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having fallen from favour in the last century, was becoming
more widely used. Many of the latest Formula One racing
cars made extensive use of magnesium alloy for structural components, and a
Frenchmen held the world speed cycle
record on a bicycle made almost entirely of the weird stuff.
He picked up one of the billets and hefted it. It sure was
light. He turned his attention to the drawings that Lesseps
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had given him in London and took a close look at the large
screw threads for the fuel intakes and outlets. A big, six-inch
lathe would do the job - they could be picked up cheap
enough these days - but it would never fit into his workshop.
And what the hell would a model-maker want with a
six-inch lathe? Questions were sure to be asked.
Joe was forced to accept that on this occasion he had run
up against an ego-bruising problem that was not going to be
solved by his iron will or driving energy or bluster. For the
first time in his life he was beaten before he had even started.
He glanced at the time and suddenly felt his age. It was
Saturday. His birthday. Seventy-six.
Seventy-six!
How many years did he have left? He was in good health
apart from his damned knee. Ten years? Maybe fifteen if he
was lucky and kept bucking the statistics. Even fifteen years
was not long to the great accounting if there was such a
thing. Joe had always scorned all religions. An atheist
through and through, but of late he had often wondered if
he was wrong. Shit. If he was, how was he going to account
for the biggest atrocity in aviation history since Lockerbie?
Please forgive me, ladies and gentlemen . . . This is
terrible . . . All those people . . . Oh my God! My God!
It was the first time he had had doubts about the terrible
road he had chosen. Hitherto his all-consuming ego, his
obsession with his country's aviation industry and above all,
his fixation that France had robbed the United States, had
overshadowed everything.
He looked at the time. Christ! No wonder his spirits were
slopping about in the bottom of the corn barrel. In six hours
his family would be descending on him for the birthday
cook-out. It had become a tradition that he always looked
forward to but right now could do without.
He snatched four hours' fitful sleep, fully expecting his
misgivings to have been banished when he woke, and found
that they were looming even larger as he shaved and showered.
By the time he had dragged himself down to the local
mall to load up with marinated sirloins, charcoal and Bud
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six-packs, he had decided to call the whole thing off. Lesseps
wouldn't be sorry. Ought he give him a few grand? Naw why
the hell should he? The oily little shit had had enough
and was holding down a better job than he deserved.
Joe loaded the car's trunk from the supermarket shopping
truck and slammed it shut. He was about to open the
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driver's door when he caught sight of a tall, stooped figure
wearing a supermarket coat that was too short for him. The
guy was straining to push a train of interlocked trucks
towards the supermarket and the whole caboodle was veering
off-course. He stared in astonishment.
Johnny Coreba! It could only be him. The best airplane
main-gear designer in the business. What in hell was he
doing shunting shopping trucks?
'Hey-Johnny!'
The man was in his late fifties. He stopped struggling and
looked up, puzzled at first. His lugrubious, grey expression
broke into an embarrassed half-smile when he recognised
Joe hurrying towards him. 'Hi, Joe. Howya doing?'
The two men smacked palms.
'Never mind how I'm doing,' said Joe as they embraced.
'What the fuck are you doing? Most folk are happy stealing
just one truck.'
Johnny managed a hollow laugh. 'Keeps me out of the
house, Joe. Gives Martha a hubby-free zone for waging war
on dust.' It was said without rancour. Thirty years of marriage
was long enough to adjust to a woman who cleaned the tops of
doors every day and mowed the lawn with a Philishave.
'So this is a Saturday job?' Joe inquired. 'Depriving
college kids of work?'
'Full time, Joe.'
Joe stared. 'Since when?'
'Since Monday.'
'You quit the plant?'
'They let me go.'
The news astonished Joe. 'But you're on the 1,000series
design-build team! Who's gonna design that bird's main
gear if you're not there, for Chrissake!'
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Johnny shook his head. 'I don't think they're going ahead
with the theatre body after all.'
It was confirmation of a rumour that Joe and his staff had
been trying to pin down all week without success. If the
plant was prepared to let ace designers like Johnny Coreba
go - top personnel from the design-build core that the company
had gone on record as saying they would hold on to then
it looked certain that the axe would be falling on the
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Dobre pomysły nie mają przeszłości, mają tylko przyszłość. Robert Mallet
De minimis - o najmniejszych rzeczach.
Dobroć jest ważniejsza niż mądrość, a uznanie tej prawdy to pierwszy krok do mądrości. Theodore Isaac Rubin
Dobro to tylko to, co szlachetne, zło to tylko to, co haniebne.
Dla człowieka nie tylko świat otaczający jest zagadką; jest on nią sam dla siebie. I z obu tajemnic bardziej dręczącą wydaje się ta druga. Antoni Kępiński (1918-1972)
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