Finally, there was nothing left to do except leave. All the goodbyes had been said. Without another word, Amadeus climbed up into the craft and started his preflight checks. Gravity climbed up on the side after him, but instead of sitting in the copilot's chair, he just shook Amadeus’ hand. Amadeus felt a slip of paper against his palm. Gravity mouthed the words “read this later.” Amadeus stuffed the note into his pocket with as much discretion as he could muster.
“I'm sorry, I can't go,” Gravity said, his voice at full volume. “You saw what happened to me on the flight. Besides, I'm an old man. I would just slow you down.”
“Old man? What do you mean?” Amadeus asked, but when he looked at Gravity's face he did seem older, as if he had aged ten years overnight. The eyes that had been sharp like needles only a month ago now seemed milky and dull, irises the color of granite.
“I’m glad you say that, but I have,” his eyes darted to Amadeus’ hand and back, “other concerns to address.” Amadeus wanted to open the note right there, find out why Gravity was backing out, but Gravity had made sure to give it to him out of sight of everyone else. Amadeus decided it was better to wait.
“Suit yourself. I would love to have you along, but you’ve taught me so much,” Amadeus said. The Pachyderm rattled. He adjusted then equalized the speed of the turbofans and smoothed things out.
“Good boy, that's the spirit,” Gravity said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a white envelope, and handed it to Amadeus. “Five grand in unmarked, untraceable greenbacks. A tiny part of the retainer paid me by your father.” Amadeus furrowed his brow. He wanted to refuse, but he knew he needed money..
“Thanks,” Amadeus said as he took the envelope and put it in his pocket. “For everything.” Gravity hopped down from the Pachyderm, surprisingly agile for a man with such a haggard look. As Gravity walked away, Amadeus heard Jones asking him why he wasn’t going.
Amadeus fired up the verticals, running the RPMs up until he felt the craft begin to lift. All around, dust flew up in little tunnels, making everyone squint as he lifted off. Out the window, he watched the ground grow father away, and his friends, the closest thing he had to a family, grow smaller and smaller until they were only small, round points of life on the earth below.
He hovered, stationary, as he double checked his heading and waypoints on the flight computer. A hissing sound filled the cabin as the automatic pressurization system started up. He rose and applied forward thrust. He leaned his chair back and prepared for the long flight over the mountains, across the prairie, and off to the great green East.
Curious about the note from Gravity, he pulled it out and read it:
Jones isn’t what he seems. I’m going to try a different approach to this situation. And I don’t get airsick. Good luck. —Gravity.
Amadeus wondered what he meant. Jones had helped Amadeus, had given him the ability to get the answers he needed, and now Gravity said Jones isn’t what he seems? What is he, then? Amadeus decided he would have to wait to find out. This note wouldn’t change anything. Maybe Gravity was going senile.
After two hours, somewhere over Kansas, at around 4,500 meters, once he had finally settled into what he expected to be a ten hour flight, a dust storm started, the brown earth swirling around him, the view outside as clear as static on an old television. He flew entirely with his instruments, keeping an eye on the turbofan function monitors. Needing reassurance, he called Jones. Jones' face came on the screen.
“Hey, I'm in a dust storm. Is there anything to worry about? Dust in the engines, anything like that?”
“Shouldn't be. How bad is it?”
“I can't see a thing,” Amadeus said, “except brown. I'm flying through the Sahara desert here.” Amadeus turned the camera outside to face the storm.
“Just in case,” Jones said. “You better take it down. Where are you, Kansas?” Amadeus said that was right. “Mostly farms and fields. Take it down, cover the Pachyderm with the tarp, wait it out. We never really got to test it in the dust.”
Just then, a red light began flashing on the turbofan monitor. “Damn,” Amadeus said, “having engine trouble. The Pachyderm fails this test.”
“Then stop talking to me and land the damn thing,” Jones said. Amadeus did just that. The monitor reported a turbofan was malfunctioning. Some sand, Amadeus thought, must've slipped in and got into the internals. I’ll just take it down and wait this out. Maybe take the unit apart and clean it out. No big deal.
He descended, the altimeter numbers dropping like a deflating balloon. At 800 meters, he still couldn't see the ground, though his equipment it should be close. Trying to keep the Pachyderm level with what he hoped was flat ground, he went closer and closer, his rate of descent as slow as he could make it. The wind whipped around the craft, occasionally rocking it back and forth, but he kept a tight grip on the yoke.
Thirty meters from the ground, an alarm began beeping. Diagnostics reported one of the engines had failed. Everything was still brown and sandy, then suddenly a shuddering, scraping sound. Metal on metal, creaking and groaning. The Pachyderm titled as its skids touched down on what Amadeus realized was a sloped metal roof. He had landed on a barn. The wind whipped around him, and he could still hear the groaning metal. He started to lift back up, but it was too late.
With surprising slowness, the barn collapsed underneath him, tilting sideways under the weight of the Pachyderm. Once the barn collapsed, the craft sat askew atop the rubble. Amadeus still held the yoke of the craft, as if to prevent the craft from floating away. Seeing no one in the fields around him, he called Jones to report what happened.
“Yeah, you'll need to take it apart. Best bet is probably to clean the motor with compressed air, degreaser or, if you're in a pinch, gasoline. Don't use water.”
“Gasoline,” Amadeus said, as if he had never heard anything more unsavory. He didn't mention the collapsed barn. “How far can I fly with a broken turbofan?”
“You could theoretically keep going, but you'll have to stop more often to recharge and, if another one fails, you'll be grounded for a while. Best to take care of it now. It shouldn’t take you more than a couple hours. Use the tarp. With the power off, the cloaking paint won’t work as well.
So Amadeus waited for the dust to pass and the turbofan to cool. Within an hour, the dust had died down but some still swirled through the air. He put on a pair of goggles, donned leather gloves and, holding the small toolbox, jumped out onto the metal wreckage below him. He unscrewed the housing for the turbofan, put the screws in his pocket, then lifted the unit from the pitch control arm. It was bulky but lighter than he expected. Back in the small cargo area, he sat on his duffel bag and disassembled the unit, removing first the duct fan then the compressor, which was as big as his head but as light as a basketball. When he turned it in his hands, sand poured out, and he found a short length of bailing wire had become entangled with the compressor.
As he unwrapped the last of the bailing wire, the cabin door opened. When he turned, he was staring at a sun-bleached man with big sideburns and a straw hat. In his hand he held a tire iron.
“Shit,” Amadeus said.
“Shit indeed. Son, you smashed my barn,” the man said. At first Amadeus couldn't understand his accent. “Well, what say you? And what in creation is this thing?”
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, it was a dust storm and I had to land somewhere. The air was so bad I couldn't even see where I was landing.”
“You're lucky weren't no cattle in there, I had them out grazing when the storm came. But now, where they doing to stay? I can’t exactly put them up in the living room, already got one cow in there, been married to her for ten years.” The farmer adjusted his hat. “Son, when I saw your machine come down here, I had no idea what in the hell I was going to see. I say, half a my mind thought I was going to see a spaceman sitting in this here craft. Now, though, I see this was an honest mistake, an accident. So tell me, son, who are you?”
Amadeus gave the farmer his good-student smile and before he spoke.
“My uncle is an inventor. I'm his test pilot. My name's George Lawson,” Amadeus said, the lie rolling off his tongue like honey.
“Well, George Lawson, you done a heap of damage to my cattle barn. Now, what do you propose to do about it?”
“How about two thousand dollars cash, right now?” The farmer arched an eyebrow and whistled through his teeth.
“That’s a whole bunch of money for a test pilot to be carrying, but I’d need twice that to rebuild.”
“Sir, I’m really sorry. It was an accident. I can give you thirty-five hundred.” Amadeus thought fifteen hundred would last him at least until after New York. The farmer nodded his head and gave him a non-committal grunt.
“A flying machine,” the farmer said. “I never seen such a thing. Sure, I've been around Cessnas and Pipers and things like that, but this...hmm...how much weight can you carry?”
“For short trips at a low altitude, I can strip it down and carry just over four hundred kilograms,” Amadeus said. The farmer thought about this, seemed to be doing some calculations in his head.
“I tell you what. I make you a deal. What you offered won’t cover me, but I need a job done, and if you do I think it’d be worth the remainder. Right now, see, the spider mites are swarming our soybeans, they’re having a regular bonanza out there. Me and a couple other fellows, we hire the same old boy to dust them with insecticide, but unfortunately he's lost his license for flying on the bottle,” the farmer said. Amadeus raised one eyebrow, confused at this last expression. He imagined someone riding a bottle of champagne across the sky, using the fizz as a propellant. Seeing Amadeus’ expression, the farmer made the international sign for drinking. “The boy was drunk, you see, on corn whiskey or some thing or another, and he lost his wings.”
“I see. Okay, how would this would work?”
“I started working on that the second I saw your plane, or whatever you call that thing.”
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The farmer set to work. He placed a plastic drum inside the Pachyderm and attached a wide bar with several nozzles to the bottom back of the craft using chains. The Pachyderm, though not designed for cargo, did have places to latch points on the inside floor. While the farmer worked, Amadeus contacted Jones. When he told Jones about his situation, Jones laughed and said do what the farmer needed, just don’t let the farmer call the cops or drill any holes or do any welding; he'd probably fuck up the pressurization.
They ran a control line running up through a panel in the bottom and Amadeus attached the release lever to the center console with a couple of cable ties. Amadeus repaired and replaced his engine. The farmer surprised Amadeus with his computer skills; within ten minutes he had programmed the spots on the map he wanted dusted, giving him a route complete with waypoints. Once he had entered all the locations, Amadeus asked how much each field would need. The farmer told him, and Amadeus did some mental calculations of his own.
“But that's going to take me at least five trips back here,” Amadeus said. He hadn't intended to sound so whiny.
“Took me a good six trips to the lumber yard to build my barn, and gas is a lot more expensive than whatever that thing runs on. What does it run on, anyway?”
“Solar-generated hydrogen,” Amadeus said.
“I’ve heard of people adding those to cars. I suppose I could get one of those conversion kits, or just buy a new truck, but I hate to let go of my truck. I like things the way they are, you know how it is.” Amadeus definitely knew how that was. “Now, about the job...”
The farmer filled him in on the specifics, told Amadeus that to get it right he would have to dump a certain amount of dust while traveling at a certain speed, adjusting for wind velocity and direction, as well as the wind shifts resulting from vertical thrust. The farmer speculated that in certain conditions, the air would make a funnel, not unlike a small tornado, when the turbofans spun at a particular speed. Amadeus later learned the farmer was correct.
By late afternoon Amadeus was flying low over corn, potato, and soybean fields, dumping what he hoped was organic pesticide over the straight green rows of soybeans. The rows reminded him of the wires of an old IDE hard drive cable. Between runs, he would land and hop out. He and the farmer, wearing dust masks, would load the pesticide onto the Pachyderm. During his final trip, the sun began to set, and he flew the last trip in the dark using instruments, memory, and floodlights. When he finished, the farmer shook his hand. His hands were surprisingly soft.
“Boy, you done good work, a lot faster than that old drunk of a pilot that used to do it. I see you're a man on your way somewhere else, but if you ever needed an honest occupation, you could keep yourself busy with that thing for years. Why, you could work all spring and summer here then spend your winters down on some Mexican beach.
Amadeus just smiled. He admired the man's practicality and his no-nonsense attitude towards things. He was clever and said what he thought.
“You're right, I could, but I’m just so busy with these test flights. Maybe in the future.”
“The future’s a long way away. For now, why don't you stick around for dinner? The wife's made up a roast with fixins: potatoes, carrots, corn. Put some meat on you, you are a skinny little guy.” Amadeus thought he was pretty hungry, and he certainly hadn't eaten any home cooked food since, well...maybe since his mother was alive. At the Jones compound, at university, and back east with his father, he ate too much prepackaged, and carry-out food, but it he supposed he wasn’t meant to have home-cooked food; his father rarely made more than boiled eggs, and within two years of his mother’s death, Amadeus knew the menus of several franchise restaurants by heart.
The hunger circling his mind like a hawk made his decision for him. “Okay, I’ll eat with you,” he said. The farmer slapped him on the shoulder and told him to follow him inside. On the wooden porch of the farmhouse, under a moth-swarmed light, they sat across from each other at a glass-topped wicker table. The farmer yelled into the house for his wife to start cooking, and she yelled something back. He and his wife were yelling at each other in Spanish.
“You speak Spanish?” Amadeus asked.
“Kind of have to when your wife is Guatemalan,” the farmer said. “I never did properly introduce myself to you. Name's Clifton McComas. My wife's name is Zora.”
His wife came out the screen door. She reminded Amadeus of a black–haired bowling pin. She was smiling when she came out, but when she saw Amadeus she narrowed her eyes a little. As she scrutinized him, a current ran up his legs to his stomach. She knows, he thought, and she knows that I know that she knows.
“It is nice to meet you,” she said in English, her voice flat, a little accented. She sat a glass pitcher of lemonade on the table. The ice cubes clinked against the sides. “Honey, the roast is almost finished. Ten minutes.” She went back inside.
“How did the two of you meet?” Amadeus asked.
“I was in the military, stationed near Tuxtla Gutierrez, Mexico during the Narco War. The traficantes had pretty much taken over Guatemala, demanding tribute from the villages. I'd say a quarter of the country were coerced into working for the them in some way or another. Ugly, bloody stuff. My job was to help refugees. You see, I'm not a fighting man, I was actually in the military as a conscientious objector. You know what that is?” Amadeus nodded.
“Well, my job was in relocation, helping people find jobs. And poor Zora, she came into my office. All the damn NGOs had given her what we call the Yankee Shuffle, going from one place, one camp to another. Even after all she'd been through, I had never seen a more beautiful girl, and she was a girl at the time, maybe seventeen, but hell, I was barely twenty, so it weren't like I was robbing the cradle. Anyway, one thing led to another and soon we were both in love. We got married in San Cristobal de las Casas, beautiful little place by the way, and came back to America. Unfortunately, she's taken a liking to cheeseburgers and milkshakes. Hell on
her complexion, but she’s beautiful anyway.”
Amadeus nodded and sipped his lemonade as Clifton told his story.
“I'm sorry, that might've been a little more than what you asked for. Tell me, son, you have a girl? Or are you one of them homosexuals? That’s okay if you are, I got a cousin up in Lawrence, runs with a bunch of real funny fellas, but they’re alright by me. Even had a van full of them come up here one year for caroling. Man, could they sing.”
“No, I'm not gay. The girl I like now, she hates me. And there was this other one, but I'll probably never see her again.”
“The latter,” Clifton said, “those are the sweetest kind.”
Zora returned with a big steaming pot full of roast beef and sloshing broth, along with potatoes, carrots, onions, and celery in an old blue-speckled braising pot. She also laid out tortilla chips and a chunky salsa. Amadeus was too hungry to be paranoid.
“She grows all the ingredients for salsa in a kitchen garden, tomatoes, cilantro, onions, a little garlic. Don't you, hon?” Zora just nodded. After another trip to the kitchen she came out with plates and silverware. The knives, forks, and plates rattled and clinked as she set them upon the glass tabletop. She then plopped down in the chair, but motioned for them all to serve themselves.
“Why so surly?” Clifton asked, looking at his wife. She glowered back at him as he cut into the roast. The knife scraped against the metal bottom of the pot. He sat a big slab of meat on his plate then covered it with juices from the pot. Amadeus cut his own piece and took a bite.
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