Vanguard
by
Nicholas Waller
---------------------------------------------
His wife stands in the doorway, red-eyed. Her brother is
there behind her, protective in the shadows.
Henry Claiborne turns away and stares at the muted TV, wishing
they would just leave so he can make a start on the Project.
"I just don't understand any more, Henry," she
says. "You've got to get a grip!"
Henry smiles. She doesn't know about his project.
"Come on. Let's go," says his wife's brother,
as he lifts her last case.
"Goodbye Henry," says his
wife.
The front door squeaks and slams shut. Peace and quiet
at last. Closing his eyes, Henry sits back in his reclining chair and savours
the sense of relief that wells up and suffuses his whole body.
He will get a grip. He'll show them.
He flicks on the TV sound with the remote and the Red
Arrows split in a shriek and he pushes the volume up high. With the stereo
remote he turns the volume on that up as well, then surfs the cable channels
with one hand and flicks from radio to CD to tape and back again with the
other, relishing the random cacophony that fills the house.
The Project. What to do first?
Start collecting some of the smaller units, laying them
out so he can begin the ergonomic analysis, or just make a list of the tools he
will need for the later stages? Or both?
He feels a tingle of excitement.
The first visit to the aircraft museum focused something
in Henry that he had been only dimly aware of for some years: disappointment at
how mundane his life had turned out to be, and uncertainty as to how to turn it
round.
He'd gone under mild protest, but surprised himself by
finding the variety of old aircraft strangely intriguing; the pointy supersonic
Concorde, for instance, and the skulking, vulture-like B-52 with its eight jet
engines and tiny wing-tip wheels. And as well as older historical objects such
as the war-time Lancaster bomber that he recognised without even reading the
information panels, the museum had a range of long-forgotten oddities that
pricked Henry's imagination in ways he had not expected: the little propeller
biplane Dragon Rapide airliner redolent of takeoffs at sunrise in the Empire
between the wars, and the swept-wing Victor V-bomber of the atomic Dan Dare
fifties seeming to point the way to the same lost future that Henry felt he had
mislaid. Now mostly metal and rivets and rubber locked to the ground like weird
sculptures, it was hard to believe these museum pieces were flying thirty or
sixty years ago.
Most wonderful of all was the swooping, aerobatic
Supermarine Spitfire which really could still fly, its propeller a halo of spun
gold as it carved turns against the sunset with its trademark curved wings, the
noise of its throaty Merlin engine clearly conjuring up for several of the
audience a bittersweet memory of the summer of 1940. The announcer declared
that the Spitfire was one of the most beautiful aeroplanes ever designed, and
Henry had to agree; she looked like a whippy, one-man thoroughbred, the
ultimate man-machine symbiosis.
Was this the vocation he had missed? To be able to fly
like that you must surely have to live in the moment, focusing animal awareness
on the task of feeling out the air currents like an eagle, reading the sky
uncluttered by the junk of daily earthbound stress.
Get a grip, she says. OK, I'm doing it. I'm starting
now.
He turns his recliner to face the patio doors and the
view out to the rolling fields and the puffy clouds marching westwards across
the sky. He pushes the sofa and the other armchairs out into sitting room,
along with the coffee table and everything else irrelevant, leaving a big
enough space in which to work.
He goes round the house, collecting up any easily
portable appropriate objects. The radio, and the alarm radio for that matter.
The computer, monitor and keyboard. And the printer. The video camera, and the
still camera; and the video sound mixer he'd bought cheap and never used. Let's
get it out and use it! The microwave. The iron, of course. Any calculators in
the house. Both phones. His watch, and any other clocks and timers.
He brings them all into the sitting room and starts
laying them down around the sitting room wall, next to the TV and stereo.
In
the weeks after visiting the aircraft museum, Henry found himself looking up at
every plane that flew overhead, whether a light Cessna pottering around Luton
or some FedEx trijet letting down into Stansted. Initially frustrated at being
unable to identify the types he saw, he bought several books and in them found
Amy Johnson, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Brian Trubshaw, Chuck Yeager, Yuri
Gagarin. He started watching flight documentaries on the Discovery Channel,
marvelling at the jagged boomerang of the B-2 Stealth bomber, the fragility of
the original Wright biplane and the barmy wonder of the nine-wing Capronisimo
luxury flying houseboat from 1921 that encapsulated the aspirations of an age
while simultaneously contriving to be one of the world's worst-ever aircraft.
He bought plastic models and spent hours exploring their
structure in miniature, hoping to find the key to their essence in some
commonality of design. And he found that his waking hours were increasingly
preoccupied with powerful images of flying, the ground barely distinguishable
below as he banked across the cloudscapes and pitched up to arc across the sun.
A half-seen silvery glint in the air was enough to send him into a reverie
of freedom, projecting his mind and soul into the sliding currents of the
atmosphere, the wind fierce in his hair and the tears running from his
squinting eyes, riding the turbulence in his open-cockpit Tiger Moth like
Saint-Exupery finding suddenly he had slipped beyond the confines of this
world.
His subconscious was clearly trying to tell him
something. In
London to investigate flight displays in the Science Museum, he came across the
Apollo 10 command module and wondered if this was the key. As he peered into
the cramped interior, he found it hard to believe that the little cone had
actually caried three men around the far side of the Moon. Maybe it was the
seed of something new.
Henry contemplated staying in the museum after hours and
clambering into the capsule to spend a night with the wax dummies of Stafford,
Cernan and Young. Would he wake from sleep to find himself weightlessly
circling the Moon with them, watching through one of those tiny windows as the
lunar landscape rolled past below and the Earth rose lonely and distant into
the eternal blackness of space?
There's other stuff, too, less portable. The dishwasher.
The cooker.. now, that's a challenge. The washing machine. Oh! The bathroom
scales! Mustn't forget them. And then there's the light switches in every room,
not to mention all the plug sockets, and the water system: taps, the mains, the
gas boiler, the radiator thermostats. Gas and electric meters. Cable TV box.
Fridge thermometer. Car dashboard. Rip it out!
On one day that had started not much differently from
many others, Henry sat in his grey office in Hemel staring out of the window at
a high jumbo's pure contrail drifting westwards, far above the dull rooftops of
the industrial park. Amazing that some jumbos were in the air more than the
were on the ground. "I wonder if the passengers realise what they're
doing." He closed one eye. "Building the foundations of the
future..."
There was a knock as the door opened and Stefan Pierson
came in, carrying a printout. "Henry?" he said, calm but wary,
noticing Henry's phone off the hook, "what's going on?" He put the
printout on the desk. "Lizzie Bryson said you'd have BP3 revised. It's
been a month, but what do I see? no change, and I have to get the figures to
the States this afternoon!"
Henry glanced at the spreadsheets. A grid of numbers,
purporting to predict sales in all territories for the next fifteen months. But
how could anyone really tell? It was meaningless, an attempt to claim the
future by imposing spurious form on it.
"Stefan," said Henry,
scrawling a signature across the numbers anyway, "don't you just dream of
flying away sometimes?"
Stefan pursed his lips, thoughtful. "Umm... Lizzie
also said you were talking about flying a lot. Daydreams."
Henry looked up at Stefan, eyebrows raised."It's
more than that; it's a gateway to something I can't see yet."
"We're..." Stefan hesitated. "Henry, do
you think you need some kind of break?"
"What?"
"This is a cry for escape?"
Henry laughed. "Maybe! But it's a bit obvious. I
think I'm on the verge of something new." He waved his arm vaguely,
indicating the office cubicles and the business park generally. "Suppose
this is a reaction to the scheduled, mass-produced way we live and work and
shop now?"
"What's wrong with it? We've all got targets. We
get incentivised to exceed them. We get to go home at nights."
"But what about the long term view? I think I'm
somehow tapping into a future where humanity lives off-world, flying
continuously weightless in a three-dimensional environment, as our ancestors
lived in the oceans. This two-dimensional land existence must be just a blip on
our upward path..."
Stefan closed his eyes. "You've not been taking any
hallucinogens have you?"
"What?"
"For fuck's sake, Henry, you're a regional sales
manager in a publishing company! What the hell are you talking about?"
Henry could feel himself blushing. "Something more
of us should be doing - mapping the future. And a damn sight more usefully than
your 5-year corporate strategies."
"Henry. You're letting me down."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Stefan
looked at Henry's untidy desk, and his e-mail flag blinking, and the unrevised
BP3 spreadsheets. He sighed. "You need to make things happen, Henry. Now.
It's about being proactive, taking control. Not escaping over the
horizon."
"I'm a middle manager in a bureaucratic
corporation." Henry pointed angrily at the spreadsheet. "What kind of
control is that? Now, these pilots I've been researching, John Glenn and the
others, they're taking the human race to a higher level; the kind of people
H.G.Wells says have the right stuff to rule the world!"
Stefan laughed. "Because they fly untrammelled, and
look down on us who noodle along in offices pushing paper around?"
Henry nodded warily. "There's something spiritual
about flight that's the key to our next stage-"
"Slipping the surly bonds of earth, to touch the
face of God?"
"Yes! - exactly!"
"Well, go hang-gliding then!"
"You're not taking me seriously..."
"OK. On your terms. Your pilots: think, man! It's
not the 20s and 30s! They're part of a closely regulated industrial complex.
You've been on airline flights - it's a competitive service business delivering
a value-added transportation product! And dull men in suits like you are in
charge of it, making budget projections-"
Henry stood up. "You're wrong!"
"No! Pilots are white collar workers! Middle
management administrators of an integrated technical system!"
Henry picked up his jacket and walked out of his office
as Stefan stood up and shouted after him: "Even the military! It's not
scarf-and-goggles types punching a Hurricane into the wide blue yonder any
more!"
All this will take a lot of wiring. And more plugs and
power points. More things for the list. Wood: two by four, and one by one, and
plywood. Some glass. Some new tools, too. Nothing but the best! A jigsaw, screws, hammer, drill. And
copper tubing. And bricks and mortar. Welding equipment. Soldering equipment.
Sketch a design, and then I'll know better what I need. This is fun!
At the Three Horseshoes Henry sat out by the canal,
nursing pint after pint and thinking that there was something in what Stefan
said. The pub itself was at a transport nexus where several strata of the
industrial archaeology of motion could be seen from where he sat. Here was the
old Grand Union canal, barges drifting among the ducklings at four miles an
hour, while a couple of hundred yards behind the occasional train thundered
past on the mainline rail from London to Birmingham and beyond, whipping up a
corridor of wind. And above, at the pinnacle of the transport network, silently
massive Boeings and Airbuses wheeled in stacked circles like enormous gulls,
waiting for clearance to descend into Heathrow after flights from Munich and
Kuala Lumpur and Seattle and Baku.
All this was going on every day, all the time,
routinely, repetitively, organised, controlled, automated. As Stefan had
indicated, modern pilots were not adventurers fighting the night flight mail
through cracked-tooth Andean passes in thunderstorms, they were cogs in a vast
transport machine that practically ran itself, travelling routes they were
allotted far above the weather, obeying air traffic control and constrained by
accountants who pored over load factor reports. Flying? No, just a dehumanised
business operation shuffling units around like any other. Plug in the guidance
data and the jumbo could get to Bangkok by itself, its so-called pilot
second-guessed by fly-by-wire systems and global positioning satellites.
Maybe events had taken a wrong turn and the era of the
Tiger Moth was dead, but Henry suspected it was not yet time for humanity to
give up everything to automation.
He's got a new security system, with CCTV and intercom
on the front gate and lots of nice shiny switches to operate it. And
instrumentation for the greenhouse windows. It's getting there. He has plans,
not just a plan for plans. He has the tubes and the cables and the hammers and
nails. He knows where things will go and how he is building it. He's
maintaining visibility, he knows he can reach everything. It's all tickety-boo,
it floats his boat.
Henry felt it unnecessary to go back into the office. He
reduced extraneous personal clutter and ramped up his programme of research, to
get himself into a position where he could see clearly how to take the next
step forward.
The journey took him back to the aircraft museum, still
uncertain what he was looking for but sure he would find it eventually, buried
somewhere in the design assumptions of the grounded aircraft dispersed around
the airfield as if waiting for the call to scramble one last time.
Wandering past the chubby Sunderland flying boat and the
shell of the cancelled TSR-2, Henry found himself inexorably drawn to the
elegant Vickers VC10, the high-T tailplane, rear-engined British airliner from
the optimistic sixties. Undersold by comparison with the blocky 707 and DC-8,
it had long since been superseded; evolutionary design convergence had resulted
in the indistinguishably dull high-bypass twin-jets that proliferated like rats
in the modern air system. A commercial failure, the VC10 looked to Henry like a
real aeroplane: the Spitfire of the airliner world.
That gave him an idea.
At the VC10 cockpit doorway he smiled. Through that
aging, faintly scratched windshield the crew would once have looked down on the
Alps, the Atlantic, the plains of Africa and the deserts of the Middle East.
This was it, the old-fashioned complexity of a utilitarian, pre-computer flight
deck, complete with a vast array of eight hundred or nine hundred controls and
dials and buttons and knobs and switches and rockers and levers, all marked
with cryptic, functional lettering.
The control columns were well-used, polished by twenty or thirty
thousand landings and takeoffs. Henry took his time to let his gaze wander over
the dusty instruments, dark now, that had once been the apex of flight
technology: the needled dials that showed the engine states, the electrical
buses and circuit breakers, the trim wheel, the R/T panel, the de-icers, the
engine fire extinguishers, the PA phone, rudder pedals, the weather radar, flap
controls, and the shiny-topped throttle levers that had been thrust forward and
back and forward and back in Cairo and Johannesburg and New York and London and
Bombay and Sydney and Singapore.
This was all concrete, protuberant, mechanical, tactile
engineering with switches that clicked, a solid gun-metal grey environment that
a real person could interact with and understand, not some ghastly modern
virtual cockpit of beige carpeting, fly-by-wire hand controllers, autoland and
VDU screens providing a flickering, flaky cyberglimpse of the plane's
conception of the real world.
This really was it. The VC10 was at the turning point,
its heyday at a time when men were going to the Moon and looking forward to the
stars, but built when people who'd trained in open cockpits still had to use
physical force to push those controls around. It was the link between
low-flying, cold and unreliable prop planes of the early days and modern
mass-produced airliners that everyone pretended was not a travelling aeroplane
at all but some sort of waiting room, a restaurant, a cinema, a place to rest
after going shopping in the glittering retail departure mall.
He was keen to start exploring his own prototype, to put
himself on the first steps to building the skills necessary to navigate the
turbulent currents of futurity.
Get a grip, get a grip! Put your hands on the levers of
power. Step by step and line by line, suck that puppy and make it shine! Brick
by brick, set goals for success and achieve, make things happen, build the
future, hit your targets! Turn that tap, punch that key. Take charge! Be
aggressive, look forward, and set the controls for the heart of the sun!
Henry Claiborne's wife is increasingly worried that
no-one has seen or heard of Henry for several days and decides one bright
morning to go back to the house. She can hear music blasting out loud over the
radio even as she parks in the driveway.
As she pushes open the sitting-room door she is
surprised to find the room transformed. A complete mess of plywood offcuts and
piles of cement and tools and wires surrounds a wood-and-brick building not
much smaller than the sitting-room itself, hulking like a misshapen spider
amongst a web of what seems like hundreds of stretched power cables and copper
pipes shining in the sunlight.
Her first inclination is to ring her brother, but she
can't see the phone. She reaches for a light switch, but finds that it has been
removed, wire running from it to join others heading into the back of the shed.
Looking round more carefully, she realises that every light switch she can see
has been adapted, and every central heating radiator has been replumbed, the
valve and thermostat controls removed and new copper pipe welded and snaking
into small entry ports built into the new brickwork.
Warily stepping through the web, she moves closer. There
is a wooden hatchway on the left hand side of the structure, so she gingerly
pulls it open.
And there on his recliner lies Henry, surrounded by
empty Chinese cartons and every last conceivable control, monitor, switch,
button, keyboard, dial, valve and tap you can find in the domestic or work
environment, re-engineered to be easily accessible from his command chair. The
electricity meter is whirring round patiently, the tape deck and CD and
tuner/amp lights blinking as the music plays, the TV is on but showing only
static, the computer monitor displays a screensaver of gulping fish. The two
telephones are easily to hand; all the sink and basin and bath taps are plumbed
into one overhead panel; there's the speedometer and odometer from the car;
radiator thermostats are clustered on the right, next to the house light
switches and the security camera apparatus; remote TV controls fixed into handy
units on either side of the main seat; the gas meter, all the electric plug
sockets, the barometer, greenhouse thermometer and car altimeter and the
fusebox and bathroom scales and all the door handles in the house; and the
cooker and microwave and kitchen implement controls, ripped from their proper
locations, are fixed into a panel across the front of the cockpit, just under
the glued-in car windshield.
And Henry. He's smiling, clutching the car steering
wheel, staring out through the windshield, out through the patio doors to the
scudding clouds and beyond, into the light of the morning sun.
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© Nicholas Waller 1999