Jay Lake - Rocket Science

I nodded. I had a pretty good idea who he was talking about.

“Well, we took their money, and we did some of what they said. That didn’t make us part of their thing, and didn’t mean we agreed with everything they did. That’s kind of how it is with me and the Russkies.”

So he did take Red money, and do their bidding. At least, that’s what I thought Mr. Bellamy meant. I couldn’t imagine what the Russians would want with a spy in Butler County, Kansas. As far as I knew, agricultural information like crop yields was a matter of public record. And back in 1920 when he came home, no one could have know how much Wichita was going to be a part of the modern aircraft industry.

“So you’re going to sell the thing in the barn to the Russians,” I said. “That’s why you haven’t turned it over to Floyd’s German friends.”

“Russians?” Mr. Bellamy chuckled. I seemed to be the funniest guy he’d met in a while. He glanced around, apparently looking to see if Mr. Neville was listening at the door, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Heck, no. They’re no better than the Nazis, worse in a lot of ways. Whole country full of angry, stupid people with nothing better to do than kill each other over what was said or done years earlier. No sir, Germany’s dead and America’s got the atom bomb. It ain’t gonna be long before them Russians are down, too.”

I was utterly baffled. Floyd was a Nazi agent, or at least a Nazi patsy. Mr. Bellamy, his father, was in the control of Communists if not an actual agent. What the heck were they going to do with Pegasus? Turn it over to the Republican Party?

“Don’t look so puzzled, Vernon,” said Mr. Bellamy gently. “It all makes sense.”

Floyd smiled, tentatively. “We worked it out so everyone gets out of this in one piece.” He frowned at me. I swear there was a tear standing in his eye. That boy sure could act. Or was he trying to tell me something? Could he save me from his dad? More to the point, from Mr. Neville?

Frustrated, I said, “What the heck is going on around here?”

Floyd’s smile came back full force, his million-dollar grin. This was the old Floyd, my Floyd, who could talk his way in and out of girl’s skirts without ruffling a feather along the way. “Them Italians are coming. Charles Binaggio from the DiGiovanni family. Kansas City mob. They’ll take delivery of that item in the barn. We’ll set things up so it looks like we got ambushed, Binaggio pays us off under the table, and good old American boys get to keep that Nazi warbird. No Germans, no Russians, and sure as heck no God damned United States Army Air Force are going to lay hands on my airplane.”

The Mafia. Organized crime. Al Capone. The Bellamys and their gang were going to sell my computational rocket to the criminal underworld.

I couldn’t believe it.

“You guys are totally off your nuts,” I said. “You can’t be serious about any of this. You’re trying to play the Germans and the Russians and the US Army CID off against each other. You’re ready to kill me like I was a rat, you’re pissing off the Sheriff and the Police Department, and the whole time you’ve got the scientific find of the century in your barn. How are you going to get away with this? All those guys aren’t going to just walk away out there. They play rougher than you do.”

“Mexico,” said Floyd. “We’re going to take our cash and live in Mexico.”

“Mexico. Do you know how far Mexico is from Kansas?”

“Not far when we’re flying in that Nazi airplane,” said Mr. Bellamy.

As if the entire Bellamy gang could fit inside Pegasus. This bunch of old men was at least as crazy as they were tough.

“I’m supposed to be dead before then,” I said bitterly. “Once I’ve taught Floyd to fly it. Besides, I thought the Italians were taking it.”

“Help us out and we can make it worth your while. Fly us to Mexico, fly the Italians back to Kansas City, and we’ll make it easy on you,” said Mr. Bellamy.

“What an incentive — a clean death in some abandoned warehouse by the Missouri River.”

“It could be worse,” said Mr. Bellamy. “Those eye-ties are a lot more inventive than even Mr. Neville. We could put in a good word for you.”

Maybe I could crash the plane . Mr. Bellamy didn’t know much about flying. I’d guess Floyd didn’t either, even after three years in the Air Corps. He was impervious to detailed knowledge — I knew that from high school. The two of them seemed to think they could strap me into the pilot’s seat, stick a gun in my ear and make me go where they wanted.

Like sticking up a taxi cab.

Mr. Bellamy grabbed his shotgun. Floyd tensed and shifted his weight. I thought about that carving knife. “Son,” said Mr. Bellamy, “take Vernon down to the barn. It’s time to quit jawboning and figure out how to get that bird off the ground. Keep a close eye on him. Do not under any circumstances let him take that airplane out to where he could try to take off.”

“What are you going to do?” Floyd asked, suspicious.

“I’m going to explain to Mr. Neville what our little ruckus was about, so he and the boys don’t get nervous. Then I’m going to clean up your mother, and wait on the porch for Roanoke Joe and Vinnie the Snake to show up. They’re on their way here from Kansas City to inspect the merchandise and set up the transaction.”

I was feeling reckless. I didn’t have much left to lose. “What if the other bad guys show up?”

“I don’t recall as how I was speaking to you, Vernon,” said Mr. Bellamy, “but we’ll take care of that in its own time. You do your job, fast, and everything else will work out.”

Floyd produced the knife from the back of his belt and waved me toward the kitchen through Mrs. Bellamy’s shotgun-blasted door. Walking to the back door and looking out the screen, I could see the moon had risen. In the silvered light, the outhouse seemed to glow, its door standing open.

Who had it been, I wondered? Who was Floyd’s Daddy? It sure as heck wasn’t Mr. Bellamy.

“Get moving, Vern,” Floyd whispered in my ear. He prodded me in the back with the knife. I could feel a sting, long and thin like from a willow whip.

“Damn, that hurts,” I whispered back. “Lay off the knife or you’re not getting anything. You can’t threaten me any further, just tick me off more.”

“Move. Please. They’re watching both of us.”

It was the ‘please’ which decided me. I moved. I remembered what Pegasus had told me about taking off from inside the barn. And I remembered that I had promised Floyd a messy death. I just wasn’t sure if I’d meant that or not.

Floyd held up an oil lantern as we walked into the barn. The door I had knocked over had been roughly patched and leaned back into place to shield Pegasus from casual observation. In shadow-riddled corners, cat eyes gleamed at us, interrupted in their nightly wars against mice, rats and worse things. The lamp’s light was a rich, almost golden, yellow that flickered in the wind from outside even through its wire-wrapped glass chimney.

Seen in that errant golden glow, Pegasus again looked like a great metal eagle spread for flight. It reminded me of a Charles Grafly sculpture I’d seen at Wichita State, finely-wrought wings set wide to leap in the air. The machine didn’t have feathers or a tail, but rather the whole balance of the thing, the energy it projected even as a static piece of metal, gave the overwhelming impression of a straining need to soar. Looking at it made me feel I could fly, spread my arms and ride the thermals like a red-tailed hawk.

I just stood there in Floyd’s ragged flannel bathrobe, my arm still reeking of shit, bandages on my head and blood trickling down my back from the cut of Floyd’s knife. I felt small, weak, ineffectual. Not because I was a prisoner under a death sentence. No, it was this beautiful machine that had come across time’s deeps, across the empty spaces between worlds, to be here. I looked and felt like a drunk after a hard Saturday night, standing in one of the great cathedrals of Europe braying out of tune with the midnight choir.