Managed to follow part of flight with binoculars: Brightly colored midge visible for many miles from catwalk encircling 200-inch reflector’s dome. Adam checked every logging road, cowpath, nature trail within 25-mile radius of observatory. Looked especially closely for indications of isolated structures — facilities not accessible by road, or whose construction and/or placement suggested attempted concealment.
Gone three hours, but eventually floated lightly from sky, touching down at walking pace, gently as falling leaf. Killed engine, removed helmet.
“If they’re out there, they’re well hidden,” he shouted into silence; then added more softly, “Am I talking too loudly? I usually do after flying this. You’re supposed to use acoustical earplugs, but I always forget.”
Too close to dark to continue by time he returned, so spending night in observatory parking lot.
Adam glowing all over; simply irrepressible: bursting with puns, teasing, good humor — never seen anyone appreciate own cleverness so much…
Oh, well, minor irritation, really. Of more concern is change in self: Since watching Adam fly ultralight, have felt unaccustomed longing, yearning, wish, want, desire, yen, attraction, need, craving — no-holds-barred pathological obsession! For first time, understand Mr. Toad’s reaction to initial sight of motorcar…
Oh, Posterity, been such exciting two days…! But shall adhere to histographers’ discipline; set down events as transpired, without giving hints, muddling chronology — possibly losing later-important details in process.
So: Departed Mount Palomar early this morning; set course for Pasadena. Got as far as Riverside before routine shattered:
Adam rounded corner in usual gentle fashion — and small child on bicycle shot from behind abandoned car, directly into path, mere yards from bumper. Adam yanked steering wheel; almost simultaneously locked up brakes. Somehow missed child; stopped partially jackknifed on spot had occupied heartbeat previously.
Kid continued across street, darted between two buildings, out of sight.
As one we sprang from van, landed running. Adam, well in lead, covered good 200 yards, calling out reassuringly, before misjudging height of obstacle, snagging toe midvault, crashing heavily to ground. And since karate training still not implanted in reflexes, fell wrong: on left elbow. Bone’s snap even louder than anguished gasp, curse.
Arrived on scene. Cautioned, “Don’t move”; restrained bodily. Adam’s karate discipline manifested then; late, but still useful: White, sweating but calm, lay still as examined. Explored as gently as possible, but still elicited grimaces, gasps. Upper arm visibly shorter, plus had grown extra elbow.
“Humerus,” was verdict.
Even in agony Adam couldn’t resist: “Not to me,” he puffed through gritted teeth. Then spark faded, leaving only pain: “I thought so. Can you set it?”
(Rollo could, mocked little voice inside skull. But ignored it; concentrated on Adam [fixing broken arm challenge enough without compounding problems by indulging in guilt trip].)
“I know how to do it; I’ve never set one myself, of course. And you aren’t going to enjoy it. The ends are overriding; you know what that means.”
Adam knew. Grew even whiter.
Helped him to feet, supporting arm to immobilize. Returned to trailer. Strapped upper arm temporarily to torso then adjourned to nearest hospital. Located plastic splint — and mouthpiece.
Helped Adam onto table, strapped down. “I don’t know anything about anesthesia. I’m more likely to kill you that not if I give you anything.” He nodded, staring at ceiling, already sweating in anticipation.
“Now, the only way I can overcome the muscle spasms holding those bone ends overlapped is by tapping my hysterical strength. Once I start, I’ll have to forge ahead and finish in one pass, regardless how much it hurts. Otherwise I’ll burn out and you’ll end up with a short, crooked arm, or worse.”
“I know,” he replied tightly. Inserted mouthpiece, set teeth. Took deep breath, closed eyes, indistinctly grunted, “Do it!”
Placed knee in armpit. Grasped elbow firmly in right hand; clamped forearm under own armpit. Placed left hand over break, and…
Hesitated, struck by idea. Might work or not. Never tried before. But success depended on Adam believing: Positive attitude intrinsic to execution.
Assumed confident aspect, said, “Whoa…! Adam, we don’t have to do it the hard way…!”
Adam opened eyes, peered up at me cautiously. Removed mouthpiece; bodily tension eased imperceptible fraction. “How else?”
“Hypnosis!” I announced in what hoped was triumphant tone. “I forgot — you’re a great hypnotic subject. We’ll just put you under and anesthetize your arm. You won’t feel a thing.”
Adam looked dubious. “It hasn’t worked with the hysterical-strength tap.”
“Of course it hasn’t worked; you’ve been fighting it,” I stated positively. “You know you have — you’re scared of hysterical strength because of what happened to me. You achieve as deep a trance as I do, but you block the suggestion. If you want it to work, it will.”
Relieved to see hint of hope nudge in alongside pain in Adam’s expression. Knew seed planted, taking root; but didn’t give him time to think about it. Kept momentum building: continued sales pitch, preinduction psychology:
“Remember my telling you how Daddy did double duty, working as a GP as well as a pathologist? Well, he didn’t like drug-assisted deliveries because of the effect on babies; he used chemicals only when a woman absolutely couldn’t reach a useful trance state in classes during the months leading up to the delivery. Otherwise he used hypnosis exclusively. I often helped during deliveries, and I never once saw a woman evince discomfort during delivery under hypnosis — and childbirth is the standard against which all other pain is gauged, remember.
“Now, you’re already past the hard part: You achieve a full somnambulistic-level trance. Unless you fight the suggestion, it will work!”
Adam visibly relieved. “You’re right. But I don’t think I can do it myself, hurting like this; it’s hard to concentrate on anything but the pain. But I can follow your voice. Will you put me under?”
Of course would. And did. Adam responded immediately to preprogrammed induction code; slid into profound trance state as promptly as if session merely another in regular series dealing with focusing ki, tapping hysterical strength. Pain-drawn features eased even before turning attention to anesthesia: Total concentration characteristic of deepest trance state precluded sparing attention to notice pain.
However, could hardly count on incidental effects to protect against bone-resetting agony. So proceeded with anesthesia induction: Reminded Adam how sleeping in wrong position sometimes puts arm “to sleep”: complete sensation lack, plus motor paralysis. Explained acupressure point just under armpit responsible. Placed finger on supposed location; told him 30 seconds’ firm pressure there would put arm to sleep for minimum of two hours; repeatable as necessary.
Pressed firmly and — no wonder primitive societies regarded hypnotism as magic — whole body sagged as relief from pain canceled subconscious adrenaline alert.
More importantly, spasming muscles in damaged arm went limp; perhaps could perform resetting without triggering own hysterical strength. Only one way to find out.
Replaced knee in Adam’s armpit. Took elbow in right hand, left hand over break; again clamped forearm under own armpit. Then pulled firmly but with control. Stretched limb until felt broken ends grind clear of each other, opposing bulges disappear beneath left hand. Eased tension, allowed ends to settle into what hoped was apposition.
Studied result. Reduction apparently successful: arm grossly straight, same length as right. But palpation ineffective in final determination, and no knowledge of x-ray. Hoped okay. Best I could do.
Slipped plastic splint halves into place. Strapped upper arm to side; bent elbow 90 degrees, strapped forearm across abdomen.
Gave wake-up code. Adam sighed, stirr
ed — then froze, body tense, apparently awaiting pain’s resumption. When failed to materialize, opened eyes cautiously, looked around. “Done?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Fixed?”
“I think so. It’s straight and they’re both the same length. Ask me again in six weeks.”
Adam regarded me searchingly. “Are you all right? After what happened the last time you used hysterical strength…” Assured him metabolic supercharge unnecessary; had not suffered.
Unstrapped him from table; let sit on edge for while, waiting for residual dizziness, nausea to pass.
Presently shuddered. “That was not fun. It doesn’t hurt now, but it sure did before.” Eyed left hand where protruded from strapping. “This is like waking up after sleeping wrong. But it’s scary — I assume my hand will work again once it’s worn off?”
“As soon as you want it to wear off. You can keep it numb for as long as it bothers you by renewing the acupressure block. But you’ll be playing piano again as soon as the splint comes off.”
Adam nodded; then looked up abruptly. “We’ve got to find that kid. He was clean — that means he’s not alone: A kid that size doesn’t bathe except under duress.”
Good point. (Does have unique talent for isolating essential details.)
“I suppose we can drive up and down the streets, blowing the horn and yelling until we find them.”
Adam shook head. “A kid on a bike covers more territory than a tomcat — it would take forever.
“If it weren’t for this” — he indicated splinted arm — “I’d fly a search pattern. That would bring them out — I doubt if planes are a routine sight these days.”
Felt heart miss beat, but tried not to let elation show. Asked nonchalantly, “Does it take long to learn to fly?”
Adam regarded me thoughtfully. “No; flying is almost instinctive — though the ‘almost’ is important; the differences can kill you. But with your brains, reflexes, and coordination, you shouldn’t have a bit of trouble.”
Thought briefly. “We should find someplace wide and flat. Most parking lots are roomy enough for ultralight operation, but an airport would be better for instruction.”
Checked couple gas stations, found Riverside city street map; then drove to airport.
With one-armed coach’s advice, assistance, unfastened bundle from trailer roof, assembled toy plane in about an hour. Adam explained, demonstrated controls, radio helmet (didn’t bother to point out base-station transceiver amongst goodies on trailer’s electronics wall when he flew; just let me worry!), verified operation. Strapped me in, started engine. Then coached by radio, step-by-step:
Slow taxiing first, gradually increasing speed to learn steering transition from differential braking to rudder; then high-speed taxiing to get feel of all controls biting airstream. Followed by more high-speed taxiing, lifting, lowering, alternate wings to acquire feel of aileron/rudder interaction. Then still more high-speed taxiing, raising, lowering nosewheel to learn elevators.
Big Moment finally arrived: Allowed me to increase power fraction beyond setting used for high-speed taxiing. Main gear lifted from runway — was flying…!
Not high, of course; Adam kept me skimming up, down runways, yard above ground, for hours: lift-off, touchdown; shallow right, left turns — endless repetition. Never exceeded 30 knots. Slow-flight practice continued until could detect imminent stall power on or off; whether normal or gee-induced, accelerated variety (cute phenomenon, that: stalling speed mounts as gee forces increase aircraft’s effective weight); ease in, out of stalled condition without height, control loss.
(Fascinating, wrong assumptions otherwise well-educated person can harbor: From exposure to cars, had assumed knew what controls do. Not so. For instance: Fore-and-aft stick movement governs pitch, thereby airspeed — period. Had heretofore assumed increased, decreased altitude. Throttle setting does that. Likewise, did not realize ailerons initiate bank, then back pressure on stick causes actual turn. Rudder’s sole function is to prevent yaw (skidding) caused by aileron drag — or induce deliberate yaw in sideslip when attempting to descend steeply without building up airspeed for short-field landing.)
Adam finally satisfied: For past hour had executed all maneuvers to perfection, plus performed “unusual attitude recoveries” (with more altitude under wheels) without incident. Gave me news by radio as concentrated on flying circles about point. (Tricky: To keep radius constant, necessary to increase bank angle when downwind, ease off upwind — adjusting constantly all the way around.)
Landed grinning ear to ear (Mr. Toad correct: “Glorious, stirring… poetry of motion… only real way to travel!”)
We spent night at airport. Next morning I topped up fuel; Adam inspected ship minutely. Finally I launched to fly search pattern.
Adam navigated from ground: I reported landmarks below; he plotted position on city map, gave headings to fly. (Alternative was wrestling with three-foot-square sheet of paper in open-bodied aircraft — ’tis to laugh.)
Flew at perhaps 300 feet; low enough to spot signs of current habitation: smoking chimney, laundry hung out, crop cultivation in midst of residential area, etc.
And flying is, as knew would be, marvelous (“Here today — in next week tomorrow… O bliss!”): In absence of Man, California skies now clear, crisp; visibility unobstructed, breathtaking (“Always somebody else’s horizon! O my! O my!”). Yielded to impulse; essayed snap roll.
“ ‘O stop being an ass,’ ” Adam snarled, patience exhausted. “I read it, too. Pay attention now; if you kill yourself I’ll never speak to you again.” Promised to behave. Leveled off, headed for initial search area, where had almost run over child.
Adam’s map ruled off in grids. Examined each methodically, flying slowly, giving anyone on ground ample time to drop everything upon hearing rackety engine (loud, indeed — acoustical earplugs genuine necessity), run outside, be seen.
Covered about six grids before happy discovery. Person ran from house as I passed, waving violently (do mean violently: jumping up, down, shrieking — actually heard faint cries at altitude, through engine noise, helmet, earplugs).
Circled back; pinpointed location for Adam, who jumped into rig, set off by road.
Then scouted landing conditions. Let down to 100 feet, performed slow flyby, studying surface; noting presence, absence of wires, poles, fences, ditches, etc. Detected nothing prohibitive; looked safe.
Set up approach assuming same wind direction, speed as at airport. Drifted down gently, skimming low over house at end of block, slowed to near stall, let big fabric wing float us down. Touched down 50 feet from very excited person — two excited persons: one large, one small.
Killed engine, unstrapped, extracted head from helmet, pulled out earplugs, stood…
And promptly swept off feet by hug-attack, replete with cryings, incoherent wet sobbings — more huggings, cryings, etc., etc. Managed to discern assailants both female. Happy to see them, too; but of course third, fourth encounters (respectively) with Somebody Else Alive: Old hat, you know; retained semblance of control.)
(Oh, all right; did get slightly teary…)
Eventually emotions subsided enough to swap preliminary information: Bigger one Kim Melon, age 25; smaller, daughter Lisa, age six. Family survived depopulation intact — husband, too, but accidentally killed shortly thereafter. Small boy seen earlier was Lisa (“I’m not a boy…!”)
Adam arrived; greeting hysteria resurged briefly. Adam bore up bravely…
(Have I described Kim yet? No? Perhaps summary helps shed light upon Adam’s fortitude. Kim could serve as Judging Standard for California Golden Beach Girls: “five foot two, eyes of blue.” Slim, willowy, long-legged. Waist-length natural Swedish-blond mane. Pretty face — correction, beautiful face — double-correction, movie-star face. Plus last name describes salient physical characteristics with unintended hilarious accuracy. Pact with Devil not uncommon result when mortal female encounters Kim’s type. Heck, prob
ably feel that way even if weren’t eleven; but as things are…)
Effect predictable: Adam suddenly very tall for his height; gained inches in chest expansion between one breath and next. Aged years demeanorwise in eyeblink. Casually mentioned is 18 (straight-faced) about half-dozen times during first five minutes: “… the same age my father was when he met my mother — she was a few years older, too.” Etc.
Would have been proud of me, Posterity: Smile never faltered; not once offered to help by reminding of stray facts somehow omitted during suave repartee. Not even when, during one of those casual mentions of his age, managed to drag in mine, and that I was “…a wonderful young person, incredibly talented in so many ways, but of course not old enough for a serious relationship…”
Glad chose path of forbearance, however: Later that evening, as Adam, beaming each time caught her eye, slaved away in trailer kitchen (invited to dinner first thing), preparing culinary triumph calculated to inspire wonder, dazzle palate (melt heart, dissolve inhibitions), Kim leaned close and, without moving lips, whispered, “I wish Adam would quit trying so hard. I’m sure he’s really a nice boy, but it’s awfully hard to tell. Any ideas?”
Several possibilities came to mind right away. Kim got giggles listening. Then offered own suggestions, most of which better than mine. Best of lot impractical at moment: Where would we get whoopee cushion on such short notice…?
Think I’m going to like her.
Know I’m going to like her, Posterity! We fit like peanut butter, jelly. Never had sister; never realized what was missing. But have one now. And doesn’t try to be big sister; not know-it-all; treats me as equal. Most comfortable person have met outside immediate family — but knew right away would work out: Terry adored both on sight. Tora-chan approved, also.
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