Impossible Dreamers

Chapter 11 (gell): A new direction

It wasn't a good idea to think too hard about that question. The answer would come eventually, he supposed, and it wouldn't be a good one. Right now he should just concentrate on getting this machine flying through the smoke.

He picked up another piece of paper; it was a map. It showed the layout of streets and buildings in Tyropolis. The perfectly straight lines of the roads, radiating out from the circular palace tower. Beyond the city, the growing-lands with their fields and animals. Beyond those, to the east, the great Grabble Mountains. And beyond those – nothing. The paper here was just blank. This was where his flying machine would have to arrive. The blank unknown.

Why couldn't they just appreciate his achievements, instead of setting him this pointless task? He had come up with the design for flying machines; wasn't that enough? He knew that he could never have the public credit for his invention: that would always go to Tyro, the great creator. How hard it had been, while everybody celebrated Tyro's wonderful invention of the flying machine, for Pritch to keep quiet. He had wanted to say: 'no, it was all my idea, all my hours and hours of work, along with the ideas of a team of clever people who worked with me.' He knew saying such a thing was impossible. But surely he was due some private recognition. Until his first machine was shown to the world, unveiled as Tyro's great new creation, 'being able to fly' was just an idea from the old stories, like the idea of personal speaking devices, or cars that moved across the world at the speed of the wind, on iron tracks, or even the idea of great two-legged green monsters. Some people believed in such things, but people like Pritch knew that they could never have really existed. People had never been as clever as they were now, and the whole world had been well and fully explored by Tyro and his soldiers. The great green monsters of the legends would have been found, if they had ever existed.

It was no good feeling sorry for himself. He had to get on with the task. He held up his little model of a flying machine engine. An image came into his head – little Arint holding up that model with all its machinery whirring away. It had happened weeks ago, but the thought of it brought him out in a sweat again. Once again he felt the panic as he realised that she had got hold of the machine. He had only left the room for a moment. And she had seen the bright, shiny thing, like nothing she had ever seen before, and it looked as though she was just about to throw it across the room. She was right to think that it was something that travelled through the air, but not while the engine was turned off. That might have destroyed months of work for Pritch. It was Arint's big brother, Greel, who had seen what was happening, and gently removed the model flying machine from Arint's hand, just in time. Pritch really shouldn't let the children play in here. Children were not supposed to play, anyway. Children had their proper work to do, and anything outside of that programme of work would distract them, and might make them disobedient. But was there really anything wrong with playing? It was how Pritch had learnt about the way things work. Play. Maybe he should start playing now.

He started up the flying machine engine. It was a beautiful machine, and he was so proud of it. The whirring noise was a bit loud for this time of night. Somebody might wake up and send in a complaint. But he couldn't afford to worry about that. He adjusted the controls on the machine so that when he let go it would fly in circles around the room. And off it went. It was beautiful. Nobody else in all of Great Bartyronis could see this. It was so graceful.

After three circles around the room, the machine landed on the desk in front of Pritch. What other patterns could it fly in? A zigzag? Pritch adjusted the controls again, and sent the machine into the air. He saw it travel from side to side, and up and down, exactly as he had planned, just missing the light on the stand behind him, and swerving away just before it looked like it would hit the wall.

But then as it swerved again, its wing touched the edge of Tyro's portrait. Pritch dashed over to catch it as it fell, but then hit his head on the wall. The portrait was safely in his hand, but a bump was swelling up on his forehead. He groaned and rubbed his head. He had to carry on working, even if his head hurt.

A crude model of the nearest Grabble mountain stood on the table near Tyro's portrait. Attached to it was a pump. He loaded the pump with powder, and soon a plume of grey, smoky ash issued from the mountain and filled the air in front of him. The plume widened out, to become a grey wall of smoke. Pritch coughed and looked again at the whirring engine in his left hand. His head was still throbbing. He moved the flying machine towards the smoke, trying to find the part where the powder was not so dense. The engine continued to whirr, and Pritch carried it slowly through the wall of smoke. The whirring continued, filling Pritch with hope. But then, just as the engine emerged on the other side of the wall, the whirring stopped. The engine had cut out.

It was no use trying to repeat the experiment. He knew from experience that he would have to take the engine apart and clean out the insides before it could start again. Time was running out. Perhaps if the flying machine could go faster, so that less dust could get in ... but there were limits to the speed you could get out of this contraption, and anyway, the increased speed might actually make the effect worse. Perhaps if the flying machine could move sideways ... but Pritch knew that moving sideways would just make it fall out of the sky. There must be another way.

Pritch coughed again. The powder was getting in his throat, and he needed to clear it. He reached for his beaker of water, but the smoky dust was in his eyes. Instead of picking up the beaker, he knocked it with the side of his hand, and water spilled into the container holding the powder. The smoky plume vanished immediately.

As Pritch's vision cleared, he suddenly knew what he needed to do.