Читать книгу Stephen Morris & Pilotage - Nevil Shute Norway - Страница 5

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Life at the aerodrome ran evenly on its way. Morris was initiated into the regular routine of the business, and found it very boring. The hours were long; that to him was rather an advantage; it was good to be able to bury oneself in work. At Oxford, he had never been able to do that successfully. There the work was brain work, at which one could not concentrate for more than a comparatively short period of the twenty-four hours. Here it was easier; one could work at this manual labour for just as long as one liked.

The work on the ground, in fact, atoned for the boredom of the ceaseless joy-rides. To Morris the work on the machines never staled; there was a satisfaction in keeping something in good running order, in keeping a good machine in perfect trim. He found the life amusing enough on the whole; the free and easy atmosphere suited him well, unbusinesslike though it was. There was, as somebody in authority remarked, too much of the ‘Cheerioh’ business about aviation at this time for it to be a really paying proposition. The Isle of Wight Aviation Company was not alone in its business methods; on the regular air lines it was still customary for a ten-passenger machine to wait for one passenger who was late. Air transport was not yet taken seriously even by those who had most to lose in it.

In spite of its questionable business methods, the Isle of Wight Aviation Company made a considerable amount of money during the summer months. Business at the various seaside resorts was brisk; the novelty of aviation had not yet worn off, though it was on the wane. Morris found himself earning at the rate of six or seven pounds a week, while Riley and Stenning were putting money by steadily, gradually replacing their sunk capital. Though they were making more money than ever they had done before in the business, this seemed to be due solely to the increase in the machines; the actual interest of the public was clearly on the wane. Signs were not wanting that next year joy-riding would be far less popular; there were not enough special orders to justify the inauguration of a special air-taxi service. The business seemed to be coming near its end; Riley and Stenning ceased to buy new material, and devoted all their energies to saving money.

It was one Sunday morning that Stenning came back from the telephone with the information that the lord of the Towers, near Cowes, had instructed his butler to telephone to them to inform them that he would visit them during the afternoon with a car-load of his house party.

‘That’s the stuff,’ said Riley meditatively. ‘I wonder if they know our usual charges?’

Stenning snorted democratically. ‘They’ll ruddy well have to take their turn in the queue, if there’s a crowd,’ he said. It was evident that he was hoping for a crowd.

‘Better put up a flag in honour of the event,’ said Morris.

‘I don’t see any point in that,’ said Stenning. ‘Besides, we haven’t got one.’

‘Better not risk it,’ said Riley regretfully, still meditating the finance of the visit. ‘It gives one a bad name, that sort of thing.’

‘Well,’ said Morris cheerfully. ‘I hope you enjoy yourselves.’ His machine was laid up for an overhaul.

Riley turned to him sourly. ‘You’ll look pretty blue if they tip us half a crown apiece, won’t you?’

Morris laughed, and strolled off to work on his machine.

In due time the Rolls-Royce arrived, and from a distance Morris watched the preparations round the machines. He chose a grassy spot near the fence and sat down to watch. Presently two passengers embarked in one machine; the engine burst into life, and Riley moved out over the aerodrome. He faced up into the wind, began to move, swept over the ground faster and faster, and went away in a climbing turn with full load.

There was a kind of grunt from behind Morris; a critical approving grunt. He turned to see who had grunted.

The only person within range was an immense man leaning over the fence, watching Stenning preparing to get off. He was a man considerably over six feet in height, massively built, with a great red face that seemed vaguely familiar and a great untidy shock of red hair, bursting out from under a tweed cap a size or two too small for him. He was well turned out in faded plus-fours; he looked a typical country squire or gentleman farmer. Stenning got away in a less spectacular manner and the stranger grunted again, less approvingly. Then he noticed Morris watching him from the inside of the fence, and spoke to him.

‘Clerget?’ he asked. His voice, so soft as hardly to be audible, contrasted oddly with his appearance.

‘Hundred and ten Le Rhones,’ said Morris, naming the engine.

‘So?’ said the big man softly. ‘They get off very well with the load—particularly the first one.’

Morris moved a little closer to the fence.

‘That’s so,’ he said. ‘They’re good machines—and we spend a good deal of time looking after them, of course.’ He liked the look of this chap. ‘But, of course, the difference in the get off there’—he indicated the aerodrome—‘was more a matter of pilots. That first one was Malcolm Riley, rather a famous man in his way, though one doesn’t see much of him in the papers.’

‘Oh yes ... I remember him. Test pilot for Pilling-Henries in 1918, wasn’t he?’

‘You know him?’ asked Morris in surprise.

‘Not personally. I have met him.’

Morris wondered who this was, who was evidently no stranger to the business.

‘You were in the Air Force in the war?’ he said.

‘Er, no,’ said the man, a little nervously. ‘I didn’t go to the war. My name is Rawdon.’

Morris knew now where he had seen that face and figure before. It had been in an illustration to one of those foolish articles that technical papers occasionally effect—‘Idols of the Industry’, or something of the sort.

‘Would you care to come inside?’ he said deferentially. ‘I’m a pilot here—I represent the firm.’

The big man placed one hand on the top rail of the fence and vaulted it as lightly as a boy.

‘Ha,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t know I could do that still.’

Captain (by courtesy) C. G. H. Rawdon had had an undistinguished career before the war. He had merely been one of a number of gentlemen of private means who had been flying and designing aeroplanes obscurely since 1909. There had been nothing very striking about him; he never saw reporters, never walked about London in flying kit, never did anything that got into the daily papers, never made records of any sort. He had merely gone on in a stolid, bovine manner, building rather good machines in a shed at Brooklands and risking his life upon them daily with about as much emotion as he would have devoted to the manufacture of jam. To those of his friends who attempted to dissuade him, rightly seeing no point in risking life without publicity, he had merely stated that he liked it. There seemed to be no means of prolonging the argument. So they left him to it, and shook their heads over him when war broke out.

His first machine reached the Front after a long series of delays early in 1916; the historic Rawdon Rat. As soon as the first experimental Rat made its appearance, he was organized, protesting, into a Limited Company, and bidden to design like fun; the rank of Captain in the RFC was bestowed on him to save him from conscription. But no encouragement was needed. The next production was the Robin, a single-seater scout that was cordially disliked by all pilots but the very expert, who swore by it until it was passed over in the race for increased horse-power. Next came the Ratcatcher, an improved Rat with a more powerful engine, followed by the Reindeer, a light, high-speed bomber. Last of all the machines to be used in the war came the Rabbit, a single-seater of phenomenal performance. This in turn would have been surpassed by the Runt had the war continued for another six months; as it was, the engine for the Runt was never properly developed, and the type was abandoned.

In his post-war policy he had been unusually fortunate. His factory had been divided into two parts during the war; the experimental section which was located on a small aerodrome near Southall, and the production factory a little nearer London. The grave crisis of the termination of the war did not find him unprepared; he early realized that aircraft would be a small business again, exactly as it had been before the war. His business partners had realized this fact also, with the added significance that the manufacturing of aeroplanes would not merely be a trade that would bring in a negligible profit, but one that might require considerable subsidies from other departments of the firm. Rawdon, then, had found his way easy. He had abandoned his firm and left them in the production factory, blindly confident in their ability to make money by the building of motor bodies, and the mass production of antique furniture, and had retired to his experimental aerodrome.

Here, in the rickety buildings at Southall, he sat surrounded by the best of his old staff, and watched his rival firms drift slowly into bankruptcy. He obtained one or two contracts for the reconditioning of Ratcatchers and Rabbits for foreign governments, and presently the Air Ministry gave him a contract to design and build an experimental torpedo carrier.

Most of this Morris knew already. What he had not realized was that the designer was really an ordinary man, who was not too technically minded to despise the operations of a seaside joy-ride company. It was easy to forget the humanity of anyone connected with this trade. To the daily press, a man, once a pilot, remained an ‘airman’ for the rest of his life, whether he were to be married, divorced, confined in a lunatic asylum, or hanged. There was no escaping the label.

They stood chatting for a little about the business; then the designer harped back to the original subject.

‘Who was that second pilot who got off then?’

‘Captain Stenning,’ said Morris. ‘I don’t know if you ever met him; he spent most of his time instructing near Gloucester, I believe.’

But Rawdon had never done so, and the conversation drifted to general subjects. With all his knowledge, the big man had a childlike interest in any new thing connected with aviation.

Morris, amused at his persistence, found himself recounting the minutest details of the business. Soon, by what seemed a natural transition, the conversation drifted to personalities, and his whole career in aviation was laid bare. This was a more serious matter, Morris pulled himself up, began to consider what he was saying and to wonder whether it might not be possible to touch this man for a little information and advice upon his own account. It would not do to let such a man get away without sounding him. Presently the designer gave him the opening that he was looking for.

‘And so you’re sticking to this business?’ he inquired, in his gentle even tone.

Morris glanced at him. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ he said. ‘Think it worth it?’

The other returned the glance quizzically. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘That’s rather what I thought.’

The designer considered for a little. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a great shortage of pilots one of these days; not yet, but soon. There aren’t any more coming on.’

‘I dare say,’ said Morris. ‘But what kind of pilots? Engine-driver sort?’

‘Of course, it’ll come to that—in a very few years.’

There was a minute or two of silence.

‘Look here,’ said Morris. ‘I’m not trying to touch you for a job.’ The designer smiled. ‘But how does one set about getting on to the design side? It’s the only stable part of this industry. I did mathematics at Oxford. Would there be anything doing for me in a design office do you suppose?’

‘What as?’ asked the designer. It was a disconcerting little query.

Morris rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know how things go in a firm,’ he said. ‘But isn’t there any opening on the design side for a man like me?’

‘I don’t think there’s a chance of it,’ said Rawdon frankly. ‘Take my own firm. I had six or seven of your sort in the war, on stress and performance work. I’ve got two now, and the rest have taken temporary jobs till they can get back into aviation again. And you don’t know anything about it—differential equations won’t help you much in the design of aeroplanes—not yet, anyhow.’

Morris considered for a minute or two. ‘One must do something,’ he said, ‘and this won’t last for ever. Tell me, on the design side you have people who calculate stresses and loads—stress merchants you call them, don’t you? How does one set about that work—how does one start in it? My own idea is that it’s pretty easily picked up. One might combine it with piloting.’

‘That might help, certainly,’ said the designer. ‘I had a mechanic pilot once, but he wasn’t much good—he always had to be leaving his job for someone else to finish while he went flying. That might not be so bad in the office.’

‘What does one have to know?’

The designer looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I don’t suppose it would be so very much for you,’ he said. ‘You want to get up to about the Civil Engineer’s level—eventually. With some aerodynamics. I suppose one could get it up by oneself all right. The difficulty would be to get anyone to take you on and give you a trial.’

‘One might get a job as a pilot and work one’s way in,’ said Morris.

‘It might be done that way, I suppose. I can give you the names of one or two books if you’re really thinking of it.’

He wrote down three names on a visiting card and handed it to Morris. ‘If you know something about what’s in those,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a chance. And I don’t really see why a mathematician like you shouldn’t be able to pick it up, though it’s not a job I’d care about myself.’

The two machines came in in company after flying round the Solent. Stenning came in to land first; then when he was out of the way, Riley put down just outside the hangars. Again Rawdon gave his approving little grunt.

Morris got up. ‘Come over and have a look at me machines,’ he said. ‘Riley would like to meet you again. You’ll stay and have some tea with us, won’t you? We live in one of those huts.’

They walked over the grass to the machines. The party of visitors were packed into their car and rolled away with dignity.

‘Got a job after tea,’ said Riley. ‘One of us is to go and chuck stunts outside an old lady’s bedroom window at the Towers. Twenty minutes or so—loops and rolls.’

‘I’ll go if you like,’ said Morris. ‘I’ve not done anything today yet. Riley, this is Captain Rawdon.’ But he was not there when he turned, for Captain Rawdon was away examining the detail of a strut-fitting on one of the machines, full of insatiable curiosity. Riley went up to him.

‘This an Air Ministry modification?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Riley. ‘Pleased to meet you again, sir.’

After a scratch tea they strolled back to the hangar. Rawdon, it appeared, was yachting about the Solent and had put into Ryde with his host, who held that Sunday afternoon should be spent at anchor. Rawdon had come on shore for a walk and had gravitated almost unconsciously to the aerodrome.

‘Better take my machine,’ said Stenning. They busied themselves for a little time with ballast; Morris climbed in.

‘One moment,’ said Riley. ‘The old lady’s room is on the south side. They’re hanging a bath-towel out of the window so that you’ll know which it is. She particularly wants to see a loop.’

‘I remember,’ said Stenning, ‘when I used to tell pupils that it wasn’t safe to get an Avro into a spin, because she wouldn’t come out of it. Of course, I’d never tried ...’

Rawdon chuckled gravely.

‘The dear dead days,’ said Morris. Stenning swung the propeller and he moved out on to the aerodrome, faced into the wind, and went away in a climbing turn, just as Riley had done before.

‘He’s a good man, that,’ said Riley to Rawdon. ‘Picked up this business remarkably well.’

‘I know,’ said Rawdon. ‘But he’s had a good bit of experience, hasn’t he?’

There was something in his tone that caused Riley to glance keenly at him. ‘Mostly on Rats and Robins,’ he said. ‘Then he crashed and became a ferry pilot, and after that he went to the Handley Pages. One way and another he’s flown pretty well everything.’ He paused a little, and then added, ‘He’ll be a useful man on the design side if ever he gets a chance.’

‘That’s what he’s been telling me,’ said Rawdon dryly. ‘Can we see his show from here?’

‘We ought to be able to see something of him from the other side of the hangars,’ said Riley. ‘He’s only about two miles away.’

Morris found the window easily and fancied he could see the dim outline of an old lady in a chair inside. The house faced on to a wide, park-like stretch of pasture land, unencumbered by trees of any size; not at all a bad place for his show. He flew round for a little, displaying the machine on vertical turns close to the house, showing first the belly of the machine and then the back. Then he climbed a little, dived with full engine on, pulled her up and over in the loop, switched off and pulled her out on to a level keel again. He did one or two more loops, then one or two Immelman turns outside the window, called after the great German fighter who invented the manoeuvre. Then, with a glance at his watch, he climbed in a great spiral till he had gained sufficient height for his spin. He switched off, pulled her up to stalling, kicked on full rudder, and in a moment was spinning nose-first to the ground. Clearheaded and cool he counted the revolutions, allowed her to do four turns, then put her into a straight dive, pulled out gently on to an even keel, and flew past the window again. He raised his hand in salute as he passed, then flew back to the aerodrome and made a slow landing just outside the hangar door.

Rawdon watched him to the ground and departed.

Morris paid the final attentions to his machine, closed the sliding doors of the hangar, and walked slowly back to the hut. He was vaguely depressed; the arrival of the designer on the scene had crystallized in his mind a train of ideas which had worried him before. He went into the hut, washed his hands, and then strolled out of the gates and down the lane.

It led to the sea, that lane running past the hangars. It ran down between cool green hedges, muddy and fragrant. Morris wandered down it, whistling very softly beneath his breath. He was not altogether happy in his prospects. It seemed to him extremely probable that the business would not survive the winter.

During the past weeks he had rather let things slide, but now he must consider the subject seriously.

He was not at all sanguine about the prospects of the air lines. If they failed, there would be still less demand for pilots. The statistics published in the papers showed that the machines on the Paris lines were running with an average load of only about one third of their capacity—that could not be a paying proposition. They were running in competition with subsidized French lines, and the subsidy question had just come up in Parliament, when it had been announced that ‘Civil aviation must fly by itself’. That might be the sound policy for the ultimate development of the industry, but it would mean precious few jobs for pilots next year.

What if he were to chuck piloting and make for the design side of the business? That was undoubtedly the sound thing to do, if he could get a job, which seemed very unlikely ... Anyway, it was a good thing to have met Rawdon, and he would see about getting those books. He did not believe that there was very much in aircraft engineering that could not be picked up by a mathematician reading in his spare time.

He came out on to the shore and walked along the beach.

He would have a look at those books; there was a certain amount of spare time in the evenings. He smiled a little to himself; ‘the Virtuous Apprentice’. It was the only course open to him at the moment to better things than this.

He walked backwards and forwards along a little beach in a cove between the rocks, immersed in dreams.

He had thought that pain was an evanescent emotion. But it was not that—it worked out differently. Pain did not vanish, but turned to hardness—a great hardness and regret. One did not forget these things ... he had thought that perhaps one might. Perhaps one did, really, only he hadn’t been long enough at the game. He had only had three months, or three and a half. That was not very long to decide the permanence of a grand emotion. Still, he should know his own mind if ever he was going to. He was twenty-five years old.

He left the beach and walked slowly back to the aerodrome by the same road through the cool evening.

At the gate of the aerodrome he met Stenning and Riley.

‘Your luck’s in,’ said Stenning. ‘The old lady sent a ruddy great basket of peaches by the chauffeur, for the dashing birdman.’

Morris laughed. ‘I’d better write a note this evening. We’ll have them at supper.’

A week later the books arrived.

The arrival of what Riley termed the ‘light literature’ precipitated a discussion on the policy of the firm. This had been brewing for some weeks, only nobody had cared to be the first to put into words what he really thought about the future of the joy-riding business. But when Morris one evening blandly produced the Theory of Structures and proceeded to study it, Stenning, after a flippant comment or two, abandoned his magazine.

‘Look at that chap,’ he said, ‘Riley, he’s going to leave us.’

Riley looked up. ‘Strikes me he’s the only one of us that’s got any sense,’ he said.

Things had not gone well the previous week. Already the weather was showing signs of breaking and numbers were falling off, though there was still a crowd at the week-ends. But in the middle of the week, business was undoubtedly very slack; much of the time was spent sitting in a field wondering if anyone else was going to turn up or whether they had better go home for the day. All these things were the sure signs of the approach of winter, and the winter this year would be an even less lucrative period than last.

Morris laid down his book. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘what is going to happen? Are you going to carry on this winter, or are you going to sack me, or are you quitting? I’d rather like to know; one wants some time to poke about for something else.’

‘I should poke, if I were you,’ said Stenning.

There was a short silence.

‘I’ve been thinking about this,’ said Riley. ‘It seems to me we’ve got to make up our minds to something drastic this winter. If we stay on here, we’ll lose money steadily till next Easter; we shan’t earn our keep.’

‘That’s right,’ said Stenning.

‘We can go to Croydon,’ continued Riley, ‘and start an air-taxi business there, with joy-riding thrown in—or we can go and do that somewhere in the Midlands.’

‘Very good scheme,’ said Morris dryly, ‘only there’s somebody doing it already in each case—and losing money on it.’

‘I know,’ said Riley. ‘Or we can quit.’

There was a lengthy silence in the hut. Stenning produced a pipe and lit it, borrowing a match from Riley. Morris sat silent, staring at the stove. This was no business of his; he was a paid employee. It was he, however, who first broke the silence.

‘How much of your capital have you got back?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got a little over half mine,’ said Stenning.

‘Yes,’ said Riley. ‘If we could realise the machines we shouldn’t have done at all badly out of it—in fact we’d have made money. I don’t know that we can.’

‘I’m damn sure we can’t,’ muttered Stenning. ‘Nobody wants Avros in the autumn.’

‘What’ll you do if you chuck it up?’ asked Morris.

‘I should go and see if there’s anything doing at Brooklands,’ said Riley. ‘I was known there before the war. One could look out for test-pilot work, too. You’re going for that stuff, are you?’ He indicated the Theory of Structures.

‘If I can,’ said Morris. ‘Rawdon put it into my head.’

‘He’ll take you on if you touch him the right way,’ said Riley. ‘You’ve got a chance there if you can work it.’

‘I wish I had a head for books,’ said Stenning. ‘He’ll be making a fortune while we’re driven to the streets.’

‘Well, what’s it to be?’ said Riley. ‘Carry on or quit? If it’s carry on, we’ll have to put back some of the money we’ve taken out of it, this winter. It’ll need subsidies.’

There was another little silence. Then Stenning took the pipe from his mouth.

‘I say, quit while the quitting’s good,’ he said.

Morris sat staring at the stove. Two more little fortunes—very little ones, merely gratuities—had gone into aviation and been lost. That was the way of money that went into this business; nobody ever saw it again. Of course, this would have happened anyway; this business was just a sideshow at the seaside, like a troupe of nigger minstrels, and the visitors were getting tired of it. It was time for the booth to close down. There was no more money in the business.

But perhaps there was more in it than that. That summer they had carried safely and well many thousands of people; nearly ten thousand, Morris thought. Say twenty thousand since the business started. Most of them had been impressed with the safety of aircraft; some of them one day might become passengers of the air lines of the future, enthusiasts for the new transport, supporters of a strong Air Force. Perhaps, after all, these little fortunes had not been wasted. Perhaps they had been given to the country for propaganda, so that England might one day be once more an island by virtue of a healthy Air Force.

‘Of course,’ said Riley, ‘there’s no point in quitting till we stop making money. We may go on for another month or more yet. But if we know what’s going to happen, we can each look out for other jobs.’

‘We’ll be in good company, anyway,’ said Morris. ‘Other people will be quitting this winter—it’s not done yet.’

‘No, by God, it’s not,’ said Stenning. ‘Some of these air lines must be feeling the draught over the subsidy business.’

‘Well,’ said Riley, ‘it’s to be quit, is it?’

‘I think so,’ said Stenning. ‘We’ve not done so badly out of it, considering that it’s aviation.’ There was no bitterness in his tone.

Riley drew a little stump of pencil from his pocket and took a sheet of paper. ‘I’m going to write to my old firm at Brooklands,’ he said.

Stenning grinned. ‘Tell them you’re an ex-officer—that’s the thing nowadays.’

‘Shut up,’ said Riley. He bent over the paper in the throes of composition, his fair brows knitted in a frown.

‘God bless my soul,’ said Morris, ‘he might be writing to a wench.’

The other looked up. ‘This is different,’ said Riley, ‘this is personal. I always have to think a lot over this kind of letter. I usually carry a rough copy about with me two or three days before sending it. That’s why I’m doing it now.’

‘I was never so sensitive about my literary style as that,’ said Morris. ‘Mine goes just anyhow.’

‘I like to get it just right,’ said Riley. ‘If I can bear to read it two days afterwards, I know it’ll give a reasonably good effect.’

Morris laughed; this was a side of Riley that he had not seen before.

‘All very well for you to laugh,’ said Stenning, ‘you college people. You’ve got friends to drop you into a fat little job—secretary at the Air Ministry, or something. It’s different for us.’

‘Have I hell!’ said Morris.

He turned to Stenning. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Stay in aviation ... look for another pilot’s job.’ He glanced at Morris. ‘My father keeps a big drapery business in Huddersfield—retail. I could go into that,’ he said simply. Then he smiled. ‘But I don’t see it happening.’

‘You’ll be all right,’ said Riley. ‘You know one or two people at Croydon, don’t you?’

‘There’ll be jobs on the air lines in the spring,’ said Stenning hopefully. ‘At the worst, I could live on my fat till then.’

‘Wish I could.’

‘You’d better go and look up your pal Rawdon,’ said Stenning. ‘Struck me that you were well away there.’

Morris wondered if there were anything in it. He was very much averse to going to sponge on Rawdon for a job, immediately after taking his advice as he had done. Still, what else was there? It seemed to be the only course open to him at all. Otherwise he must take something temporarily, like Stenning’s drapery standby, to tide him over the winter till more pilots were needed. But that was admitting himself a pilot and nothing else.

‘How much capital have you got?’ asked Riley suddenly.

‘Eh?’ said Morris, awaking from his reverie.

‘How long can you keep yourself for?’

Morris made a little calculation. ‘About four months, comfortably.’

‘The best thing you can do,’ said Riley, ‘is to go to Rawdon, tell him what’s happened, and offer to work in his offices unpaid for a couple of months for experience. Lots of firms take on juniors like that. After that, he’ll either give you a job himself, or else a thumping good testimonial which may get you into some other firm. In any case, you’ll be in touch with aviation and on the spot if anyone wants a pilot. If you can get Rawdon to use you as a pilot, of course, he’ll give you flying money. You might even be able to earn your keep that way, by casual work like that.’

‘They’d never take me on,’ said Morris. ‘I’d be more nuisance than I’m worth.’

‘You can have a shot anyway,’ said Riley. ‘And I don’t see why they shouldn’t take you on like that, though whether you’d be worth a screw at the end of two months I don’t know. You can push a slide rule, can’t you?’

Morris nodded.

‘There’s nothing in performance work,’ said Riley. ‘I can’t do it myself, but it’s only a matter of worrying out long columns of figures and plotting the results in curves and things. I should think they’d be glad to have you as a sort of calculating machine.’

‘I dare say it might work,’ said Stenning. ‘The more unpaid staff they can get to do the dirty work, the more research they can do with their regular staff.’

Morris got up from his chair. ‘I think it’s worth trying,’ he said. ‘I’ll write him a line.’

‘You’ll never get an answer to a letter,’ said Riley bluntly. ‘The best aircraft firms don’t answer letters. Think it over for a day or two, and then go and see him yourself.’

‘But will he see me—can one just barge in like that?’

‘Of course he’ll see you.’

So three days afterwards, Morris found himself in a tramcar being borne out to the neighbourhood of Southall from Shepherd’s Bush. The more he thought of it, the more unlikely the scheme appeared; proportionately as he approached the place his spirits fell.

The conductor turned him out at a barren corner in country of a sort; a paper-littered country, dotted about with ugly little houses and embellished with great decaying hoardings of peeling and tattered advertisements of unguents for skin diseases. Morris walked on up the lane.

As he got away from the main road, things became a trifle better, and he emerged into clean, though dull, country. After a walk of about half a mile he came upon the aerodrome, surrounded by the wooden buildings and huts that constituted the whole of the establishment. Only one or two motor-cars outside the largest office building, the droning of a buzz-saw, and the stocking floating from a flagstaff on a roof proclaimed that it was inhabited. It was an unkempt, rather desolate little works.

Morris walked on to where the cars were, and into a building of offices. Here he knocked on a door marked ‘Inquiries’ and opened it, to find a small girl seated by a telephone eating an apple.

‘Er, can I see Captain Rawdon?’ he said.

‘He’s down in the shops, sir,’ said the child cheerfully.

There was a short pause.

‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’ asked Morris.

The little girl looked surprised. ‘No, sir—I’d go down there if I were you.’ Then, with a sudden access of patronage, ‘I’ll take you down, if you like.’

Morris followed her humbly out of the building, down an alley between various sheds and stores, through a penetrating reek of pear drops. Presently his guide swung through a doorway into a big erecting shop, crowded with aeroplanes in every stage of completion. Most of them, Morris saw, were old Rabbits and Ratcatchers brought from store to be overhauled and reconditioned for the Air Force. In the midst was a new fuselage of a different type in the early stages of construction.

This was the new two-seater fighter, designed experimentally for the Air Ministry to take the new Blundell engine, the Stoat. Great things were expected of the Stoat; the lightest engine for its power yet produced. Rawdon had abandoned the unequal competition for nomenclature and had originated a system of ciphers for his machines which, though less exciting, imposed less strain upon the imagination of the designer. This was to be the Rawdon S.F. Mark I.

At present the board of directors was sitting on it, both metaphorically and physically. Whenever Bateman, the business director, came down from London to visit the firm, Rawdon usually took him to the shops where the exact progress of the work could be seen and proposed innovations illustrated more graphically than in the office. Morris saw them from a distance deep in conversation, and instinctively hung back.

His guide, however, had no such scruples as to the sanctity of a directors’ meeting. Apple in hand she marched up to Rawdon.

‘A gentleman to see you, sir.’ Her part played, she gave her attention to a more important matter. The foreman of the engine shop, passing by, stopped and regarded her.

‘Hey, Gladys, don’t you know any better than that up in the office?’ he inquired pleasantly. ‘Standin’ eating an apple in the middle of the shop! Settin’ a bad example to the men. Ought to be ashamed of yourself—I would. I wouldn’t have it if this was my shop.’

One of the carpenters laid down his work. ‘Don’t you pay no attention to him,’ he said. ‘He’d have apple and all if this was his shop.’

The little girl grinned shyly and strolled away. Rawdon levered himself slowly off the bright wooden fuselage and went to meet Morris, frowning a little. He had no place for this chap; he diagnosed instantly what he wanted. He hated having to turn people away.

As Morris unfolded his tale, however, the frown melted away and was replaced by a childlike look of innocence that usually rested on his features. He heard him to the end with a penetrating question now and then, and volunteered no comment. Morris finished his tale, and stood while Rawdon stroked his chin.

‘As I understand it, then, Mr Morris,’ he said, ‘you want to come and work for us unpaid for a certain time in the hopes that we can take you on when you’ve got a little experience or, failing that, that we can pass you on to someone who wants staff?’

Morris assented.

Rawdon picked up a splinter of wood and fingered it. ‘I’m afraid I can tell you straight off,’ he said, ‘that we shall not be taking on any more staff just yet—so far as I can judge. One doesn’t see very far ahead in this business. But unless anything very startling happens, we shan’t be engaging any more technical staff for many months.’

‘I expected that,’ said Morris. ‘At the same time, I want to get experience in these matters. Can you see your way to allow me to come and work unpaid? Of course, I quite see that the presence of a learner rather interferes with the work of the office.’

‘Oh, as to that,’ said the designer, ‘you can come and welcome—it’s all clear gain to us. And when you go, I’ll give you what help I can—with consideration to what you’re worth. But I must tell you clearly that I don’t think there’s a chance of a job for you in this firm. I’m sorry, but you know the state of the industry.’

Morris laughed. ‘I think I know a good bit about that,’ he said.

‘One thing, Mr Morris. Are you prepared to take any piloting work?’

Morris considered in his turn. ‘Piloting is my only asset,’ he said. He glanced at the other. ‘I should want flying pay for that.’

‘Quite so. We might be able to give you odd, isolated jobs in that way—delivery of these Rabbits chiefly. You would be willing to take that on?’

‘Most certainly.’

‘Well,’ said the designer, ‘we should be very glad to have you on those conditions, Mr Morris—only, as I say, I’m afraid there’s very little hope of a paid job in the office. Things are too bad to take on any more staff at present. When would you think of coming?’

‘In about three weeks? I really can’t say till I’ve spoken to Mr Riley; I’m still engaged to him.’

‘That would do very well. If you’ll give us a couple of days’ notice, will you? ... Good morning, Mr Morris; I’m very glad we’ve been able to come to some arrangement.’

He walked back to his partner, still sitting on the fuselage of the fighter, and recounted the interview.

‘And you told him he could come,’ said Bateman.

‘Yes,’ said Rawdon, ‘I told him he could come. Fact is, I like the look of him, and there’s no denying that a regular resident pilot would be useful.’

‘I thought you said there wasn’t enough work for a regular pilot.’

‘There isn’t,’ said the designer. ‘But a pilot who can do something else as well is another matter.’

‘See how he shapes,’ suggested the partner.

‘Yes,’ said Rawdon, ‘we must see how he shapes.’