The Secret Generations by John Gardner

had gone only a few steps when a new sound caught his attention. Already James prided himself on being able to recognize various engine notes, but the noise he now heard was unknown to him – a gentle, steady bee-like sound coming from the south. He turned, looking in the direction of this new engine note.
    It was low over the trees, nose slightly raised, preparing to land – a beautiful, box-like machine, superbly rigged, with a pusher propeller. Long triangular struts held an elevator well forward of the wings, while the open framework swept back to a pair of boxed rudders. Skids, like skis, hung below, each fitted with what appeared to be unusually small wheels, while another pair of even more minute wheels were visible forward of the box-kite rudder section.
    ‘ Farman!’ James breathed aloud, recognizing the lines of the machine. A Farman biplane had carried off the distance prize at Rheims last year. He watched, fascinated, as the aeroplane banked gracefully, losing height, its pilot plainly visible, exposed to wind, bitter cold and all weathers, as the propeller whirred behind him.
    The Gnome engine began to die as the aeroplane descended onto the grass, turned, and came to a halt not a hundred yards from where James stood.
    The pilot was bundled up in helmet, goggles and leather coat, so James could make out neither features nor age. When the man climbed down, it came as something of a surprise that he spoke with a distinct American accent – for the Farman was a French aeroplane.
    ‘ Where do I find the top man around here, son?’
    James asked if he meant the commanding officer of the balloon factory, or some other official.
    ‘I guess the Commanding Officer. I’m supposed to be here on military business. You a flyer?’
    ‘ Yes,’ James lied. ‘Waiting to go to Sandhurst. Just filling in a bit of time here.’
    ‘ Well, if you’re not doing anything, could you keep an eye on the ship while I try to find out if I’m expected?’
    James said he would certainly look after the Farman, and could he just climb up and take a peep at the controls?
    ‘Don’t see why not.’ The American thrust out a hand, ‘Name’s Farthing. Richard – Dick to my friends.’
    ‘ Railton. James Railton.’
    The American nodded, and James watched him walk away, a tall muscular man – about ten years older than himself, he guessed. There had been a particularly attractive glint in the large brown eyes, as though the American viewed the world, and life in it, as some joke, not to be taken seriously by those who were the dramatis personae of history.
    James climbed up onto the Farman – a Farman III, he thought – taking his place at the controls, checking which levers operated the ailerons, rudder, and elevator. The mechanisms were all simple enough: strong bolted wood, wheels, and pinions, carrying wires to the various control surfaces.
    He forgot cold and time; even the ground disappeared as James went into a daydre am. He knew exactly what was required of a pilot in flight. What he needed was the opportunity; all the imagination in the world could not make up for the real thing: to look down on earth from a height of several hundred feet; feel the wind, see the horizon tilt; to be free, and touch the clouds with his hand.
    Suddenly he was pulled from the reverie by the American voice calling, ‘James? James, you want to come down here a minute?’
    Dick Farthing stood below the wings, grinning up at him.
    ‘ Just thinking how nice it would be.’ He began to climb down.
    ‘ Well, you could get your chance at that. For the time being, I guess it’s me who needs help. I’ve got no place to stay. Know any good hotels?’
    There was the Queen ’s Hotel which James thought looked reasonable enough, but, probably, a shade expensive.
    ‘ The hell with the expense,’ Dick laughed again. He laughed a great deal. ‘Maurice Farman’s paying. I’m just here to show off his wares to the British Army.’ He pronounced