The Weaver Fish Read Online Free Page B

from some conservatism of manner, some slight formality, I decided at once that he was to be Dr Reckles, not Wal. I knew I was going to be Miss; I almost expected Honey.

    You’re here to talk about the book.
    THE BOOK, AND ITS AUTHOR.
    What would you like to know about the book?
    WELL, THERE’S NOT MUCH RELIABLE PREPUBLICATION MATERIAL AVAILABLE, BUT I GATHER THAT YOU MAKE A CASE, BASED ON YOUR AERONAUTICAL EXPERTISE, THAT AIRLINE PASSENGERS COULD SAVE THEMSELVES IN A MIDAIR CATASTROPHE BY PILOTING AIRCRAFT FRAGMENTS, PARTICULARLY A WING, SAFELY BACK TO EARTH. IS THAT THE ESSENCE OF YOUR BOOK?
    It is. What you need to understand is that every piece of debris is a potential airfoil, some good, some bad. The wing, of course, is a natural. That’s the piece to hang on to.
    WHAT ABOUT THE TEMPERATURE, THE ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE AND SO FORTH AT THOSE ALTITUDES?
    Right. The physiology. There are issues. You need some preparation. I deal with all that in the book. At length, I might say. Look, I’m not claiming it’ll work every time. It depends on a lot of variables, rotational moments at separation, intrinsic damage to the wing, engine power, lots of variables. But we should be designing our airplanes with these contingencies built-in.
    SO THAT A WING CAN FLY ON ITS OWN?
    Sure. That would happen already. Just go through the math in my book. You’ll see that, once separated, the wing takes possession, so to speak, of its own eigenvalues. It flies, solo.
    EIGENVALUES?
    They’re just numbers—solutions to what we call a characteristic equation. Their location in the complex plane determines the stability of an object in flight.
    Planes have them. You have them, I have them.
    I KNOW.
    Reckles looked at me with what was surely respect, either for the depth of my understanding or the magnitude of my lie.

    Anyway, on the wing, the only control you have is moving mass.
    BY SHIFTING YOUR WEIGHT?
    Sure. Jettisoning some freight as well.
    YOU MEAN OTHER PASSENGERS?
    Start with the lightweights, women and children. Build up a feel for the change. It’s subtle. But remember, managing the mass distribution, that’s critical.
    I tried to glare the message: I am a woman. I think it worked, because he invited my interests into the explanation.

    What was your last flight? What plane?
    A 7T7.
    Right. You need Row 13, 14. Window seat, stay belted. First sign of trouble, borrow a necktie from the nearest businessman and strap your ankles to the bar under your seat. Believe it or not, you’re only two locking screws, a titanium rivet plate and three strong welds from the principal wing strut. You can fly home. All the other seats—they’re just sitting pretty on some damn thin fuselage lining. Tinfoil rating.
    From where I was sitting I guessed I could see perhaps two hundred computer screens. Triple, say, that estimate for units obscured from view and I was in the midst of a major enterprise.

    TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR COMPANY.
    Sure. Martin and I set up eight years ago in an internet café in the Albuquerque badlands. We got hounded every day for blocking the terminals. Now I own thousands of screens and the café’s gone under. Funny, isn’t it?
    I agreed it was funny, but I hadn’t encountered the name Martin in my pre-reading.

    MARTIN?
    Martin Reckleson. Co-founder. We were room-mates at
    MIT.
    Reckles, Reckleson. I wasn’t getting less confused.

    RECKLES, RECKLESON. THEY ALMOST SOUND RELATED.
    Yeah. Not kinship of course. Related by common interests. Aerodynamics and sisters. I married his and he married mine. That was a nice symmetry.
    He looked momentarily lost—I’m sure it was sadness—and glanced again at the screen behind.

    We nearly called ourselves Reckles ’N’ Reckleson, but somehow Flight Control got registered.
    There was another pause.

    Martin’s passed on now, of course.
    Passed on, I later discovered, meant being thrust across