Taking Off by Eric Kraft

mechanical drawings of a single-seat airplane—then the product and any attendant supplies or materials were subject to confiscation and, theoretically at least, destruction). I was studying the drawings of the aerocycle and sketching its structural skeleton. I had known that this sketching would be necessary, since the article did not include a plan for the skeleton, and I had expected it to be tedious and annoying, but it was turning out to be fascinating and puzzling. From the pictures in the article, I was trying to make working plans, translating the pictures, neither of which showed the craft with its skin off, into the type of three-view drawing we had been taught to make in shop class, where our drawings were limited to much simpler projects, such as, in my case, a wrought-iron armature to hold a plaque that read LEROY , which when it was finished I nailed with pride to one of the pillars that supported the roof over the front porch of the family home, and a wooden box that held and hid the cardboard box that Sneezles tissues were packed in, still allowing them to pop up one at a time when the projecting tissue was tugged, which my mother had installed in the bathroom, on the back of the toilet, on top of the tank.
    â€œAre these the plans for the aerocycle?” Raskol asked.
    At the time, I assumed that he must have mistaken my handmade, pencil-drawn plans for a commercial product, an assumption that, I realize now, may have been wrong.
    â€œYes,” I said, “but not the plans that Impractical Craftsman sells. I haven’t ordered those. They’re too expensive. I’m trying to make my own plans based on the pictures in the article.”
    He bent over the plans and studied them closely. “Is this why you’re going to learn how to weld?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, though my learning to weld was becoming less and less likely.
    â€œAre you nuts?”
    â€œWhy do you ask that?”
    â€œIf you make this thing out of welded steel, it’s not going to get off the ground. Never. Not a chance. It’s going to be much too heavy.”
    â€œYou’re sure?” I asked hopefully.
    â€œSure. You’ve got to make this out of aluminum.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œIt’s light but strong.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œBut you can’t weld aluminum.”
    â€œOh?” I asked, brightening.
    â€œWell, I guess, theoretically, somebody could weld aluminum, but it would be a real bitch, what with aluminum’s high thermal conductivity and low melting point. I wouldn’t bother trying if I were you.”
    â€œWhat should I—”
    â€œYou’ve got to rivet it together.”
    â€œOh.” I was going to have to learn riveting. Did I sigh? Probably. Did I frown? Almost certainly. Riveting sounded as arcane, difficult, and expensive as welding. I think I recall that I began to consider flying to New Mexico on a commercial airliner, as Matthew would be doing. His expenses would be paid by the Preparedness Foundation, and he would enjoy tasty meals served by smiling stewardesses, whose attentions were, among my friends, none of whom had ever flown, legendary.
    â€œOr—” said Raskol, with the impish grin of a person bearing good news, “you can just drill the parts and bolt them together.”
    Perfect. Not only was drilling already within my repertoire of skills, but my grandfathers owned jars and jars of nuts and bolts. I’d been playing with them since before I could walk. I could drill as well as the next guy, and I could bolt far better than most. To hell with welding.
    That afternoon, I began scavenging Babbington for aluminum. I was astonished to find how much aluminum was going to waste in garages and attics: tent poles, flagpoles, folding clothes poles and outdoor drying racks constructed like umbrellas, folding chairs for lawn or beach, the legs and tops of folding tables, the pylons from