The Boy Who Could Fly Without a Motor (5 page)

JON LISTENED INTENTLY AS THE ADULTS
ate apple pie, drank coffee, and talked.

The FBI man said, "We have the fishermen in three suites at a San Francisco hotel with agents guarding the doors. The country could panic if news of this occurrence ever got out."

The army major said, "Whatever that was Tuesday night could be a scout for Martian invaders."

Jon wanted to say, "There are no Martian invaders; just me" but couldn't. He swallowed even though his mouth was desert dry.

The FBI agent said, "The only evidence we have is a red wool cap that landed on the trawler's deck. There's no label inside it. It was flown to Washington on Wednesday so our laboratory can analyze it. I personally don't think that Martians wear red wool caps."

Jon had never noticed there was no label inside that cap. What could the FBI tell from a label, anyway?

If he could keep himself from accidentally levitating until these men departed, he'd have a chance to think the whole unfortunate situation through and try again to contact Ling Wu, wherever he was, and stop the body flying forever. Never again would he body fly. Never. He'd gladly go back to being bored and lonely.

Not only was body flying against the laws of gravity, as his mother had said, it was apparently against the laws of the United States, and he could be put in jail for threatening the security of the entire nation. Did they have special jails for kids under twelve?

Before departing the lieutenant commander said, "Please keep a close watch on the skies and tell me immediately if you sight anything suspicious." He gave them the special command number for Operation Flying Object, headquartered in the "White House.

Jon's father said, "I don't have a phone out here. I send emergency messages by Morse code."

The Coast Guard lieutenant said they'd handle that end and transfer any communications from Clementine to the intelligence chiefs and the president.

Under any other circumstances, Jon would have been fascinated with all the efforts to catch the so-called flying object. The situation went far beyond anything he'd ever read in
Popular Science.

As he watched the boat pull away from the dock and head back to San Francisco, Jon wondered if he should now tell his parents that he'd learned to levitate from a living-dead Chinese magician. They'd already said they didn't believe in ghosts, and they'd probably take him to a mental hospital, where the levitation would only get worse. They'd have to strap him to a bed. What if the bed rose up? But he clearly remembered his oath never to tell that Ling Wu existed.

No, the best course of action was to make contact with the magician through telepathy and find out what was going wrong with his brain-cell signals. He couldn't very well live the rest of his life with rocks in his pockets or a diver's lead belt around his waist. Ling Wu would certainly understand.

So, Jon stayed down at the cove until lunchtime, sending message after message to Ling Wu, with no response. Perhaps the magician had finally died for good and would never visit the living world again. Perhaps he'd gone back to China.

After lunch Jon returned to the cove and sat on the dory, exhausting himself by silently repeating,
Ling Wu, this is Jon Jeffers, come in, come in. Please, please! This is a life-and-death situation.

After supper he pretended to be listening to the Grand Ole Opry with his parents, but he was actually performing telepathy. At bedtime he said a special prayer, asking God to help him locate Ling Wu. When he was certain his parents were both asleep, he dressed warmly and headed outside to spend the night in the cove. He'd read that radio waves lessened after nine o'clock, so maybe there'd be less interference with his telepathy.

As he was passing through the dark kitchen, he felt a surge of energy in his head and rose straight up. His skull lodged sideways against the ceiling, near the light fixture, and the rocks spilled out of his pockets onto the old oak table.

Smacks began to yelp.

Hearing all the ruckus, his parents rushed out of their bedroom, in their pajamas. They turned on the light and saw their only son flattened overhead like a butterfly, wearing warm clothes and a green wool hat.

BOSUN JEFFERS, WHO LOOKED LIKE HE'D
just eaten a salamander, got a stepladder so he could pull Jon off the ceiling. The levitation was now so powerful that Jon didn't budge. "Did you put glue on yourself?" Bosun Jeffers asked.

Jon said, "No, Dad. I have a problem."

Jon's mother was speechless while his father wrestled him off the ceiling. She collapsed in a chair at the table.

When Bosun Jeffers finally got Jon down, he said, "Wedge your feet under the table, son, so you don't go up again." Then he went out to the maintenance shed and came back with two buckets of maritime paint, called red lead, and told Jon to put them in his lap. Together they weighed what Jon weighed, with two ounces to spare.

"Ballast, son," his Ether said. "Useful for ships and levitating boys."

They all sat in silence, the reflection of Clementine Light gliding through the window on its regular cycle. Jon felt sick.

Finally, Bosun Jeffers spoke. "Jon, you must tell us what has happened to you and why. Your mother and I don't understand what is going on here."

Despite the terrible threats from Ling Wu, Jon knew he had to reveal every thing—except how he actually flew.
That
had to remain a secret.

It took almost two hours—with time out to make coffee and hot chocolate—for Jon to start back at the article on telepathy in
Popular Science
and bring the story up to Tuesday night when he flew over the
Cacciatore Roma.
Smacks had gone to sleep long before.

"So, it was
your
red cap that fell on the fishing boat," his mother said.

Jon nodded.

The part that the Jeffers found most difficult to believe involved the Chinese magician named Ling Wu, who had been dead since 1850.

They asked many questions about Ling Wu. It occurred to Mrs. Jeffers that Jon was the first human to fly without a motor, and she knew that many people, from the president on down—especially scientists and the FBI—would want to know a lot more about Ling Wu.

Jon said, "I've been trying to contact him. He's not responding. I may have to go through life weighted down. And if I lose my weights, I could go off into space."

"Oh no, oh no," his mother said, her eyes flooding with tears. "
Something
can be done. We'll go to a doctor tomorrow."

"What kind of doctor?" the bosun asked.

"I don't know. A specialist."

Jon thought about that. They'd have to find one who knew about levitation. That might be impossible.

Jon's mother, gazing at him sadly, asked, "How exactly do you fly?"

"I can't tell you. Ling Wu made me promise never to tell anyone."

"Son, you can tell us."

Jon shook his head. "Ling Wu threatened to stuff flaming straw up my nose and nail my feet to a shark's back."

"That's nonsense," the bosun said angrily. "Where can I find him?"

"I saw the shark, Daddy. I saw Ling Wu manufacture the straw. He's a magician and can do anything. He can even make me vanish."

Jon's father said tiredly, "Well, I have to send a message to those intelligence people. I don't know rightly what to say, except we aren't in danger of a Martian invasion."

Then he said, "Jon, please get me a pencil and tablet."

He sat for about a half hour, trying to write a message, tearing up page after page. Finally, he said, "You did all this, Jon. You should be the one to write it."

Jon nodded and began to write:
Mr. President, Martians aren't invading the U.S.A. Our son, nine-year-old Jon, learned how to levitate and flew over the trawler Tuesday night. Respectfully, Boatswain First Class James Jeffers and Mrs. Mabel Jeffers.

The bosun read what Jon had written and said, "That's fine. I think you'll be answering a lot of questions."

He then went out to the lighthouse, climbed the steps and ladders and used the wireless set to dash-dot the words that would rock the civilized world: A nine-year-old boy could fly without a motor.

At last it was time for Jon to go to bed, but he knew he wouldn't get much sleep clinging to two buckets of red lead. So, his father held him down as Jon crawled between the covers, and his mother used all the safety pins she had to pin him between the sheets. He hoped he wouldn't need to get up during the night to use the john. If he did, that was just too bad.

BOSUN JEFFERS HAD TO STAY BEHIND
and to his duties as keeper of Clementine Lighthouse, but Jon and his mother—and Smacks, who was part of this whole affair—were headed to San Francisco on the same boat that had brought the intelligence officers to the rock.

This time there were security guards: two sailors in the cabin with pistols on their hips, and a sailor stationed on the bow with a high-powered rifle. The nation couldn't afford to have Jon Jeffers captured by Russian communists.

Jon, sitting in the cabin with his mother, the buckets of red lead by his side, felt as though he were going off to prison instead of to a hospital. Bosun Jeffers had sent another Morse code message during the night, requesting that the Coast Guard arrange medical attention.

He'd also received a message from his immediate lighthouse superiors—an insulting message asking him if he'd lost his mind and demanding a full report. The message said that the intelligence personnel involved were furious at the idea of his son claiming he could fly without a motor. Never in fourteen years of faithful service had Bosun Jeffers been subjected to such treatment, almost accused of treason.

The Coast Guard lieutenant, the army major, the navy lieutenant commander, and the FBI agent were all waiting at the Coast Guard dock in San Francisco's Embarcadero when the boat arrived. Smacks jumped out first, wagging his tail as usual, then Mrs. JefFers debarked.

The greeters stared at Jon, who was holding his red lead buckets. Their faces were unhappy—almost angry. Was this child playing tricks on them, making them look like fools?

The lieutenant commander said, in a hostile voice, "We've made arrangements for you to demonstrate your ability to fly without a motor." He looked at the buckets of primer, one in each of Jon's hands. "What are those?" he demanded.

"My anchors," Jon said. "Otherwise, I could go up to the moon." He felt intimidated, even though it
was
nice to be in the city.

There was nasty laughter, and one angry-looking man said, "Ah, come on!"

You'll see,
Jon thought.

"We can't do it out here on the docks, in case you can actually fly—which none of us believe—so I've arranged for the use of a high school gym."

Jon said, "You should also put a line around my ankle so I don't get caught up in the rafters."

The lieutenant commander looked at him as though Jon were as insane as Eunice Jones had predicted, then sighed. "All right."

They went off to the high school in separate cars, the guards riding with Jon and his mother and Smacks. No one spoke. Jon felt like he was under arrest.

After they all filed into the school's gym, the armed guards took up position at the main door, securing the secrecy of the test. Even the janitor was sent out.

The Coast Guard lieutenant tied a three-eighths-inch yellow line to Jon's right ankle. There were fifty feet of it.

The FBI agent had brought along a photographer, who said, "This is one of the silliest things I've ever done."

Jon said, "Are you ready?"

"Yeah," said the naval officer.

The others repeated, "Yeah!"

Jon put his buckets of paint down and began to rise steadily.

The lieutenant commander said, "I'll be —."

The major said, "I'll be ——."

The FBI agent said, "I'll be ——.

Jon began to fly around the gym as fir and high as the rope would let him, smiling down at all of them.

The Coast Guard lieutenant applauded, and the others joined in.

For the fun of it, Jon made several aerial dives, and then called for the lieutenant to haul him back to the floor. The photographer took a picture of Jon with the FBI agent.

The agent, whose name was Hiram K. Forbes, said, "Just wait until the president hears about this." The lieutenant ran outside to call Letterman Hospital.

Agent Forbes said, "I demand to know how you do it."

"It's a secret," Jon said earnestly. "I cannot tell you."

"You'll have to tell the president."

Jon said, "No, sir, I won't."

The agent turned to Jon's mother. "Your son will be in a lot of trouble if he doesn't tell the president. He could be arrested under the reverse spy laws."

"Oh no, oh no," Mrs. Jeffers said, appearing feint.

"Oh yes," said Agent Forbes.

THE BEST BRAIN SURGEON IN THE SAN
Francisco area, if not in all of the United States of America, was Dr. Leon Buxtehede, a big-nosed hairy man of short stature who wore thick-lensed yellow plastic glasses. The hair on his head was as black as octopus ink, but his beard was pure white.

He had just finished listening to Jon's account of his meeting with Ling Wu, and the events thereafter, and was deep in thought. He'd asked Jon how he flew, and was exasperated when Jon refused to answer. Meanwhile Jon was looking at a large color drawing of the human skull with words on it like
white matter
and
gray matter
and
medulla oblongata
and
cerebral peduncle.
His mouth sagged at the corners.

Dr. Buxtehede sat for a while longer gazing out over the famous Presidio, San Francisco's lovely military park. Finally, he said, "I could take X rays of your brain for the next week and consult with my colleagues all the way to Boston, but I really have no idea what to do."

Jon's hopes sank to the bottom of Three Fathom Shoal.

"This is the most unusual and difficult case I've ever encountered. I could open up your skull and try to find the answer, Mr. Jeffers. Clearly, the brain is involved, in my opinion."