning to slide off to the side again ...

  ‘You are a shade tense, Mr Carson,’ said Maxwell.

  ‘The runway won’t hold still,’ said Carson, edging it back to where it belonged. The isosceles triangle was becoming more equilateral. He had picked his spot to round out--a point about thirty yards beyond the white-painted numerals--and he watched it carefully. If it showed a tendency to move towards him and under the nose it meant he was overshooting. If it appeared to move away he was doing the opposite. It seemed to be creeping away from him very slightly, so he opened the throttle a little for a few seconds to reduce the angle of descent, then returned it to the tick-over setting.

  Applying power had caused the nose to go up as well as causing a slight yaw and port wing drop. He corrected all three. An updraught dropped the other wing. He corrected that. His round-out spot was staying put, so was the runway. The boundary hedge whipped past below him and the big 0 and 4 were rushing up ...

  He gave a strained laugh and sang tunelessly, ‘Oh For the wings of a dove ... ‘

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Maxwell, covering his face.

  But the instructor’s feet were still hovering over the rudder pedals and the hands covering his face had their fingers open so that he could still see, and the control column was within easy reach in an emergency.

  This was the point where Carson bumped if he was going to bump. He either rounded out too high and dropped on to the runway to the accompaniment of jeering noises from the stall warning horn, or he came in too low and fast so that he touched down hard and bounced. The idea was to get as close to the ground as possible then fly straight and level above it. Theoretically, Pebbles was always telling him, there was no difference between flying accurately at one thousand feet and one foot.

  Carson thought his altitude was one foot but he did not know. He was centred on the runway with wings level and airspeed dropping away. He brought the nose up gently to hold off for as long as possible. It seemed as though he had been flying a few inches above the runway for hours. He eased the nose up a little more--the ASI showed a figure close to stalling speed--and felt the aircraft begin to sink ...

  There was no bump, just a beautiful, continuous rumble of wheels on tarmac.

  ‘An acceptable landing.’ said Maxwell. ‘Let me see you do it again.’

  Carson put the carburettor on cold, opened the throttle while they were still rolling at speed along the runway and did it all again. When they were down he said, ‘Round again?’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘Stop at the end of the runway and let me off, then try it yourself. Just one circuit, mind. And don’t worry, Mr Carson, you’ll be all right.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I’ll stand on the end of the runway to hold it steady while you come in ...’

  If anything Carson was even more careful while he was doing it by himself. He knew that the CFI was at the end of the runway observing every move. The tower, which would have seen Maxwell leave the aeroplane and would know that Carson was making his first solo, would be watching him through binoculars. They would also have passed the news to everyone in the club-house. The bar would be getting ready for the round of drinks Carson would buy to mark this great occasion and for the party which usually developed afterwards.

  There was only one moment on the downwind leg when Carson became frightened, when he wondered what he was doing up here all alone. Then he saw the grounds and tiny, bright buildings of the MacNaughton Clinic and the fields stretching between it and the airfield, and he became angry rather than frightened.

  All this had come about as a direct result of his efforts to investigate the project through its supposedly weak mental link. But now flying had become very important to Carson and he felt terribly wrong, somehow, about mixing security business with pleasure. Pebbles had taught him to fly; the shy, stammering, intensely reserved Pebbles who was now beginning to look as if he might be something much more than a weak link.

  Top pilots were made and not born. They were made from the very best physical and mental material, and Pebbles was certainly in the top class. They were not made from the kind of material which Pebbles purported to be and they were not patients at establishments like the MacNaughton Clinic. Pebbles was to have been his means of learning the details and ultimate purpose of the proje
ct so that he could protect it.

  Now he was beginning to wonder if Pebbles was the man he should be protecting it from ...

  Angrily he wondered why his suspicions had chosen this particular moment to crystallise, taking the edge off the excitement and joy of his first solo. In a few seconds he would have to clear his mind for the approach and landing. Pleasure and business did not mix. But it came as a surprise to him that his strongest feeling towards Pebbles, even stronger than the anger, was one of gratitude.

  Even if Pebbles was a spy with all that that implied, Carson felt sure that the feeling would stay with him all his life.

  Later in the club-house he was surprised to see Wayne Tillotson among the crowd of insulting, back-slapping, arm-punching well-wishers--not so much surprised at his presence than at his appearance.

  Tillotson’s voice was slurred as he said, ‘Hurry up and buy me that drink, Joe, so I can buy you one. I’m having a party, too, you know--no special reason. And congratulations. It’s a pity John couldn’t be here. He told me that you were ready to go solo...’

  ‘He didn’t tell me,’ said Carson drily.

  Carson had never seen Tillotson drunk before or even heard of him getting drunk. But it was a condition which made for useful slips of the tongue--always provided, of course, that he could steer the conversation on to the right topic. He went on thoughtfully, ‘I wish he would talk more--about himself, I mean. I like him a lot, but I wish he would open up sometimes. I think he has problems ...’

  Back to business ...

  Chapter Twelve

  The file in the dirty envelope at the bottom of his junk drawer grew thicker, but slowly. Carson’s frustration was fast reaching the pitch where he was about to hang the consequences and make something happen. One reason for not doing so was that his opposite number might react violently when he discovered that an outsider knew about the project--he kept remembering Herbie Patterson, and wondering. The other reason was that Carson, in his own cynical fashion, regarded himself as a patriot and he was still not sure whether the project would be best served by his silence or by his ignorant and perhaps misguided efforts at protecting it.

  From Pebbles?

  He still could not make up his mind about that.

  As a result he continued his wanderings all over the Hart-Ewing complex, when by rights he should have been in his office, and working late at nights to clear the paperwork and to visit empty offices and departments which might contain useful information. But the odd pieces he was able to pick up merely filled in the edges of the puzzle, they gave no idea of the shape and subject of the picture.

  He called several times on Pebbles only to find him too busy to do more than exchange the time of day. But on one occasion he managed a hurried invitation to the flat for the beer that was still owing him. Pebbles wavered for a moment then accepted, although he did not set a time. It was progress, however, but slow.

  At the pilot’s offices he was told that Wayne Tillotson had gone off somewhere on a special course and would not be back for at least a week.

  It had been a peculiar party for the club-house where as a rule nobody drank to excess. Tillotson had hit the bottle like a backsliding alcoholic. He had hit a great many bottles with a wide variety of contents. He had arrived in a taxi instead of his sports car and another cab had taken the remains home.

  There had been a quality almost of desperation about the way he had filled himself with everything which would pour while he talked to everyone in sight. To Carson he had talked a lot about Pebbles as he had been in the early days, and he discovered that Tillotson was the only person who had been to Pebbles’s place or whom the other had visited. Wayne was his only real friend, it seemed, but just before the test pilot passed out he had about-faced and insisted to Carson that he was not the poor dope’s best friend because as a result of his kindness Pebbles was going to get himself killed or worse ...

  Offhand Carson knew of only one fate worse than death, but he was fairly certain that Tillotson had not been thinking of that.

  Which left Dr Marshall.

  He drove over to collect her shortly after lunch on the following Sunday. It was a scorching hot day without cloud or wind except for that generated by the speed of his freshly washed and polished car. His sports jacket was quietly resplendent, the creases in his slacks were suitably knife-edged and he had shaved to within an inch of his life and at a point just below his ear even closer than that.

  The Marshall house was fairly small with a large back garden, both of which were being noisily overrun by young children--only two children, Carson was surprised to discover when he counted heads. The doctor’s brother met him at the door and asked him in for a beer while he was waiting. That was only the first of many questions, questions which could have been irritating if not downright embarrassing, if Gordon Marshall had not been equally free in answering his questions.

  Gordon, he discovered, was the man of the house and took his duties seriously. His father had died recently after a long illness. His sister Jean had been looking after their father since their mother, who had been crippled as the result of a car accident for over six years, had died early last year. They had not needed the services of a fulltime doctor, of course, but there had still been an awful lot for Jean to do when she came off duty at the clinic. That was why she had moved to Hart-Ewing’s with its shorter and more regular hours. She did not have so much to do at home these days.

  Gordon did not say that his elder sister was in danger of becoming an old maid. Nor did he say that the house was too small for a growing family, that his sister and wife--who was pregnant again--had arguments in which he was forced to take sides or that it was impossible for his wife and himself to clear the air periodically with a good old-fashioned row without Jean overhearing it. He did not say any of these things and, Carson was sure, he was not even aware of not saying them. It was just that Carson had become expert at listening between the lines.

  It was only when Gordon began asking detailed personal questions about his medical history and parents that Carson felt impelled to react.

  ‘Take it easy, Gordon,’ he said, laughing. ‘I realise that you feel it necessary to check on your sister’s men friends--as a stand-in for your father, perhaps--and I also realise that in a medically oriented household questions regarding matters of health might tend to be, well, explicit. But aren’t you jumping the gun a little considering this is the first time I have taken her out?’

  Gordon laughed, too, but uncomfortably. He said, ‘I didn’t think I was being so obvious, Joe. I’m sorry. And it isn’t me you have to worry about, it’s her. The third degree was simply to find out if we would sec you around again. Once has usually been enough for the others to decide that they didn’t measure up.

  ‘I hope I’m not scaring you off, Joe,’ he went on. ‘She isn’t nasty or very bad-tempered or anything like that. It’s just that she has this peculiar kink about not getting emotionally involved with a man who may turn out to be just another patient ... ‘

  He broke off and looked past Carson towards the living-room door, his eyebrows going up. He murmured, ‘She doesn’t usually go to all this trouble. Maybe we will see you next Sunday after all...’

  Carson turned as he rose to his feet. He had been expecting Jean Marshall to look different but not necessarily better. Any girl in a doctor’s or nurse’s whites had things going for her which transcended the purely physical attractions. The crisp whites symbolised the many admirable qualities demanded by her profession and gave her an attraction which was both real and invisible. But very often when she changed into street clothes, even though she was exactly the same person possessing the same qualities, she became just another plain girl in the street.

  Jean Marshall was dressed plainly but she did not look plain. The sandals were little more than holes held together with thin straps revealing feet that Carson would probably have drooled over had he been a foot fetishist. Her dark blue slacks were not over tight and
her white sweater was not sloppy enough to hide anything either. Her sleeves were pulled up to just below the elbows and she carried a swimsuit wrapped in a towel in one hand. Carson would not have minded betting that she had spent more time on her face and hair making it look unmade-up than he had on his car trying to make it look new, and to much better effect.

  ‘Oh, brother,’ he said softly.

  ‘In-law,’ said Gordon, laughing. ‘If you’re not careful, Joe, it will be in-law...’

  When they were on the outskirts of town and with a few miles to go before the turn-off for the coast, unselfishness reared its beautiful head. Carson had been determined to take her for a drive along the coast, then to the club for a meal and finally to the clinic--just to prove to her that he was taking her out for reasons other than a means of gaining access to the hospital. She, on the other hand, insisted that they go to the clinic first because he was concerned about Pebbles and would probably be able to enjoy himself more if that particular worry was removed. Carson replied that he would not mind missing the hospital altogether and putting off their visit until next week--besides being the right thing to say it was almost true. But she became quite insistent and to avoid an argument he had to be selfish and go to the clinic first.

  It was like offering cigarettes in a crowd---the one who was slowest on the draw won.

  The MacNaughton Clinic had a large gate but very low walls. Generally speaking the patients had neither the ability nor the inclination to leave and the people of the outside world had no wish to go anywhere near the place. The gates were open, the drive-way clear and the grounds empty. All the activity was centred around three large coaches drawn up in front of the main building.

  ‘Take the next on the right, Joe,’ Jean said, ‘then second left. We’ll go in by the back door.’