funds. Do you know any of the other members?’
‘Well...’ began Carson.
‘I’ll introduce you around. And don’t worry if you appear to be ignored at first. Their minds are usually on something else--beer, girls, sometimes even flying--and your presence will eventually register. What do you do in real life?’
‘I’m security officer at Hart-Ewing’s.’
‘Is that so? I personally would have expected something more obnoxious, with jutting jaw and suspicious, steely eyes. Anyway, you’ll see lots of Hart-Ewing faces around here--you’ve probably seen Wayne Tillotson already. And if you’re wondering why he belongs to a flying club like this, he’ll tell you that flying fifty tons of computer makes him lose touch with reality and removes his brain an uncomfortable distance from the seat of his pants.
‘Of course,’ Jeff Donnelly went on cheerfully, ‘Tillotson trusts the seat of his pants. I couldn’t trust mine if it was sitting on a stack of Bibles--my instrument flying is atrocious ...’ He broke off, waved and called, ‘Bob, over here!’
Tillotson and Maxwell, who had been about to sit down at another table, turned and came towards them. Carson swore under his breath. Tillotson’s presence had come as an unpleasant surprise and he needed time to decide on an approach which would not make the chief test pilot suspicious.
If only the well-meaning Donnelly would not mention that he had asked about Pebbles...
‘...really be a fatted calf instead of cold ham salad,’ Donnelly was saying. ‘After a six-year pause for reconsideration, Joe has decided to learn to fly one of these newfangled heavier-than-air machines. And he has asked for John Pebbles, too...’
You, thought Carson helplessly, and your big mouth! ‘Really?’ said the instructor, looking mildly surprised. He was the kind of quiet, deliberate and imperturbable person who would react mildly to the crack of doom. He went on, ‘John will be very pleased about that. Not many people do, you know. He’s good and we all like him, but a certain amount of caution is to be expected, wouldn’t you say?’
Carson had the panicky feeling that he had missed something even though he had heard every word the other had said. What was Pebbles here? He was good at his job, but people were wary of him. Was he a combination club mascot and village idiot? Were they sorry for him and tolerated him for laughs? Did he sweep the floor or maybe do odd jobs in the hangar, just for the privilege of being close to aeroplanes and pilots? Did some softhearted flyer sometimes take him up for a flight? Carson did not know but, because he had asked for Pebbles, he was expected to know.
Know what?
When in doubt, he thought desperately, say something so obviously ridiculous that it can only be a joke instead of a display of ignorance. While they were laughing he might gain some idea of what it was he was supposed to have said...
‘Does Pebbles do much solo flying these days?’
Nobody laughed.
Maxwell was mildly serious rather than mildly amused as he said, ‘Mr Carson, we don’t pay our weekend instructors for flying solo.’
Chapter Eight
The sun came out for keeps just a few minutes after six o’clock and Pebbles arrived at six-ten. He was the same shy, awkward man Carson had met a few days earlier, but the difference became apparent as soon as he began to talk. In these surroundings he had a sort of diffident, but very real, authority.
As they walked out to the aircraft he called Carson ‘Mr Carson’ and, with some vague idea that the other’s confidence needed boosting and to show that outside of working hours they were equals, Carson called him Mr Pebbles. As a result the conversation was painfully formal.
Carson’s introduction to G-ARTZ was equally formal. Pebbles walked around the aircraft, explaining the necessity for checking for external damage which might have been sustained to the prop, flying surfaces, landing gear and tyres
‘Well...’ began Carson.
‘I’ll introduce you around. And don’t worry if you appear to be ignored at first. Their minds are usually on something else--beer, girls, sometimes even flying--and your presence will eventually register. What do you do in real life?’
‘I’m security officer at Hart-Ewing’s.’
‘Is that so? I personally would have expected something more obnoxious, with jutting jaw and suspicious, steely eyes. Anyway, you’ll see lots of Hart-Ewing faces around here--you’ve probably seen Wayne Tillotson already. And if you’re wondering why he belongs to a flying club like this, he’ll tell you that flying fifty tons of computer makes him lose touch with reality and removes his brain an uncomfortable distance from the seat of his pants.
‘Of course,’ Jeff Donnelly went on cheerfully, ‘Tillotson trusts the seat of his pants. I couldn’t trust mine if it was sitting on a stack of Bibles--my instrument flying is atrocious ...’ He broke off, waved and called, ‘Bob, over here!’
Tillotson and Maxwell, who had been about to sit down at another table, turned and came towards them. Carson swore under his breath. Tillotson’s presence had come as an unpleasant surprise and he needed time to decide on an approach which would not make the chief test pilot suspicious.
If only the well-meaning Donnelly would not mention that he had asked about Pebbles...
‘...really be a fatted calf instead of cold ham salad,’ Donnelly was saying. ‘After a six-year pause for reconsideration, Joe has decided to learn to fly one of these newfangled heavier-than-air machines. And he has asked for John Pebbles, too...’
You, thought Carson helplessly, and your big mouth! ‘Really?’ said the instructor, looking mildly surprised. He was the kind of quiet, deliberate and imperturbable person who would react mildly to the crack of doom. He went on, ‘John will be very pleased about that. Not many people do, you know. He’s good and we all like him, but a certain amount of caution is to be expected, wouldn’t you say?’
Carson had the panicky feeling that he had missed something even though he had heard every word the other had said. What was Pebbles here? He was good at his job, but people were wary of him. Was he a combination club mascot and village idiot? Were they sorry for him and tolerated him for laughs? Did he sweep the floor or maybe do odd jobs in the hangar, just for the privilege of being close to aeroplanes and pilots? Did some softhearted flyer sometimes take him up for a flight? Carson did not know but, because he had asked for Pebbles, he was expected to know.
Know what?
When in doubt, he thought desperately, say something so obviously ridiculous that it can only be a joke instead of a display of ignorance. While they were laughing he might gain some idea of what it was he was supposed to have said...
‘Does Pebbles do much solo flying these days?’
Nobody laughed.
Maxwell was mildly serious rather than mildly amused as he said, ‘Mr Carson, we don’t pay our weekend instructors for flying solo.’
Chapter Eight
The sun came out for keeps just a few minutes after six o’clock and Pebbles arrived at six-ten. He was the same shy, awkward man Carson had met a few days earlier, but the difference became apparent as soon as he began to talk. In these surroundings he had a sort of diffident, but very real, authority.
As they walked out to the aircraft he called Carson ‘Mr Carson’ and, with some vague idea that the other’s confidence needed boosting and to show that outside of working hours they were equals, Carson called him Mr Pebbles. As a result the conversation was painfully formal.
Carson’s introduction to G-ARTZ was equally formal. Pebbles walked around the aircraft, explaining the necessity for checking for external damage which might have been sustained to the prop, flying surfaces, landing gear and tyres
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