However, could hardly count on incidental effects to protect against bone-resetting agony. So proceeded with anesthesia induction: Reminded Adam how sleeping in wrong position sometimes puts arm “to sleep”: complete sensation lack, plus motor paralysis. Explained acupressure point just under armpit responsible. Placed finger on supposed location; told him 30 seconds’ firm pressure there would put arm to sleep for minimum of two hours; repeatable as necessary.
Pressed firmly and — no wonder primitive societies regarded hypnotism as magic — whole body sagged as relief from pain canceled subconscious adrenaline alert.
More importantly, spasming muscles in damaged arm went limp; perhaps could perform resetting without triggering own hysterical strength. Only one way to find out.
Replaced knee in Adam’s armpit. Took elbow in right hand, left hand over break; again clamped forearm under own armpit. Then pulled firmly but with control. Stretched limb until felt broken ends grind clear of each other, opposing bulges disappear beneath left hand. Eased tension, allowed ends to settle into what hoped was apposition.
Studied result. Reduction apparently successfuclass="underline" arm grossly straight, same length as right. But palpation ineffective in final determination, and no knowledge of x-ray. Hoped okay. Best I could do.
Slipped plastic splint halves into place. Strapped upper arm to side; bent elbow 90 degrees, strapped forearm across abdomen.
Gave wake-up code. Adam sighed, stirred — then froze, body tense, apparently awaiting pain’s resumption. When failed to materialize, opened eyes cautiously, looked around. “Done?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Fixed?”
“I think so. It’s straight and they’re both the same length. Ask me again in six weeks.”
Adam regarded me searchingly. “Are you all right? After what happened the last time you used hysterical strength…” Assured him metabolic supercharge unnecessary; had not suffered.
Unstrapped him from table; let sit on edge for while, waiting for residual dizziness, nausea to pass.
Presently shuddered. “That was not fun. It doesn’t hurt now, but it sure did before.” Eyed left hand where protruded from strapping. “This is like waking up after sleeping wrong. But it’s scary — I assume my hand will work again once it’s worn off?”
“As soon as you want it to wear off. You can keep it numb for as long as it bothers you by renewing the acupressure block. But you’ll be playing piano again as soon as the splint comes off.”
Adam nodded; then looked up abruptly. “We’ve got to find that kid. He was clean — that means he’s not alone: A kid that size doesn’t bathe except under duress.”
Good point. (Does have unique talent for isolating essential details.)
“I suppose we can drive up and down the streets, blowing the horn and yelling until we find them.”
Adam shook head. “A kid on a bike covers more territory than a tomcat — it would take forever.
“If it weren’t for this” — he indicated splinted arm — “I’d fly a search pattern. That would bring them out — I doubt if planes are a routine sight these days.”
Felt heart miss beat, but tried not to let elation show. Asked nonchalantly, “Does it take long to learn to fly?”
Adam regarded me thoughtfully. “No; flying is almost instinctive — though the ‘almost’ is important; the differences can kill you. But with your brains, reflexes, and coordination, you shouldn’t have a bit of trouble.”
Thought briefly. “We should find someplace wide and flat. Most parking lots are roomy enough for ultralight operation, but an airport would be better for instruction.”
Checked couple gas stations, found Riverside city street map; then drove to airport.
With one-armed coach’s advice, assistance, unfastened bundle from trailer roof, assembled toy plane in about an hour. Adam explained, demonstrated controls, radio helmet (didn’t bother to point out base-station transceiver amongst goodies on trailer’s electronics wall when he flew; just let me worry!), verified operation. Strapped me in, started engine. Then coached by radio, step-by-step:
Slow taxiing first, gradually increasing speed to learn steering transition from differential braking to rudder; then high-speed taxiing to get feel of all controls biting airstream. Followed by more high-speed taxiing, lifting, lowering, alternate wings to acquire feel of aileron/rudder interaction. Then still more high-speed taxiing, raising, lowering nosewheel to learn elevators.
Big Moment finally arrived: Allowed me to increase power fraction beyond setting used for high-speed taxiing. Main gear lifted from runway — was flying…!
Not high, of course; Adam kept me skimming up, down runways, yard above ground, for hours: lift-off, touchdown; shallow right, left turns — endless repetition. Never exceeded 30 knots. Slow-flight practice continued until could detect imminent stall power on or off; whether normal or gee-induced, accelerated variety (cute phenomenon, that: stalling speed mounts as gee forces increase aircraft’s effective weight); ease in, out of stalled condition without height, control loss.
(Fascinating, wrong assumptions otherwise well-educated person can harbor: From exposure to cars, had assumed knew what controls do. Not so. For instance: Fore-and-aft stick movement governs pitch, thereby airspeed — period. Had heretofore assumed increased, decreased altitude. Throttle setting does that. Likewise, did not realize ailerons initiate bank, then back pressure on stick causes actual turn. Rudder’s sole function is to prevent yaw (skidding) caused by aileron drag — or induce deliberate yaw in sideslip when attempting to descend steeply without building up airspeed for short-field landing.)
Adam finally satisfied: For past hour had executed all maneuvers to perfection, plus performed “unusual attitude recoveries” (with more altitude under wheels) without incident. Gave me news by radio as concentrated on flying circles about point. (Tricky: To keep radius constant, necessary to increase bank angle when downwind, ease off upwind — adjusting constantly all the way around.)
Landed grinning ear to ear (Mr. Toad correct: “Glorious, stirring… poetry of motion… only real way to travel!”)
We spent night at airport. Next morning I topped up fuel; Adam inspected ship minutely. Finally I launched to fly search pattern.
Adam navigated from ground: I reported landmarks below; he plotted position on city map, gave headings to fly. (Alternative was wrestling with three-foot-square sheet of paper in open-bodied aircraft — ’tis to laugh.)
Flew at perhaps 300 feet; low enough to spot signs of current habitation: smoking chimney, laundry hung out, crop cultivation in midst of residential area, etc.
And flying is, as knew would be, marvelous (“Here today — in next week tomorrow… O bliss!”): In absence of Man, California skies now clear, crisp; visibility unobstructed, breathtaking (“Always somebody else’s horizon! O my! O my!”). Yielded to impulse; essayed snap roll.
“ ‘O stop being an ass,’ ” Adam snarled, patience exhausted. “I read it, too. Pay attention now; if you kill yourself I’ll never speak to you again.” Promised to behave. Leveled off, headed for initial search area, where had almost run over child.