The crowd in the marquee fell silent as the Aurora sliced quietly across the sky at the northern end of the airfield, shape changing as the undercarriage was lowered and the flaps spread. It aligned itself with the runway and came in, sinking fast, nose held high and landing gear reaching tentatively for the ground in the characteristic manner of all highspeed aircraft in the last moments of flight. The descent continued into the shimmering whiteness of the runway, and Garrod discovered he could not breathe.
“Flare out,” a man whispered close by. “For Christ’s sake, Wayne, flare out!”
The Aurora continued to sink at the same rate, struck the runway and made an awkward slewing leap back into the sky. It seemed to hang in the air for a second, then one wing dipped. The undercarriage on that side crumpled as it met the concrete again, then the aircraft was down, wallowing, sliding, twisting. Multiple reports of explosive bolts rang out above the screeching of metal as the Aurora shed its wings with their deadly load of fuel, allowing the fuselage to slither and skid ahead like a javelin thrown on a frozen lake. Both wings, fluttering their separate ways, bucked into the air and one of them exploded in a fountain of fire and black smoke. The fuselage slid on for a further half-mile, squandering its kinetic energy in showers of glowing metal before coming reluctantly to rest.
There was a moment of silence.
Utter calm.
Far across the airfield sirens were beginning to sound as Garrod lowered himself into his seat. The face of the boy in the red Stiletto wavered in his vision—shocked, accusing.
Garrod pulled his wife down on to the seat beside him. “I did that,” he said in a level, conversational voice. “I destroyed that aircraft.”
Chapter Two
The Leygraf computer Bureau occupied a smallish suite of offices in one of the older business blocks in downtown Portston. Garrod entered the compact reception area, approached the grey-faced efficient-looking woman who presided at the desk and gave her his card.
“I would like to see Mr. Leygraf for a few minutes.”
The receptionist smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry—Mr. Leygraf is in conference, and if you have no appointment…”
Garrod smiled in return, then glanced at his watch. “It is now precisely one minute past four o’clock. Correct?”
“Mmm…yes.”
“Which means that Carl Leygraf is sitting alone in his office sipping his first drink of the day. The drink is a tall, weak Scotch-and-soda with plenty of ice, and I want something in that line myself. Please let him know I’m here.”
The woman hesitated before speaking into an intercom set. A few seconds later Leygraf emerged from the inner office with a dewy glass in his hand. He was a slim, carelessly dressed man, prematurely bald and with concerned grey eyes.
“Come in, Al,” he said. “You’re just in time for a drink.”
“I know.” Garrod went into his office, a silvery room in which complex mathematical models of wire and string took the place of ornaments. “I could use a drink. My car flamed out on me two blocks from here and I had to abandon it and walk. Do you know anything about turbine engines?”
“No, but tell me the symptoms and I might be able to work something out.”
Garrod shook his head. One of the things he liked about Leygraf was the way in which the man was quite prepared to take an interest in any subject under the sun and have a conversation about it. “That’s not what I came to see you about.”
“Oh? Vodka tonic you go for, isn’t it?” “Thanks. Not too strong.”
Leygraf mixed the drink and brought it to the desk where Garrod was sitting. “Are you still worried about those Stiletto cars?”
Garrod nodded but took a long swallow from his glass before speaking. “I’ve got some new data for you.” “Such as?”
“I suppose you heard about the Aurora crash two days ago?”
“Heard about it! I’ve heard nothing else, friend. My wife bought some UAC new issue last year on my advice, and she’s been…” Leygraf paused with his glass at his lips. “What do you mean by new data?” “The Aurora had Thermgard windshields.” “I knew you had that contract, Al, but surely that aircraft’s been flying around for months.”
“Not with my shields in. United were anxious to get ahead with the low-speed part of the flight test programme, so they flew it for a while with conventional transparencies.” Garrod stared into his glass and saw the minute currents of cold liquid shimmering down from the ice cubes. “Tuesday’s flight was the first with my Thermgard installed.”
“Coincidence!” Leygraf snorted emphatically. “What are you trying to do to yourself?”
“You came to me, Carl. Remember?”
“Yeah, I know—but I also told you it was a freak run of the figures. When you’re analysing anything as complex as urban travel demands you’re bound to turn up all kinds of statistical sports…”
“On the way to McPherson Field, Esther and I almost got hit by a Stiletto which was making a left turn.”
“You’re spoiling my best drink of the day,” Leygraf said aggrievedly, pushing his glass away. “Step outside the problem for a minute—how could a new type of windshield glass cause accidents? For God’s sake, Al, how could it possibly happen?”
Garrod shrugged and fixed his mind on one of the mathematical models for a moment, trying to identify the equation it represented. “I grew a new kind of crystal. Tougher than any known glass. It shouldn’t even be transparent, because it reflects energy at practically every wavelength in the spectrum. Only the visible wavelengths get through. No heat. So I patented myself the best windshield material in the world.” Garrod spoke abstractedly, his soul sliding on the curves and generators of the model.
“But supposing some other kind of radiation gets through, perhaps even gets amplified or focussed? Something we don’t know about.”
“Something that turns good drivers and pilots into bad ones?” Leygraf, apparently forgetting he had renounced his drink, seized the glass and drained it. “Do they also sprout hairs all over their faces and grow teeth like this?” He pushed his knuckles into his mouth and wriggled downward-projecting fingers.
Garrod laughed gratefully. “Don’t remind me how crazy it sounds. All I’m trying to do is think in other categories. I seem to have read something about a road in France which was an accident blackspot, and nobody knew why because it was one of those straight and wide affairs lined with poplars. Turned out the poplars were spaced in such a way that if you drove along that road at the speed limit the sunlight coming through the trees flickered at ten cycles a second.”
“What’s that supposed to…?” Leygraf looked blank. “Oh, I get it—the brain’s alpha rhythm. Hypnosis.”
“Yeah. And there’s epilepsy. Did you know that it isn’t safe for an epileptic to try adjusting a television set which has slow rolling flickers?”
Leygraf shook his head. “Different types of phenomena, Al.”
“Maybe it isn’t. What if Thermgard oscillates? Produces a pulse effect?”
“It wouldn’t explain the significance of the turns. My company’s survey showed that practically all the Stiletto accidents occurred during left-hand turns. If you ask. me the steering geometry on that automobile is suspect.”