by Eric Flint
So I pushed her over backwards. She fell a hundred feet, straightened out, circled and climbed, and came in beside me, still grinning. It gave me time to decide what to say.
"Mary Muhlenburg, in the first place I am not crazy about anyone, least of all Jeff Hardesty. He and I are simply friends. So it's utterly nonsensical to talk about me being 'jealous.' In the second place Miss Brentwood is a lady and doesn't go around 'cutting out' anyone, least of all me. In the third place she is simply a tourist Jeff is guiding—business, nothing more."
"Sure, sure," Mary agreed placidly. "I was wrong. Still—" She shrugged her wings and shut up.
"'Still' what? Mary, don't be mealy-mouthed."
"Mmm . . . I was wondering how you knew I was talking about Ariel Brentwood—since there isn't anything to it."
"Why, you mentioned her name."
"I did not."
I thought frantically. "Uh, maybe not. But it's perfectly simple. Miss Brentwood is a client I turned over to Jeff myself, so I assumed that she must be the tourist you meant."
"So? I don't recall even saying she was a tourist. But since she is just a tourist you two are splitting, why aren't you doing the inside guiding while Jeff sticks to outside work? I thought you guides had an agreement?"
"Huh? If he has been guiding her inside the city, I'm not aware of it—"
"You're the only one who isn't."
"—and I'm not interested; that's up to the grievance committee. But Jeff wouldn't take a fee for inside guiding in any case."
"Oh, sure!—not one he could bank. Well, Holly, seeing I was wrong, why don't you give him a hand with her? She wants to learn to glide."
Butting in on that pair was farthest from my mind. "If Mr. Hardesty wants my help, he will ask me. In the meantime I shall mind my own business . . . a practice I recommend to you!"
"Relax, shipmate," she answered, unruffled. "I was doing you a favor."
"Thank you, I don't need one."
"So I'll be on my way—got to practice for the gymkhana." She leaned forward and dropped off. But she didn't practice aerobatics; she dived straight for the tourist slope.
I watched her out of sight, then snaked my left hand out the hand slit and got at my hanky—awkward when you are wearing wings but the floodlights had made my eyes water. I wiped them and blew my nose and put my hanky away and wiggled my hand back into place, then checked everything, thumbs, toes, and fingers, preparatory to dropping off.
But I didn't. I just sat there, wings drooping, and thought. I had to admit that Mary was partly right; Jeff's head was turned completely . . . over a groundhog. So sooner or later he would go Earthside and Jones & Hardesty was finished.
Then I reminded myself that I had been planning to be a spaceship designer like Daddy long before Jeff and I teamed up. I wasn't dependent on anyone; I could stand alone, like Joan of Arc, or Lise Meitner.
I felt better . . . a cold, stern pride, like Lucifer in Paradise Lost.
I recognized the red and silver of Jeff's wings while he was far off and I thought about slipping quietly away. But Jeff can overtake me if he tries, so I decided, "Holly, don't be a fool! You have no reason to run . . . just be coolly polite."
He landed by me but didn't sidle up. "Hi, Decimal Point."
"Hi, Zero. Uh, stolen much lately?"
"Just the City Bank but they made me put it back." He frowned and added, "Holly, are you mad at me?"
"Why, Jeff, whatever gave you such a silly notion?"
"Uh . . . something Mary the Mouth said."
"Her? Don't pay any attention to what she says. Half of it's always wrong and she doesn't mean the rest."
"Yeah, a short circuit between her ears. Then you aren't mad?"
"Of course not. Why should I be?"
"No reason I know of. I haven't been around to work on the ship for a few days . . . but I've been awfully busy."
"Think nothing of it. I've been terribly busy myself."
"Uh, that's fine. Look, Test Sample, do me a favor. Help me out with a friend—a client, that is—well, she's a friend, too. She wants to learn to use glide wings."
I pretended to consider it. "Anyone I know?"
"Oh, yes. Fact is, you introduced us. Ariel Brentwood."
"'Brentwood'? Jeff, there are so many tourists. Let me think. Tall girl? Blonde? Extremely pretty?"
He grinned like a goof and I almost pushed him off. "That's Ariel!"
"I recall her . . . she expected me to carry her bags. But you don't need help, Jeff. She seemed very clever. Good sense of balance."
"Oh, yes, sure, all of that. Well, the fact is, I want you two to know each other. She's . . . well, she's just wonderful, Holly. A real person all the way through. You'll love her when you know her better. Uh . . . this seemed like a good chance."
I felt dizzy. "Why, that's very thoughtful, Jeff, but I doubt if she wants to know me better. I'm just a servant she hired—you know groundhogs."
"But she's not at all like the ordinary groundhog. And she does want to know you better—she told me so!"
After you told her to think so! I muttered. But I had talked myself into a corner. If I had not been hampered by polite upbringing I would have said, "On your way, vacuum skull! I'm not interested in your groundhog girl friends"—but what I did say was, "OK, Jeff," then gathered the fox to my bosom and dropped off into a glide.
So I taught Ariel Brentwood to "fly." Look, those so-called wings they let tourists wear have fifty square feet of lift surface, no controls except warp in the primaries, a built-in dihedral to make them stable as a table, and a few meaningless degrees of hinging to let the wearer think that he is "flying" by waving his arms. The tail is rigid, and canted so that if you stall (almost impossible) you land on your feet. All a tourist does is run a few yards, lift up his feet (he can't avoid it) and slide down a blanket of air. Then he can tell his grandchildren how he flew, really flew, "just like a bird."
An ape could learn to "fly" that much.
I put myself to the humiliation of strapping on a set of the silly things and had Ariel watch while I swung into the Baby's Ladder and let it carry me up a hundred feet to show her that you really and truly could "fly" with them. Then I thankfully got rid of them, strapped her into a larger set, and put on my beautiful Storer-Gulls. I had chased Jeff away (two instructors is too many), but when he saw her wing up, he swooped down and landed by us.
I looked up. "You again."
"Hello, Ariel. Hi, Blip. Say, you've got her shoulder straps too tight."
"Tut, tut," I said. "One coach at a time, remember? If you want to help, shuck those gaudy fins and put on some gliders . . . then I'll use you to show how not to. Otherwise get above two hundred feet and stay there; we don't need any dining-lounge pilots."
Jeff pouted like a brat but Ariel backed me up. "Do what teacher says, Jeff. That's a good boy."
He wouldn't put on gliders but he didn't stay clear either. He circled around us, watching, and got bawled out by the flightmaster for cluttering the tourist area.
I admit Ariel was a good pupil. She didn't even get sore when I suggested that she was rather mature across the hips to balance well; she just said that she had noticed that I had the slimmest behind around there and she envied me. So I quit trying to get her goat, and found myself almost liking her as long as I kept my mind firmly on teaching. She tried hard and learned fast—good reflexes and (despite my dirty crack) good balance. I remarked on it and she admitted diffidently that she had had ballet training.
About mid-afternoon she said, "Could I possibly try real wings?"
"Huh? Gee, Ariel, I don't think so."
"Why not?"
There she had me. She had already done all that could be done with those atrocious gliders. If she was to learn more, she had to have real wings. "Ariel, it's dangerous. It's not what you've been doing, believe me. You might get hurt, even killed."
"Would you be held responsible?"
"No. You signed a release when you
came in."
"Then I'd like to try it."
I bit my lip. If she had cracked up without my help, I wouldn't have shed a tear—but to let her do something too dangerous while she was my pupil . . . well, it smacked of David and Uriah. "Ariel, I can't stop you . . . but I should put my wings away and not have anything to do with it."
It was her turn to bite her lip. "If you feel that way, I can't ask you to coach me. But I still want to. Perhaps Jeff will help me."
"He probably will," I blurted out, "if he is as big a fool as I think he is!"
Her company face slipped but she didn't say anything because just then Jeff stalled in beside us. "What's the discussion?"
We both tried to tell him and confused him for he got the idea I had suggested it, and started bawling me out. Was I crazy? Was I trying to get Ariel hurt? Didn't I have any sense?
"Shut up!" I yelled, then added quietly but firmly, "Jefferson Hardesty, you wanted me to teach your girl friend, so I agreed. But don't butt in and don't think you can get away with talking to me like that. Now beat it! Take wing. Grab air!"
He swelled up and said slowly, "I absolutely forbid it."
Silence for five long counts. Then Ariel said quietly, "Come, Holly. Let's get me some wings."
"Right, Ariel."
But they don't rent real wings. Fliers have their own; they have to. However, there are second-hand ones for sale because kids outgrow them, or people shift to custom-made ones, or something. I found Mr. Schultz who keeps the key, and said that Ariel was thinking of buying but I wouldn't let her without a tryout. After picking over forty-odd pairs I found a set which Johnny Queveras had outgrown but which I knew were all right. Nevertheless I inspected them carefully. I could hardly reach the finger controls but they fitted Ariel.
While I was helping her into the tail surfaces I said, "Ariel? This is still a bad idea."
"I know. But we can't let men think they own us."
"I suppose not."
"They do own us, of course. But we shouldn't let them know it." She was feeling out the tail controls. "The big toes spread them?"
"Yes. But don't do it. Just keep your feet together and toes pointed. Look, Ariel, you really aren't ready. Today all you will do is glide, just as you've been doing. Promise?"
She looked me in the eye. "I'll do exactly what you say . . . not even take wing unless you OK it."
"OK. Ready?"
"I'm ready."
"All right. Wups! I goofed. They aren't orange."
"Does it matter?"
"It sure does." There followed a weary argument because Mr. Schultz didn't want to spray them orange for a tryout. Ariel settled it by buying them, then we had to wait a bit while the solvent dried.
We went back to the tourist slope and I let her glide, cautioning her to hold both alulae open with her thumbs for more lift at slow speeds, while barely sculling with her fingers. She did fine, and stumbled in landing only once. Jeff stuck around, cutting figure eights above us, but we ignored him. Presently I taught her to turn in a wide, gentle bank—you can turn those awful glider things but it takes skill; they're only meant for straight glide.
Finally I landed by her and said, "Had enough?"
"I'll never have enough! But I'll unwing if you say."
"Tired?"
"No." She glanced over her wing at the Baby's Ladder; a dozen fliers were going up it, wings motionless, soaring lazily. "I wish I could do that just once. It must be heaven."
I chewed it over. "Actually, the higher you are, the safer you are."
"Then why not?"
"Mmm . . . safer provided you know what you're doing. Going up that draft is just gliding like you've been doing. You lie still and let it lift you half a mile high. Then you come down the same way, circling the wall in a gentle glide. But you're going to be tempted to do something you don't understand yet—flap your wings, or cut some caper."
She shook her head solemnly. "I won't do anything you haven't taught me."
I was still worried. "Look, it's only half a mile up but you cover five miles getting there and more getting down. Half an hour at least. Will your arms take it?"
"I'm sure they will."
"Well . . . you can start down anytime; you don't have to go all the way. Flex your arms a little now and then, so they won't cramp. Just don't flap your wings."
"I won't."
"OK." I spread my wings. "Follow me."
I led her into the updraft, leaned gently right, then back left to start the counterclockwise climb, all the while sculling very slowly so that she could keep up. Once we were in the groove I called out, "Steady as you are!" and cut out suddenly, climbed and took station thirty feet over and behind her. "Ariel?"
"Yes, Holly?"
"I'll stay over you. Don't crane your neck; you don't have to watch me, I have to watch you. You're doing fine."
"I feel fine!"
"Wiggle a little. Don't stiffen up. It's a long way to the roof. You can scull harder if you want to."
"Aye aye, Cap'n!"
"Not tired?"
"Heavens, no! Girl, I'm living!" She giggled. "And mama said I'd never be an angel!"
I didn't answer because red-and-silver wings came charging at me, braked suddenly and settled into a circle between me and Ariel. Jeff's face was almost as red as his wings. "What the devil do you think you are doing?"
"Orange wings!" I yelled. "Keep clear!"
"Get down out of here! Both of you!"
"Get out from between me and my pupil. You know the rules."
"Ariel!" Jeff shouted. "Lean out of the circle and glide down. I'll stay with you."
"Jeff Hardesty," I said savagely, "I give you three seconds to get out from between us—then I'm going to report you for violation of Rule One. For the third time—Orange Wings!"
Jeff growled something, dipped his right wing and dropped out of formation. The idiot sideslipped within five feet of Ariel's wing tip. I should have reported him for that; all the room you can give a beginner is none too much.
I said, "OK, Ariel?"
"OK, Holly. I'm sorry Jeff is angry."
"He'll get over it. Tell me if you feel tired."
"I'm not. I want to go all the way up. How high are we?"
"Four hundred feet, maybe."
Jeff flew below us a while, then climbed and flew over us . . . probably for the same reason I did: to see better. It suited me to have two of us watching her as long as he didn't interfere; I was beginning to fret that Ariel might not realize that the way down was going to be as long and tiring as the way up. I was hoping she would cry uncle. I knew I could glide until forced down by starvation. But a beginner gets tense.
Jeff stayed generally over us, sweeping back and forth—he's too active to glide very long—while Ariel and I continued to soar, winding slowly up toward the roof. It finally occurred to me when we were about halfway up that I could cry uncle myself; I didn't have to wait for Ariel to weaken. So I called out, "Ariel? Tired now?"
"No."
"Well, I am. Could we go down, please?"
She didn't argue, she just said, "All right. What am I to do?"
"Lean right and get out of the circle." I intended to have her move out five or six hundred feet, get into the return down draft, and circle the cave down instead of up. I glanced up, looking for Jeff. I finally spotted him some distance away and much higher but coming toward us. I called out, "Jeff! See you on the ground." He might not have heard me but he would see if he didn't hear; I glanced back at Ariel.
I couldn't find her.
Then I saw her, a hundred feet below—flailing her wings and falling, out of control.
I didn't know how it happened. Maybe she leaned too far, went into a sideslip and started to struggle. But I didn't try to figure it out; I was simply filled with horror. I seemed to hang there frozen for an hour while I watched her.
But the fact appears to be that I screamed "Jeff!" and broke into a stoop.
But I didn't seem
to fall, couldn't overtake her. I spilled my wings completely—but couldn't manage to fall; she was as far away as ever.
You do start slowly, of course; our low gravity is the only thing that makes human flying possible. Even a stone falls a scant three feet in the first second. But that first second seemed endless.
Then I knew I was falling. I could feel rushing air—but I still didn't seem to close on her. Her struggles must have slowed her somewhat, while I was in an intentional stoop, wings spilled and raised over my head, falling as fast as possible. I had a wild notion that if I could pull even with her, I could shout sense into her head, get her to dive, then straighten out in a glide. But I couldn't reach her.
This nightmare dragged on for hours.
Actually we didn't have room to fall for more than twenty seconds; that's all it takes to stoop a thousand feet. But twenty seconds can be horribly long . . . long enough to regret every foolish thing I had ever done or said, long enough to say a prayer for us both . . . and to say good-by to Jeff in my heart. Long enough to see the floor rushing toward us and know that we were both going to crash if I didn't overtake her mighty quick.
I glanced up and Jeff was stooping right over us but a long way up. I looked down at once . . . and I was overtaking her . . . I was passing her—I was under her!
Then I was braking with everything I had, almost pulling my wings off. I grabbed air, held it, and started to beat without ever going to level flight. I beat once, twice, three times . . . and hit her from below, jarring us both.
Then the floor hit us.
* * *
I felt feeble and dreamily contented. I was on my back in a dim room. I think Mother was with me and I know Daddy was. My nose itched and I tried to scratch it, but my arms wouldn't work. I fell asleep again.
I woke up hungry and wide awake. I was in a hospital bed and my arms still wouldn't work, which wasn't surprising as they were both in casts. A nurse came in with a tray. "Hungry?" she asked.
"Starved," I admitted.
"We'll fix that." She started feeding me like a baby.
I dodged the third spoonful and demanded. "What happened to my arms?"
"Hush," she said and gagged me with a spoon.