Читать книгу Clipped Wings - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 11

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“I hope so,” rejoined Uncle Brian. “Of course, the distance is a mere nothing, but there is no reason why the gadget shouldn’t work up to say 20,000 yards.”

“It’s scuppered that magneto, any old way,” declared Peter. “However did you manage it by a ray of light?”

“I didn’t,” his uncle hastened to explain. “It’s not light; it’s electro-magnetism. I argued upon these lines. It’s possible to send a wireless message through thousands of miles. Cannot a charge of electricity of infinitely greater strength be released through a relatively shorter distance and at the same time be confined to a definite path instead of radiating? For example: suppose Nauen wishes to communicate with, say, Moscow. Provided the receiving instrument is properly attuned, Barcelona, Clifden, and possibly New York can pick up the message. It’s similar to throwing a stone in the middle of a circular pool. The ripples will eventually reach the side practically simultaneously at every point. Now, my idea was to concentrate high potential electric current and confine it to a straight and narrow path with the object of polarizing any magneto in its way.”

“And you’ve done it,” declared Peter. “An aircraft wouldn’t stand an earthly—I mean an aerial chance. It’s bound to come down.”

“That’s what I’m aiming for,” said Uncle Brian. “If this apparatus can be perfected and conveyed to England, then the greatest weapon Rioguay possesses—one that I have forged, although at the time ignorant of the fact—will be broken. Not only that; the aerial menace with which the anti-battleship experts support their theories—poison gas and incendiary bombs raining from the blue sky—will be simply eliminated. Wars of the future—and I am convinced that while the world exists wars are simply bound to take place—will be conducted on more or less straight lines, without involving a holocaust of the helpless non-combatant inhabitants of the belligerent countries. Tanks, armoured cars, and in fact all modern inventions for war relying upon the magneto—the heart of the petrol engine—will be rendered useless, and fighting will once more resume its former status—a contest of manpower.”

“Then you don’t believe in the theory that war will be so terrible, so scientifically brutal, that nations will be afraid to wage battle?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Uncle Brian. “It will only be an additional inducement for small nations to defy their greater neighbours. The primal instinct can never be destroyed, but the means of waging war ought to be controlled. According to the prophets, wars of the future will resemble a prize fight with poisoned rings hidden in the pugilists’ gloves.”

“Supposing, as is quite possible,” objected Peter, “this invention of yours is perfected? What if there’s an antidote—what then?”

Uncle Brian shrugged his shoulders—a habit he had acquired from his Rioguayan neighbours.

“That’s what I am dreading,” he replied. “Meanwhile, I’m going ahead with this gadget. Now you see why I’m keen on your flying. Obviously, I couldn’t experiment upon a machine in charge of a Rioguayan pilot. He’d smell a rat. But I can try it in a flying-boat piloted by you, even if there is a crew on board. There would be no danger, since I can control the rays before you are obliged to make a forced landing. I’ll see Jaurez in the morning and ask him when you will be sufficiently trained to take charge. We’ll give you a week’s practice from then and by that time I’ll be ready for the big test. Are you game?”

“Rather!” replied Peter.

They spent another hour overhauling the apparatus, Uncle Brian carefully explaining the nature and use of the various component parts until his nephew had a clear and comprehensive insight into the mysteries of the new anti-aircraft device.

Then little Timothy was released from his box to resume his duties of guardian of the experimental room, and Brian Strong and his nephew, having locked the door, returned to the house.

Peter had another restless night. He was not altogether satisfied that Uncle Brian’s secret would be all that it claimed to be. Unconsciously, he placed himself in the position of Uncle Brian’s rival and thought out schemes to counteract the blighting influence of the mysterious rays. Must an aeroplane engine always be fired electrically? he asked himself. Is a magneto or a battery and trembler-coil a sine qua non for the work? It was quite within the bounds of possibility that a dynamo-driven engine might be produced, receiving its current by means of a wireless current. Or there was the hot-bulb engine—far too heavy in its present form for aerial work, but was it too much to expect that in the near future it could be reduced in weight and bulk without any sacrifice of horse-power?

“I hope Uncle Brian isn’t putting all his eggs into one basket,” he soliloquized. “By Jove! I’ll try a little experiment on my own account. It will be rough luck on Uncle Brian if it comes off; but better now than later.”

And with the new-born plan maturing in his active mind, Peter lay awake until pink hues in the eastern sky heralded the dawn of yet another strenuous day.

According to his resolve, Brian Strong tackled Jaurez, the chief aviator instructor, on the subject of his nephew’s progress.

“He is a born bird-man, señor,” replied Jaurez, with an admiration that even his secret contempt for Englishmen failed to suppress. “Reckless, nombre de Dios! yes; but he can keep his head. In three days, perhaps, then he will be sufficiently expert to go up in control.”

“That is good news,” said Brian Strong.

Suddenly the instructor’s mood changed.

“For why, Señor Strong, does your nephew wish to fly?” he demanded. “Surely Rioguay can produce sufficient pilots without having to make use of Englishmen?”

“I won’t dispute that, Señor Jaurez,” rejoined Peter’s uncle. “But it so happens that there are certain modifications in the design which I wish to test. My knowledge of the Rioguayan tongue is fair, as you know, but there are several technical terms of which I am ignorant. You can readily see that there would be difficulties innumerable if I had to discuss the improvements with a Rioguayan pilot.”

Señor Jaurez grinned amicably. Previous experience had taught him that Brian Strong’s assertion was a correct one. In the earlier stages of the El Toro experimental and constructive works the language difficulty had been a serious obstacle. He was a disciple of the doctrine “follow the line of least resistance”.

Eight days later, Peter went up for the first time as sole pilot of that notorious flying-boat El Boyeta, but on this occasion he was accompanied by three Rioguayan airmen who were sufficiently “salted” to be immune from that distressing malady, air-sickness.

Uncle Brian was nowhere to be seen. He had retired to his private experimental shed, having previously given Peter certain instructions.

According to the usual custom, Peter went on board to test the controls. He was rather a long time—not that the testing was a lengthy affair.

As soon as he gained the for’ard motor-room, he proceeded to enclose the magneto of each of the two for’ard motors with sheets of pure Para rubber, making a tight joint to each of the high tension and “earth” wires.

The mechanic watched him curiously, but, having been given to understand that certain experiments were to be carried out, he took the unusual procedure with equanimity.

“Now,” thought Peter, “won’t Uncle be surprised if he succeeds in only cutting out the after-engines. We’ll see if his secret ray will penetrate this insulated screen. I don’t fancy it will.”

He made his way back to the pilot’s seat and gave the recognized signal that everything was O.K. The rest of the crew swung themselves into the observation saloon, while the ground attendants removed the chocks from the massive, tyred landing-wheels.

Peter depressed the switch controlling the four electric starters. Instantly the propellers revolved and the flying-boat quivered as if eager to soar into her natural element.

A very short run—barely thirty yards—was enough for the machine to acquire momentum sufficient to part company with Mother Earth. With the planes tilted to their maximum angle, the flying-boat almost leapt upwards.

The British pilot let her climb steadily, until the altimeter registered 1800 metres. Then he flew steadily eastwards until the flying-boat was immediately over the spacious lake of Sta Estralloda. If the electric current were cut off and a hitch occurred whereby Peter would be unable to restart the motors, the flying-boat could descend and take the surface with little risk. A forced landing on unsuitable and unyielding land might end disastrously.

With frequent glances at the clock on the dashboard, Peter kept the flying-boat soaring above the sheet of water. Although he did not turn his head, he knew that curious eyes were watching him through the window between the saloon and his “office”. Ostensibly, the experiments were to prove the efficacy of a loud-speaking wireless telephone that claimed to be proof against atmospherics and “cutting in”. It was sheer bluff on Brian Strong’s part, but it sufficed to allay suspicion as to the real nature of the test.

The hands of the clock simply crawled round until they indicated 10.15—the pre-arranged time for the liberation of the secret ray.

Nothing happened! The motors continued to purr with their usual rhythm. It made no difference that the magnetos of the for’ard pair were insulated and those of the after engines were not.

On the face of things, Uncle Brian’s experiment was a failure.

Another minute elapsed. Peter continued to keep the flying-boat circling, at the same time descending to 1500 metres.

Suddenly the whole fabric trembled violently. The engines ceased firing, the propellers turning on a free axis under wind pressure only. Then, in less than five seconds, the motors “picked up” again and resumed their normal revolutions.

Glancing downwards, Peter could see the mechanic had been aroused from his usual state of lethargy; for, in ordinary circumstances, he had little or nothing to do while the machine was in actual flight. Whether the engineer in charge of the after motors had been similarly startled Peter had no immediate means of finding out.

But what puzzled the pilot was the brief duration of the “short”. Uncle Brian had arranged for a sixty-seconds liberation of the polarizing rays. Without the shadow of a doubt, the momentary cutting out of the “juice” was owing to Uncle Brian’s “gadget”. Had one motor only faltered, Peter might have attributed that to known engine trouble; since all four were affected simultaneously, the phenomenon could only be put down to the mysterious rays.

Peter Corbold was a fellow who always liked to get down to rock bottom, when dealing with a knotty proposition. He was still puzzling over the affair and trying to find a possible solution, when once again the motors ceased functioning.

This time, the “cutting out” was definitely prolonged. Peter prepared for a volplane, elevating the wings to their maximum resistance in order to check the downward glide, the while circling to keep the flying-boat immediately over the expanse of lake.

For all practicable purposes the machine was now a motorless glider without the power, owing to her weight and the limited area of the planes, to rise to a favourable air current. The best she could do was to fly horizontally for a few seconds and then glide earthwards. Sooner or later, unless the engines regained their power, the machine must come to rest on the surface of the water.

The Rioguayan crew were now in a state bordering on panic. It was fortunate that Peter had taken the precaution to bolt the door between him and them, or his office would have been invaded, with disastrous results.

Foiled in that direction, the Rioguayans could only stare helplessly, until the sight of the hare-brained Englishman coolly manipulating the planes and rudders helped to restore them to a state of passivity.

All this occurred in the space of forty-five seconds. Peter was beginning to doubt whether he could keep up for the remainder of the stipulated minute when at a height of one hundred metres the motors fired again.

“Well, that’s proved the device, any old way,” decided Peter, as he began to ascend again. “My insulation stunt is a dud, but I’m jolly glad it is.”

Another twenty minutes elapsed before the flying-boat landed at El Toro, for Peter was in no hurry, as he wished to restore confidence in his somewhat tremulous fellow-airmen.

Uncle Brian was there to greet him.

“It’s no good, Uncle,” Peter lied loudly. “The telephone was an absolute wash-out. I even switched off to try and pick up what you were saying.”

If there were any Rioguayans amongst those present who understood English, Peter’s mendacious assertion would serve to offer a solution to the failure of the flying-boat’s ignition system. In fact, Brian Strong hastened to translate the gist of his nephew’s explanation. At the same time, Uncle Brian knew that his secret device had been proved and had passed the test. Peter’s declaration that he “switched off” was sufficient for that. Mutual and authentic exchanges of their observations would come at the next convenient opportunity.

For the present, all was well.