The Tale of Oat Cake Crag (24 page)

But in a few moments, the machine, the pilot, and the passenger were safely bobbing on the water in front of the slipway. Someone gave the propeller a hard turn, and the engine sputtered to life. The spectators cheered and threw their hats in the air and shouted, “Good luck! Stay out of the water!” and “Hope you come back in one piece!”

And then the hydroplane began to move, maneuvering clumsily amongst the crowded moorings and out to the choppy open water of the lake, where the wind was blowing hard—too hard, the owl thought, to make a takeoff possible. But this did not deter the pilot. After a moment, he turned the aeroplane into the wind and speeded up his engine. The propeller turned faster and faster until it was nothing but a blur, and the Water Bird began to bounce and skip across the white-capped waves, its wings tipping first to one side and then the other. The Professor thought it looked for all the world like an ugly, ungainly duckling who wanted to fly but wasn’t exactly sure how to get off the water and into the air.

And then, as the owl watched, Water Bird took to the sky, rising just a few feet at first, then higher and higher, until it was twenty, then fifty, then a hundred feet in the air. From the crowd on the shore came a great shout, whether of triumph or disappointment the owl couldn’t say. He knew enough about the human temperament to suspect that half of the spectators longed to see the aeroplane fly successfully whilst half longed to see it crash.

But if the owl wanted to find out more about Water Bird’s strengths and vulnerabilities in flight, he would have to get closer. He pocketed his pad and pencil, flew out of his tree, and stroking with his powerful wings, easily caught up to the aeroplane, which seemed to be having a bit of a hard go, struggling to gain speed and altitude against the powerful headwind. The owl himself, a much more accomplished flier, did not like flying into such a blustery breeze, but he was on a serious spy mission and now was not the time to worry about a few gusts.

So for a few minutes, the Professor (not wanting to call attention to himself) cruised just behind and below the lower wingtip, out of sight of the pilot and the passenger. He noted that the engine was very, very loud (imagine a motor boat’s outboard motor running at top speed not ten feet from your head) and that its violent operation seemed to make the struts hum and vibrate. He saw that the flimsy wings flexed in the air currents, and that the rudder swung from side to side as the pilot steered the machine. He also saw there were clumsy-looking hinged flaps on the trailing edges of the wings, apparently used to maintain or restore the flying balance, and that the pilot operated these by bamboo poles.

“Poles!”
the Professor thought scornfully.
“How very primitive.”
He flexed his own sturdy wing feathers, which were perfectly configured to do exactly the same thing without a single conscious thought on his part—and certainly required no bamboo poles. None of his other observations struck him as very significant, though. The machine did not appear to be at all sturdy, and the pilot had to manipulate a great many moving parts, and of course, the engine had to operate continuously to keep it from falling out of the sky. But Water Bird was flying. In fact, it was flying very well.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. The motor, which had been running more or less smoothly, gave a series of abrupt hiccups, coughed, sputtered, and stopped. In the dead silence, the owl could hear the panicked passenger cry out, “What’s happened? Why has it stopped?”

The pilot was working furiously to get the engine started again, but he was unsuccessful, and the aeroplane—which was really very rickety—put its nose down, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then began a perilously steep dive toward the water, some hundred or so feet below. The passenger gave an earsplitting shriek. The Professor, amazed, held his breath. He had never seen such a thing before. Would Water Bird fall into the lake and sink like a stone? Or would it plunge like a loon beneath the waves and come up a little farther on with a fish in the pilot’s lap?

It didn’t do either. The pilot, still wrestling the controls and with the passenger screaming hysterically in his ear, managed to pull the machine up at the last minute so that it landed on its center pontoon. It hit the water hard, bounced ten feet into the air, then bounced again, and again, one wing up, one wing down. Then one wing-tip airbag caught the surface of the water and spun the machine around. Both men were catapulted out of their seats and into the water, where they clung to the floating aeroplane, which appeared to have crumpled its right wing and broken its tail.

“Help!” the passenger shrieked frantically. “Help, somebody! I can’t swim! I don’t want to drown!”

“That’s enough,” commanded the pilot. “Be quiet. You’re not going to drown. Hang on. The Bird floats.”

And so it did, after a fashion. Since one of the wing airbags was damaged, the aeroplane seemed to be listing heavily. Luckily, however, there was a sailboat not far away and it came to the rescue immediately. The yachtsman dropped the mainsail, furled the jib, and paddled up to the floating plane. He pulled both men into his boat, the pilot obviously chagrined, the passenger clearly angry. “I want my money back,” the owl heard the passenger demand loudly. “I wasn’t counting on a crash.”

It didn’t take long for a pair of small boats to rush out from Cockshott Point, attach lines to the floating Water Bird, and tow it back to shore, whilst the pilot directed the operation by shouting instructions from the sailboat. The Professor, curious, followed closely and perched in a nearby tree to watch as the pilot and two other men winched the crippled aeroplane back up the slipway and into the hangar.

The spectators were watching, too, all of them exceedingly well satisfied. They had seen the aeroplane dive into the lake and could go home and tell everyone all about it (with plenty of exaggeration, of course). It wouldn’t be long before the entire district knew that the Water Bird’s engine had failed and that it had gone down right in the middle of Windermere with a mighty splash. It was only by the grace of God and the extraordinary skill of the pilot (and the lucky fact that a sailboat was nearby) that the lives of the two men aboard were saved.

The passenger, of course, was the brave Hero of the Moment, and made the best of his wetting by telling everyone what a thrilling ride it had been up to the moment the engine quit and how he had escaped death by a hair’s-breadth when the machine plunged into the ice-cold water, never saying a word (of course) about his fears of drowning or his frantic cries for help. As for the aeroplane—well! It looked to be a total loss, with one wing torn nearly off and the tail severely damaged. Surely this would be the end of Water Bird, which naturally pleased some (those of the “If God had wanted people to fly” opinion) and distressed others (those who felt that since the Germans were building aeroplanes, the British ought to be sharpish about it). With these and other similar remarks and still discussing the matter excitedly amongst themselves, the crowd dispersed.

By that time, our spy had become more audacious. There was a great deal of commotion and everybody was fully engaged with what was directly in front of them. So the Professor flew into the aeroplane’s hangar and perched on one of the rafters, high above in the darkness. He took off his dark goggles, pulled out his notepad and pencil, and (like any good spy) began making notes about what he heard.

He heard plenty. One of the men, a tall blond man whose name was Anderson, walked around the Water Bird, surveying the injured wing and damaged tail section with a grim shake of the head.

“Broken struts, cracked ribs, torn canvas, wrecked airbag—and who knows what went wrong with the motor,” he said darkly. “The repairs are going to cost a pretty penny. Baum’s not going to like it. You know how he feels, Oscar. He may decide not to pay.”

“Baum’s in no condition to decide to anything today,” said the pilot, Oscar Wyatt—the very man we were hoping to get a close look at. He was thin and wiry, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed dark beard and mustache. “Fellow’s laid up with a cracked head and a broken arm and a leg. They’ve taken him to Raven Hall. I tried to see him this morning, but was prevented.” He frowned. “Said it was doctor’s orders.”

“A cracked head?” a third man asked, startled. “Broken bones? How’d that happen? And when? He was here yesterday afternoon, bustlin’ about and getting in the way, as he allus does. ’Tis a pity he’s been hurt.”

“A great pity,” Anderson agreed. He stepped away from the aeroplane and folded his arms. He gave Wyatt a narrow look. “Especially if it means that we’re not going to be able to repair the Bird. If Baum’s laid up, where’s the money coming from?”

“I have good news,” Oscar Wyatt said, and laughed roughly. “I’ve located another potential investor. I’m seeing this person this evening. If I’m successful—well, I’ll tell you, boys. This person has enough money to take care of any problem we could encounter, and then some.”

“Another investor?” Anderson gave him a narrow look. “Why do we need another investor? Is Mr. Baum pulling out?”

Wyatt didn’t answer.

Anderson repeated the question. “Is Baum pulling out? And who’s this other investor you’ve found?”

“Never you mind, Anderson. The person prefers to remain anonymous, and anyway, the deal isn’t done yet. But I’m confident enough that it will be that I’m telling you to carry on. Get that wing repaired. Build a new airbag. Patch up the tail. Fix the engine. Do whatever’s necessary.”

Anderson wouldn’t give it up. “But what about Mr. Baum?” he asked insistently. “Does he know about this new ‘investor’? Does he want these repairs made?”

Wyatt pulled himself up. “I am telling you, Anderson, to—”

“The thing is,” Anderson cut in, “that Mr. Baum told us that he was drawing the line at any more expenditure.” He turned to the third man. “You heard him, didn’t you, Tommy? You were standing right there when he said he wasn’t putting another penny into this machine. It either flies or it doesn’t, he said, but he’s not—”

“And I’m telling you to stop worrying about Baum!” Wyatt shouted. “That’s not for you to bother your head about, d’you hear? My job is to find the money to get this aeroplane into flying condition and take it back up in the air. Your job is to get the repairs done—and bloody quick, too. Churchill and his military men will be here in three days. They’ll expect to see the Bird take the air. And we’re going to make it happen.”

In the rafters, the owl blinked. Churchill? Winston Churchill?

Anderson was even more surprised than the Professor. “Churchill?” he exclaimed, staring. “Churchill, from the Admiralty? He’s really coming, then? You’re not just larkin’?”

“Right,” Wyatt said flatly. “He’s really coming, and he says he wants to go up in the Bird—maybe even use her in his Royal Flying Corp. No time for games now, boys. It’s a matter of the national defense. So stop your jabberwocky and open up that engine. I want to know what happened up there. Why the motor quit. It’s never done that before.”

Tommy cleared his throat. “Could’ve been the petrol,” he offered diffidently. “Water in it, mebbee? That would’ve made the pistons stop firin’.”

“Water in the petrol?” Wyatt asked, his eyes narrowing. “How could that have happened?”

Tommy gave a careless shrug, not quite meeting Wyatt’s eyes. “The petrol tank is right outside the door, ain’t it? Anybody could’ve poured water in it, couldn’t they?”

Anderson stared at him. “Are you suggesting sabotage, Tommy?” he asked in a disbelieving tone. “You don’t really think—”

“Not suggestin’ anything,” Tom said blandly. “I’m just sayin’, is all.”

Wyatt’s mouth hardened. He turned to Anderson. “I want a twenty-four-hour guard put on this place, Anderson. All day, all night. You got that?”

“A guard!” Anderson whistled. “That’ll cost as much as the repairs.”

Wyatt slammed his fist against his palm. “I don’t care what it costs!” he shouted. “I want that engine repaired, the wing and tail put to rights, and a guard on this place. Nothing more is going to go wrong here. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Anderson said mildly, but with more than a hint of sarcasm. “You’re the man who’s getting the money, so you’re the boss.”

“As long as you understand that, we’ll get along just fine,” Wyatt growled in a sour tone. “Now, you get to work.”

The Professor watched as Anderson and the man called Tommy busied themselves around the plane, tending to its crumpled wing, opening the engine. Oscar Wyatt lingered for a time, watching, as if he didn’t quite trust them to do the job. After a while, he said he was going out to have a talk with the “new investor” and would see them tomorrow, at which point he expected major progress to be made on the repairs. The minute he was gone, Anderson laid down the tool he was holding and shook his head.

“I don’t like this, Tommy,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t like this one bit. Baum said there’d be no more repairs, and now he’s laid up and Wyatt’s got money from a ‘new investor,’ whatever that means. And I’m supposed to hire a twenty-four-hour guard.”

“I was thinkin’ ’bout that,” Tom said. “I got a friend who’s lookin’ for work. He could stand night guard. He’ll work cheap.”

“Tell him to come by and talk to me,” Anderson replied shortly. He was scowling. “You know, I’ve got half a mind to go over to Raven Hall this evening and see what I can find out from Baum.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” cautioned Tom in a practical tone. “I agree that it ain’t good, this business, but I can’t see as you can do anything about it. Baum’s out of the way and Wyatt is runnin’ things here. He made it plain. If we want to get paid, we do as he says. That’s how I see it, anyway.”

Anderson hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, going back to work. “But if you ask me, something’s fishy here. I wonder how Baum got that cracked head.”

And so, of course, do we. But our spy has begun to feel that there’s nothing more to be learned from these two men and has decided to abandon his station—and anyway, he is feeling the pangs of hunger. It has been, all told, a rather long morning. He finishes taking his last note, quietly pockets his pad and pencil, and flies silently out of the hangar, a dark shadow against the darkness of the roof over the crippled Water Bird.