No Highway (16 page)

They talked it over for a minute or two. “All right,” the inspector said at last to Samuelson. “You can go on like that. But have somebody standing by it all the time you’re taxiing, just to watch that nobody’s coat catches in it or anything.”

Samuelson nodded. “I’ll see to that.” He turned to Mr. Honey and introduced him to the inspector. “Look, Mr. Honey—we’ve made a very careful inspection of the tailplane, and there’s nothing wrong with it at all. I don’t know if you’d care to tell Mr. Symes here what you told us on the way across?”

Mr. Honey started wearily to tell his tale again. He had had no sleep and he was overtired, blinking more even than usual. He had not shaved and he had not been able to eat his breakfast, spoiled as it had been by his anxieties; he was feeling rather sick. He told his story badly, defeated before he started by the atmosphere of utter disbelief he sensed around him.

Mr. Symes gave him some little attention because he came from Farnborough, but his mind was already made up. He was a man who had never taken any action except on physical facts; it was not his business to assess the eccentric theories of wandering scientists and take a chance on them. There were no written instructions in his files that he should take any special precautions in regard to the Reindeer tail. On the suggestion that there was something wrong with it, he had made a thorough inspection and had found everything correct. That put him in the clear, and he had no intention of imperilling his pension by a rash display of individuality at that stage of his career.

They talked for a quarter of an hour. At last Samuelson said, “Well, if Mr. Symes agrees, I think the best thing we can do now is to go on to Dorval. I’m prepared to shut down the inboard engines after climbing up to operating height, as I did coming over, if you think that will ease things, Mr. Honey. At Dorval we can assess the matter properly.”

Mr. Honey, nearly in tears of weariness and frustration, said, “I assure you … I assure you that’s the wrong thing to do. It’s absolutely——” his voice cracked, and went up into a little nervous squeak—“it’s absolutely courting disaster to go on. You
must
ground this aircraft. Really you must.”

Samuelson glanced at Symes, and their eyes met in common agreement; this was not a normal, reasonable man. This was an eccentric plugging away at a fixed idea, a man whose mental balance was abnormal. “If you would rather stay here, Mr. Honey,” the captain said, “I can make arrangements for you to finish the journey in another aircraft, probably tomorrow. But I’m afraid I can’t listen to any more of this.”

The inspector nodded in agreement. This Reindeer would be off before long, and he could get back to bed and have a couple of hours more before breakfast. Then, in the course of the morning, he would write out a report upon the incident and send it in to his headquarters. Two copies would be sufficient, and one for his own file.

Honey said desperately, “Is that your final decision? You’re really going on?”

Samuelson turned aft, partly to hide a final irresolution “That’s right,” he said. “We’re going on.”

“I assure you …” Mr. Honey’s voice died in despair it was useless to go on trying to convince these men. He
turned forward to the pilots’ seats. And then, quite nonchalantly, he put his hand upon the undercarriage lever and pulled it to
UP
.

He did it so quietly that it did not register with anybody for an instant; Symes was the only man who actually saw him do it, and it took a second or two for the inspector to appreciate what was happening. Then he cried, “Here—stop that!”

The note of the auxiliary motor changed as the load came on the dynamo. Samuelson turned, saw what Honey was doing, said, “For Christ’s sake!” and made a dive for the lever.

Mr. Honey flung his body up against the pedestal, covering the controls. He said, half weeping, “If you won’t ground this aircraft, I will.”

The motors of the retracting mechanism groaned, the solid floor beneath their feet sagged ominously. Cousins, with quick wit, leaped for the electrical control panel and threw out the main switch to cut the current from all circuits. He was a fraction of a second too late. The undercarriage of the Reindeer was just over the dead centre. She paused for a moment; for an instant Samuelson thought that Counsins had saved her, as he struggled to pull Honey from the pedestal. Then she sagged forward, and the undercarriage folded up with a sharp whistling noise from the hydraulics. A pipe burst and fluid sprayed the ground beneath her, and she sank down on her belly on the concrete apron, all the seventy-two tons of her. By the mercy of Providence nobody was standing underneath her at the time.

The noise of the crumpling panels and propellers, a tinny, metallic, crunching noise, brought the mechanics running to the wide doors of the hangars. Marjorie Corder, going from the Reindeer to the reception and booking hall, turned at the mouth of the passage and stared aghast to see her Reindeer lying wrecked upon the tarmac. Instinctively she began to run back towards it, horrified; she met Dobson running from the machine to the Control.

She cried, “What happened?”

He paused for an instant. “The boffin did it,” he said furiously. “I told you that he’d put the kiss of death on it. Well, now he has.”

T
HAT
Monday was a bad day.

It began normally enough. I went to the office as usual. When I had left on Saturday the arrangements had been all set up that Mr. Honey was to leave for Ottawa on Sunday night by C.A.T.O., I had seen nothing of him over the week-end, and I had not expected to. I went down to the old balloon shed at about ten o’clock as soon as I had cleared my desk, however, to see that he had really got away and to see that young Simmons was getting on all right with the responsibilities of the trial on the Reindeer tail.

The trial was running; I had heard it above the noise of my car when I was driving into the factory; it filled the whole district with its booming roar. In the old balloon shed it was as deafening as usual; Simmons was up upon the gantry taking readings of the strain gauges; he saw me and came down, and came up to me smiling, and proffered his foolscap pad showing the rough daily graph of the deflections. We could not talk in the noise; I ran my eye over the results, and they were absolutely normal. The trial was going smoothly.

I led him into the office and shut the door; in there we could talk. “Everything all right?” I asked. “Did Mr. Honey get away all right?”

“Oh yes, I think so, sir. He was in most of Sunday; I was here with him. He left at about four o’clock to go home and have a meal and pick up his luggage. He was catching the eight-forty up to London from Ash Vale.”

“That’s fine.” I stayed with him for ten minutes going through the work; he was a clever, competent young man who only needed guidance now and then. I soon found that I had nothing to worry about. When I couldn’t think of anything more to ask him, I looked around the littered little office before leaving; there was a neat pile of stamped and addressed letters on his desk, ready for the post. I glanced idly at them the top one was addressed to Miss Elspeth Honey, No. 4, Copse Road, Farnham. I lifted it, and the second bore the same address, and the third, and all of them.

Simmons said, “Don’t get them out of order, sir. I’ve got to post one each day, and they’re all dated.”

“Dated?”

“The letters inside are dated with consecutive days, as if he was writing to her every day. I’ve got to post one each day.”

I stared at them in wonder. “How many are there?”

“Twenty-one, sir. He said that he was reckoning to be away three weeks.”

“Are all the letters different?”

“I don’t know—I think they must be.” He picked up one of them and fingered it. “From the feel, they’ve each got two sheets of paper, too.”

I was staggered by the magnitude of the work, because Honey had only had about three days’ notice of his journey, and these three days had been very busy ones for him. I said, “Well, I’m damned!”

Simmons smiled and said, “He must be a very devoted father.”

The telephone bell rang then. It was the exchange trying to locate me; Ferguson had been on the line from the Ministry, but while looking for me they had lost the connection. I said I would go back and take it from my office.

I got through to Ferguson ten minutes later. He said, “Scott, rather an awkward thing has just come up. C.A.T.O. have had a radio signal from the Reindeer that left last night for Gander, the one with Honey on board. It seems that that machine has done over fourteen hundred hours, and Honey has been making a good deal of trouble during the flight. The pilot asks what action he should take.”

I had an awful feeling of apprehension in my stomach, suddenly. I said, “That’s terrible. That aircraft must be grounded at once. How on earth did it get through? I thought you told me none of them had done more than three or four hundred hours.”

He said anxiously, “I know, old man—I did tell you that. I got that from C.A.T.O. The trouble is, this aircraft wasn’t operating with them at that time.” He went on to tell me about its loan for trial operations with A.B.A.S.

I bit my lip. It was the position that I had been anxious to avoid at any cost. “Has it landed yet at Gander?” I asked.

“I haven’t heard that it has,” he said. “I should think it must have, by this time. Wait a minute—no—oh hell, their time’s all different of course. I don’t know exactly when it took off.”

“Look, Ferguson,” I said. “It’s got to be stopped at Gander. It mustn’t fly one minute longer. Can you get through now to C.A.T.O. and ground it, ground it positively and for good at Gander?”

He hesitated. “I’d have to see the Director for that.”

I said, “I’ll have to see my own Director. But we’ve got to jump at this decision, now just you and me. We can clue up the official side later. Will you get through to C.A.T.O. and tell them that?”

“It’s a bit awkward,” he said slowly. “I don’t know that we’re justified in taking a snap decision, quite … I mean, it might be very awkward if it turned out later there was nothing wrong with it. I think it should go through the proper channels.”

I said bitterly, “We won’t look quite so good at the court of inquiry if that tail fails in the air while you and I are looking for our senior officers. If you won’t ring up C.A.T.O., I will.”

He said doubtfully, “I could get through to them and say that’s what you recommend, explaining that it’s not official yet.”

“Will you tell them that I insist on grounding that machine?” I said. “That’s what I’m telling you. And that’s what I should tell a court of inquiry.”

“You’re taking a great deal of responsibility upon yourself,” he said resentfully.

“I am.”

“Have you got any evidence at all upon this tailplane yet?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing to call evidence.”

“But you insist that I ring up C.A.T.O. and have that aircraft grounded here and now, before consulting anyone?”

“I do.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll get through to them now.”

I put down the telephone, sick and angry at the position that we had been forced into. I picked it up again and asked for the Director’s office. The operator said, “I’ve got an outside call for you, Dr. Scott.”

“Hold it,” I said. “Put me through to the Director’s office now. I’ll take that outside call immediately I’ve finished.”

The Director’s girl told me he was up in London for a meeting of the Aeronautical Research Committee. I swore; I should have thought of that. I could not now shelve my responsibility. I asked for the waiting call, thinking it was C.A.T.O., but it was Shirley.

She said urgently, “Dennis, please, can you come and help me? I’m speaking from the call-box at the end of Copse Road. It’s Elspeth Honey. I found her lying in a heap at the foot of the stairs in their house; she’s quite unconscious and she’s awfully cold. Please, do come at once.”

I hesitated. I could not take in properly the substance of what she was saying; my mind was full of the blazing row that I had landed myself in by grounding a C.A.T.O. aircraft at a place like Gander, without any previous notice and without any real evidence that there was anything the matter with it at all. I knew that it was only a question of minutes now before the storm burst; Ferguson must be already speaking to Carnegie, the Technical Superintendent. I forced my mind back to what Shirley was saying. “Is she ill?” I asked foolishly. “Couldn’t you ring up the doctor—Dr. Martin? His number’s in the book.”

She said desperately, “I’ve rung up Dr. Martin—he’s out on his rounds—I can’t get hold of him till lunch time. I can’t remember the name of anyone else. I’ve got her lying down and covered up with rugs—she’s on the floor. There’s nowhere else to put her downstairs—there’s no couch or anything. I couldn’t carry her up those stairs by myself. The old woman next door is boiling kettles up for hot-water bottles, but Dennis—she’s looking awful—she’s so blue. I’m frightened that she might be going to pass out. Do please come, Dennis.”

I could not leave her in the lurch; moreover, this was Honey’s daughter. If the child Elspeth was really dangerously ill it would react straight back upon the grounding of the Reindeer. I should have to send Honey a cable, and he would obviously want to come home on the first available plane. It he did that, it would mean that the first Reindeer crash in Labrador would remain an enigma; we should not secure the evidence that we required to justify grounding the one at Gander. All this was running through my mind while I was listening to Shirley, and coupled with it was the thought that I had counted on two quiet days for finally rehearsing the paper that I was to read before the Royal Aeronautical Society on Thursday night upon the “Performance Analysis of Aircraft Flying at High Mach Numbers.”

It was a blazing mess—just one thing after another, I said, “All right, darling, I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Keep her warm. I’ll come right away, in the car.”

I put down the receiver and rang the bell for Miss Learoyd.
But before she came, the telephone bell rang again, and it was Carnegie.

He said, “Is that Dr. Scott? Look, Dr. Scott, I’ve had the most extraordinary request from Ferguson. He says you want to ground one of our Reindeers and ground it at Gander. Is that right?”