Connoisseur's SF

by Tom Boardman

  At headquarters the guard woke a private, who woke a corporal, who woke a sergeant, who woke a lieutenant, who woke a captain, who swore a little and then woke up the private again and told him to give me what I wanted. The private went away, murmuring softly to himself, and came back pretty soon with six five-gallon jugs; and I tied them to my saddle, signed six sets of receipts in triplicate, and led my horse back through the moonlit streets of Washington, taking a flip of applejack now and then.

  I went by the White House again, on purpose; and this time someone was standing silhouetted against the lighted east window—a big man, tall and thin, his shoulders bowed, his head down on his chest—and I couldn’t help but get the impression of a weary strength and purpose and a tremendous dignity. I felt sure it was him, but I can’t rightly claim I saw the President, because I’ve always been one to stick to the facts and never stretch the truth even a little bit.

  The major was waiting under the trees, and my jaw nearly dropped off, because the flying machine was sitting beside him. “Sir,” I said, “how did you—”

  The major interrupted, smiling and stroking his little beard: “Very simple. I merely stood at the front door”—he patted the black box at the saddle near his shoulder—“and moved back in time to a moment when even the Smithsonian didn’t exist. Then I stepped a few paces ahead with the box under my arm, adjusted the lever again, moved forward to the proper moment, and there I was, standing beside the flying machine. I took myself and the machine out by the same method, and my mount pulled it here on its skids.”

  “Yessir,” I said. I figured I could keep up this foolishness as long as he could, though I did wonder how he had got the flying machine out.

  The major pointed ahead. “I’ve been exploring the ground, and it’s pretty rocky and rough.” He turned to the black box, adjusted the dial, and pressed the button. “Now, it’s a park,” he said, “sometime in the nineteen forties.”

  “Yessir.” I said.

  The major nodded at a little spout in the flying machine. “Fill her up,” he said, and I untied one of the jugs, uncorked it, and began to pour. The tank sounded dry when the petrol hit it, and a cloud of dust puffed up from the spout. It didn’t hold very much, only a few quarts, and the major began untying the other jugs. “Lash these down in the machine,” he said, and while I was doing that, the major began pacing up and down, muttering to himself. “To start the engine, I should imagine you simply turn the propellers. But the machine will need help in getting into the air.” He kept walking up and down, pulling his; beard; then he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said, “that should do it, I think.” He stopped and looked at me. “Nerves in good shape, boy? Hands steady and reliable?”

  “Yessir.”

  “All right, son, this thing should be easy to fly—mostly a matter of balance, I imagine.” He pointed to a sort of saddle at the front of the machine. “I believe you simply lie on your stomach with your hips in this saddle; it connects with the rudder and wings by cables. By merely moving from side to side, you control the machine’s balance and direction.” The major pointed to a lever. “Work this with your hand,” he said, “to go up or down. That’s all there is to it, so far as I can see, and if I’m wrong in any details, you can correct them in the air with a little experimenting. Think you can fly it, boy?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good,” he said, and grabbed one of the propellers at the back and began turning it. I worked on the other propeller, but nothing happened; they just creaked, stiff and rusty-like. But we kept turning, yanking harder and harder, and pretty soon the little engine coughed.

  “Now, heave, boy!” the major said, and we laid into it hard, and every time, now, the engine would cough a little. Finally, we yanked so hard, both together, our feet nearly came off the ground, and the motor coughed and kept on coughing and like to choked to death. Then it sort of cleared its throat and started to stutter but didn’t stop, and then it was running smooth, the propellers just whirling, flashing and shining in the moonlight till you could hardly see them, and the flying machine shaking like a wet dog, with little clouds of dust pouring up out of every part of it.

  “Excellent,” said the major, and he sneezed from the dust. Then he began unfastening the horses’ bridles, strapping them together again to make a single long rein. He posed the horses in front of the machine and said, “Get in, boy. We’ve got a busy night ahead.” I lay down in the saddle, and he climbed up on the top wing and lay down on his stomach. “You take the lever, and I’ll take the rein. Ready, boy?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Gee up!” said the major, snapping the rein hard, and the horses started off, heads down, hoofs digging in.

  The flying machine sort of bumped along over the grass on its skids, but it soon smoothed out and began sliding along, level as a sled on packed snow, and the horses’ heads came up and they began to trot, the motor just chugging away.

  “Sound forward!” said the major, and I unslung my trumpet and blew forward; the horses buckled into it, and we were skimming along, must have been fifteen, maybe twenty miles an hour or even faster.

  “Now, charge!” yelled the major, and I blew charge, and the hoofs began drumming the turf, the horses whinnying and snorting, the engine chugging faster and faster, the propellers whining in back of us, and all of a sudden the grass was a good five feet below, and the reins were hanging straight down. Then—for a second it scared me—we were passing the horses. We were right over their backs; then they began slipping away under the machine, and the major dropped the reins and yelled, “Pull back the lever!” I yanked back hard, and we shot up into the air like a rocket.

  I remembered what the major had said about experimenting and tried easing back on the lever, and the flying machine sort of levelled out, and there we were, chugging along faster than I’d ever gone in my life. It was wonderful fun, and I glanced down and there was Washington spread out below, a lot bigger than I’d thought it was and with more lights than I’d known there were in the world. They were bright, too; didn’t look like candles and kerosene lamps at all. Way off, towards the centre of town, some of the lights were red and green, and so bright they lighted up the sky.

  “Watch out!” yelled the major, and just ahead, rushing straight at us, was a tremendous monument or something, a big tall stone needle.

  I don’t know why, but I twisted hard to the left in the little saddle and yanked back on the lever, and a wing heaved up and the flying machine shot off to one side, the wing tip nearly grazing the monument. Then I lay straight again, holding the lever steady. The machine levelled off, and it was like the first time I drove a team. I could feel in my bones that I was a natural-born flying-machine driver.

  “Back to headquarters,” said the major. “Can you find the way?”

  “Yessir,” I said, and headed south.

  The major fiddled with the dial in his black box and pressed the bottom, and down below now, in the moonlight, I could see the dirt road leading out of Washington back to headquarters. I turned for a last look at the city, but there were only a few lights now, not looking nearly as bright as before; the red and green lights were gone.

  But the road was bright in the moonlight, and we tore along over it when it went straight, cut across bends when it curved, flying it must have been close to forty miles an hour. The wind streamed back cold, and I pulled out the white knit muffler my grandma gave me and looped it around my throat. One end streamed back, flapping and waving in the wind. I thought my forage cap might blow off, so I reversed it on my head, the peak at the back, and I felt that now I looked the way a flying-machine driver ought to, and wished the girls back home could have seen me.

  For a while I practised with the lever and hip saddle, soaring up till the engine started coughing, and turning and dipping down, seeing how close I could shave the road. But finally the major yelled and made me quit. Every now and then we’d see a light flare up in a farmhouse and when we’d look back we’d see the l
ight wobbling across the yard and know some farmer was out there with his lamp, staring up at the noise in the sky.

  Several times, on the way, we had to fill the tank again, and pretty soon, maybe less than two hours, camp fires began sliding under our wings, and the major was leaning from side to side, looking down at the ground. Then he pointed ahead. “That field down there, boy; can you land this thing with the engine off?”

  “Yessir,” I said, and I stopped the engine, and the machine began sliding down like a toboggan, and I kept easing the lever back and forth, watching the field come up to meet us, growing bigger and bigger every second. We didn’t make a sound now, ’except for the wind sighing through the wires, and we came in like a ghost, the moonlight white on our wings. Our downward path and the edge of the field met exactly, and the instant before we hit, my arm eased the lever back and the skids touched the grass like a whisper. Then we bumped a little, stopped, and sat there a moment not saying a word. Off in the weeds the crickets began chirping again.

  The major said there was a cliff at the side of the field and we found it, and slid the machine over to the edge of it, and then we started walking around the field, in opposite directions looking for a path or sentry. I found the sentry right away, guarding the path lying down with his eyes closed. My applejack was gone, so I shook him awake and explained my problem.

  “How much you got?” he said; I told him a dollar, and he went off into the woods and came back with a jug. “Good whisky,” he said, “the best. And exactly a dollar’s worth; the jug’s nearly full.” So I tasted the whisky—it was good—paid him, took the jug back and tied it down in the machine. Then I went back to the path and called the major, and he came over, cutting across the field. Then the sentry led us down the path towards the general’s tent.

  It was a square tent with a gabled roof, a lantern burning inside, and the front flap open. The sentry saluted. “Major of Cavalry here, sir.” He pronounced the word like an ignorant infantryman. “Says it’s secret and urgent.”

  “Send the calvary in,” said a voice, pronouncing it just that way, and I knew the general was a horse soldier at heart.

  We stepped forward, saluting. The general was sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet, in old army shoes with the laces untied, propped on a big wooden keg with a spigot. He wore a black slouch hat, his vest and uniform blouse were unbuttoned, and I saw three silver stars embroidered on a shoulder strap. The general’s eyes were blue, hard, and tough, and he wore a full beard. “At ease,” he said. “Well?”

  “Sir,” said the major, “we have a flying machine and propose, with your permission, to use it against the rebs.”

  “Well,” said the general, leaning back on the hind legs of his chair, “you’ve come in the nick of time. Lee’s men are massed at Cold Harbor, and I’ve been sitting here all night dri—thinking, They’ve got to be crushed before… A flying machine, did you say?”

  “Yessir,” said the major.

  “H’mm,” said the general. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Well, sir, that’s a long story.”

  “I’ll bet it is,” said the general. He picked up a stub of cigar from the table beside him and chewed it thoughtfully. “If I hadn’t been thinking hard and steadily all night, I wouldn’t believe a word of this. What do you propose to do with your flying machines?”

  “Load it with grenades!” The major’s eyes began to sparkle. “Drop them spang on rebel headquarters! Force immediate surrender—”

  The general shook his head. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so. Air power isn’t enough, son, and will never replace the foot soldier, mark my words. Has its place, though, and you’ve done good work.” He glanced at me. “You the driver, son?”

  “Yessir.”

  He turned to the major again. “I want you to go up with a map. Locate Lee’s positions. Mark them on the map and return. Do that, major, and tomorrow, June third, after the Battle of Cold Harbor, I’ll personally pin silver leaves on your straps. Because I’m going to take Richmond like—well, I don’t know what. As for you, son”—he glanced at my stripe—“you’ll make corporal. Might even design new badges for you; pair of wings on the chest or something like that.”

  “Yessir,” I said.

  “Where’s the machine?” said the general. “Believe I’ll walk down and look at it. Lead the way.” The major and me saluted, turned and walked out, and the general said, “Go ahead; I’ll catch up.”

  At the field the general caught up, shoving something into his hip pocket—a handkerchief, maybe. “Here’s your map,” he said, and he handed a folded paper to the major.

  The major took it, saluted, and said, “For the Union, sir! For the cause of—”

  “Save the speeches,” said the general, “till you’re running for office.”

  “Yessir,” said the major, and he turned to me. “Fill her up!”

  I filled the tank, we spun the propellers, and this time the engine started right up. We climbed in, and I reversed my forage cap and tied on my scarf.

  “Good,” said the general approvingly. “Style; real calvary style.”

  We shoved off and dropped over the cliff like a dead weight, the ground rushing up fast. Then the wings bit into the air, I pulled back my lever, and we shot up, the engine snorting, fighting for altitude, and I swung out wide and circled the field, once at fifty feet, then at a hundred. The first time, the general just stood there, head back, mouth open, staring up at us, and I could see his brass buttons gleam in the moonlight. The second time around he still had his head back, but I don’t think he was looking at us. He had a hand to his mouth, and he was drinking a glass of water—I could tell because just as we straightened and headed south, he threw it off into the bushes hard as he could, and I could see the glass flash in the moonlight. Then he started back to headquarters at a dead run, in a hurry. I guess, to get back to his thinking.

  The machine was snorting at the front end, kicking up at the hindquarters, high-spirited, and I had all I could do to keep her from shying, and I wished she’d had reins. Down below, cold and sparkly in the moonlight, I could see the James River, stretching east and west, and the lights of Richmond, but it was no time for sight-seeing. The machine was frisky, trembling in the flanks, and before I knew it she took the bit in her mouth and headed straight down, the wind screaming through her wires, the ripples on the water rushing up at us.

  But I’d handled runaways before, and I heaved back on the lever, forcing her head up, and she curved back into the air fast as a calvary mount at a barrier. But this time she didn’t cough at the top of the curve. She snorted through her nostrils, wild with power, and I barely had time to yell, “Hang on!” to the major before she went clear over on her back and shot down towards the river again. The major yelled, but the applejack was bubbling inside me and I’d never had such a thrill, and I yelled, too, laughing and screaming. Then I pulled back hard, yelling, “Whoa!” but up and over we went again, the wings creaking like saddle leather on a galloping horse. At the top of the climb, I leaned hard to the left, and we shot off in a wide, beautiful curve, and I never had such fun in my life.

  Then she quieted down a little. She wasn’t broken, I knew, but she could feel a real rider in the saddle, so she waited, figuring out what to try next. The major got his breath and used it for cursing. He didn’t call me anything I’d ever heard before, and I’d been in the calvary since I joined the Army. It was a beautiful job and I admired it. “Yessir,” I said when his breath ran out again.

  He still had plenty to say, I think, but campfires were sliding under our wings, and he had to get out his map and go to work. We flew back and forth, parallel with the river, the major busy with his pencil and map. It was dull and monotonous for both me and the machine, and I kept wondering if the rebs could see or hear us. So I kept sneaking closer and closer to the ground, and pretty soon, directly ahead in a clearing, I saw a campfire with men around it. I don’t rightly know if it was me or the machine
had the idea, but I barely touched the lever and she dipped her nose and shot right down, aiming smack at the fire.

  They saw us then, all right, and heard us, too. They scattered, yelling and cursing, with me leaning over screaming at them and laughing like mad. I hauled back on the lever maybe five feet from the ground, and the fire singed our tail as we curved back up. But this time, at the top of the climb, the engine got the hiccups, and I had to turn and come down in a slow glide to ease the strain off the engine till she got her breath, and now the men below had muskets out, and they were mad. They fired kneeling, following up with their sights the way you lead ducks, the musket balls whistling past us.

  “Come on!” I yelled. I slapped the flying machine on her side, unslung my trumpet, and blew charge, Down we went, the engine neighing and whinnying like crazy, and the men tossed their muskets aside and dived in all directions, and we fanned the flames with our wings and went up like a bullet, the engine screaming in triumph. At the top of the curve I turned, and we shot off over the treetops, the wing tip pointing straight at the moon. “Sorry, sir,” I said, before the major could get his breath. “She’s wild—feeling her oats. But I think I’ve got her under control.”

  “Then get back to headquarters before you kill us,” he said coldly. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  “Yessir,” I said, I spotted the river off to one side and flew over it, and when the major got us oriented he navigated us back to the field.

  “Wait here,” he said when we landed, and he trotted down the path towards the general’s tent. I was just as glad; I felt like a drink, and besides I loved that machine now and wanted to take care of her. I wiped her down with my muffler, and wished I could feed her something.

  Then I felt around inside the machine, and then I was cussing that sentry, beating the major’s record, I think, because my whisky was gone, and I knew what that sentry had done: sneaked back to my machine and got it soon as he had me and the major in the general’s tent, and now he was back at the guardhouse, probably, lapping it up and laughing at me.