FSF, March-April 2010 (30 page)

When a plane is in flight, it's traveling in three dimensions. And traveling through three dimensions gives you three times as many ways to change orientation—which, Pat has come to conclude, gives you three times as many ways for an aircraft to lose control and screw up with disastrous consequences.

To understand this, you need to understand how a plane can change direction. A plane can turn left or right while flying level—which is known as yaw. A plane's nose can point up or down (pitch). And a plane can roll left or right (roll). Or a plane can (and more likely than not, will) put together a combination of these three movements. As Pat has demonstrated more than once, a plane can turn, roll, and dive into a spectacular crash. For a plane to be stable, forces must be in balance so that the plane isn't pushed to change direction.

From the start of their experiments in flight, the Wright brothers focused on control. Some others focused on developing more powerful engines, but the Wright brothers identified control as the unsolved part of “the flying problem."

Their 1902 glider had controls to steer the aircraft through three dimensions. These controls could make the nose of the aircraft point left or right (yaw), make the nose point up or down (pitch), or make the right or left wing drop (roll). By controlling these three things, a pilot could navigate through space.

You'll find controls for yaw, pitch, and roll in every successful aircraft since the Wright brothers. You'll find similar controls in spacecraft and submarines. The invention that changed the world wasn't the airplane, but rather the controls for that plane.

In our work on rubber-band-powered planes, we've spent countless hours figuring out the best foam for the wings, balsa for the motorstick, rubber for the rubber-band-motor. It hasn't been trivial to figure out how to put together a toy plane that meets United States safety standards, flies well, and can be manufactured by the Chinese manufacturer at a price that consumers will pay. Child's play may be easy, but that doesn't mean toys are easy to design and build.

Though creating the planes has been a lot of work—it has also been a playful process. As we write this, the Exploratorium, San Francisco's museum of science, art, and human perception, is celebrating its fortieth anniversary. Those of us who had the good fortune to work at the museum while Frank Oppenheimer, the museum's founding director, was still alive, can't help but review the lessons we learned from Frank, many years ago. And one of those lessons involves play.

Frank believed in the importance of play—as part of scientific research and artistic exploration and day-to-day life. He wrote: “It is clear that the kind of playing that is so fruitful in art and science and in getting accustomed to life or change is an extremely vital aspect of all human endeavor."

As a writer, Pat generally ignores that line so many draw between work and play: writing a novel is an enormous amount of work—and an enormous amount of fun. The same is true for Paul—in his work as a scientist and a teacher, work and play are often hard to tell apart. This overlap of work and play is more obvious than usual when we are working on something that everyone else will use for play: like toy planes.

In “Mimsy Were the Borogoves,” Kuttner and Moore pointed out that play can be a very serious business. That's true whether that play involves toys from the future—or the future of aviation, which began with the flight of a toy powered by a twisted rubber band.

The Exploratorium is San Francisco's museum of science, art, and human perception—where science and science fiction meet. Paul Doherty works there. Pat Murphy used to work there, but now she works at Klutz (
www.klutz.com
), a publisher of how-to books for kids. Pat's latest book is
Boom! Splat! Kablooey!
, a book of explosive science. To learn more about Pat Murphy's writing, visit her web site at
www.brazenhussies.net/Murphy
. For more on Paul Doherty's work and his latest adventures, visit
www.exo.net/~pauld
.

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Although he claims to have recently won a local award for the Least Prolific Writer Who Is Still Alive, Bruce McAllister says he is finishing up his first novel in twenty years,
The Village That Sang to the Sea.
It's set in the same milieu—and indeed, it incorporates—his story “The Seventh Daughter,” which appeared in our April 2004 issue. He brings us now a tale of a pope who never was.

At the end of his remarkably long life, Boniface XII,
Dodecimus Episcopus Romanus
, once and forever known to Christendom as “The Child Pope,” lay dying in his favorite bed—the one in the Papal Summer Palace in Grosseto, and the one he had slept in even when he was a child, just after his uncle, the Cardinal Voccasini, had performed his political magic and arranged to have the boy, only eight, elected Pope. His uncle had done this, Boniface knew, not only because it would consolidate power in the Voccasini family and its friends—which was important if the Holy City were to function—but also because his uncle had...well, to put it simply, because his uncle had
cherished
him. The man had believed his nephew possessed a rare spiritual purity and an equally rare, especially for his age, devotion to truths greater than worldly affairs and glib distortions of faith. That, at least, was what his uncle had told everyone for decades, and with apparent sincerity, before his own death at fifty-two from liver problems that seemed to run in the Voccasini family.

Boniface hoped his uncle had been right, for the boy in question, Boniface himself, had reigned for nearly seventy years, a very long time for a Pope-maker to be wrong, especially when the secular condition of the Holy City and Christendom itself, not to mention tens of millions of souls, was at stake. Right or wrong though his uncle may have been, it was over now, and the fog that made the bedroom harder than ever to see in would take him soon. He was grateful that the cardinals had moved so quickly to transport him by carriage, with his doctors, to Grosseto, where he could pass from this life more peacefully than he ever could in the Holy City. In Rome—in addition to the politics that had often numbed his heart—the Drinkers of Blood had, sixty-five years ago, almost won in their onslaught against the Holy City, with far too many souls (and far too many priests among them) lost to Darkness, to the bites and the infections of the soul, and the dark immortality of those infections.

The Oldest Drinker, a man without a name but with many names, had been born, so legend said, on the same night as God's Son, and in Jerusalem, too, though in a bloody, violent darkness where his own mother died even as he entered this world, without a star to shine or angels to sing for him. Without milk from a mother's breast, he had only his mother's blood to nourish him; and that night, as a squalling infant, he drank for the first time.

Fifteen centuries later, deciding at last that the time had come, he had led the onslaught on the Holy City himself, his minions trailing like an endless cloak of night behind him; and only by God's grace had the Light won, using three hundred priests hand-picked by Boniface's uncle to be trained by the Holy City's best archers, and arrow tips made by the city's best arrowsmiths from the wood of The Cross, which had taken five years and a third of the Holy City's treasury to locate at the eastern border of the Empire, ten days’ journey from Jerusalem itself, in a cave that was barely a rumor.

Though it could—and did—disturb his sleep in the Vatican, all of that—the dreams of teeth at his neck these many years after the battle had been settled—did not disturb his sleep here. Here it was safely in the past, in a fog as great as this room's; and like Christendom itself he was, for a while at least, safe here from what might, had history and spirit and God's will danced differently, have been.

But if he was safe, what was this figure before him now—standing in the warm summer light of the bedroom, backlit by the sun through lace curtains? How had the figure entered the room, and why had the figure not been announced?

The figure was of average height, and thin—young perhaps, and perhaps a woman. Was it the Angel of Death, come to him as a youth, which would only be appropriate irony? Or had Satan come for him, to tempt him one last time with dreams of a woman he had, as a young man, loved at a distance for a month in Umbria, never quite sure whether it was love or merely lust, when of course, as he understood now with no little amusement, it had been both. In life, as God designed it, rarely was the truth as simple as “black or white,” though Good was certainly very different from Evil—if one could see clearly enough and not be fooled into thinking one was the other.

"Good morning, Your Holiness,” the figure said.

It was not the Angel of Death, nor was it Satan, nor a woman. It was a young man who, as he stepped to the old man's bedside and let the sun's light fall on his face, revealed himself to be serious of expression, with an earnest look—perhaps, Boniface imagined, the kind of young man who believed that time stole things and that a man's duty, if he were truly devoted, was to save what could be saved before it was indeed stolen.

"
Buona mattina, ragazzo
,” Boniface answered, giving the young man the smile that had served the old man well in making others feel at peace. “
Posso aiutarti con i miei ultimi respiri
?”
May I help you with my final breaths
?

It was meant as a joke, a
scherzo
, yet the young man looked as if he had been slapped.

"Do not be so serious,
ragazzo
,” Boniface added. It took an effort to speak; and yet the more words he spoke, the more he felt the very energy, the
sanguinity
of blood's life, that he needed to keep speaking, as if words held life and could, if he simply used them, keep him here a little while longer. He wanted to thank the young man for this, but he was not certain how to do it. How to thank one he did not know for a few more minutes of life, or clarity? How even to phrase it, in the Papal protocols of speech? He could not remember. There were many matters he could not remember, and no doubt that was because, so close to the end, they were not important. And yet he wanted to thank this young man, and had no idea how to do it.

"I have lived a good life,” Boniface heard himself saying, finding it almost effortless. Why he was moved to say it, he did not know—unless it was the look of concern on the young man's face. “I have seen Darkness nearly reign victorious, and yet I am free now, and blessed, to die in the Light of the days we live in. What more could a man of God possibly want, my son?"

The young man cleared his throat, started to speak, held his tongue, cleared his throat again, and, finally, his voice shaking like windblown leaves, said:

"We want to be certain, Your Holiness, that those who come after us in the Holy City fully understand that Darkness you speak of...."

What a strange thing for a young man to say, even a very serious one. Boniface did not know how to answer.

"And who is ‘we,’ may I ask?” he said at last.

The young man look flustered now. “Forgive me, Your Holiness. I am Niccolo del Pagano, a recorder in the Office of
Verbum Dei
."

"I see. A ‘recorder'?"

"Yes, Your Holiness. A kind of archivist—one who saves the past from mortal forgetting."

"That is a lovely expression. Is it yours, your superior's or someone else's?"

"It is mine."

"Lovely.... And what is it that you and your Office do not wish to forget?"

The young man looked flustered again, but not so badly. Boniface was tiring from holding his smile—a much more demanding physical act than words, which flowed of their own volition—though the smile did seem to be calming the young man.

"We have heard that you met the Youngest Drinker once,” the young man said boldly.

Could this be true? Years after the battle, which lasted seven years and stretched from Lombardy to the north, Gaul to the west, Greece to the east, and North Africa to the south, as the Drinkers struggled both physically and spiritually with those of the faith, there had been stories about a young Drinker, one no older than Boniface had been at the time, and how different his fate had been from the others'.

Boniface lay back in his bed and closed his eyes. He had heard those stories, but had one of the stories been about
him
? Had he really met the Youngest Drinker himself?

Then, perhaps because a little more sunlight filled the room at that moment, or because the young man was so sincere in his desire not to lose what death takes from the world, the room's fog did part and Boniface did remember. Clearing his own throat now, he began to tell the story; and as he did, each word made the memory of that night long ago more vivid. The young man, who held paper and pen in his hands, would transcribe it as Boniface told it; but would he also clean it up when he made of it a final document—removing the tics of speech, eccentricities, excesses, asides, and whatever else? Boniface hoped so, for old men were notorious for their sloppiness.

It was a week (Boniface began) when my uncle was away from the Vatican, in Parma, to meet with the Alexian and Augustinian Archbishops to discuss the rumors of “those who drink blood and can turn a man or woman into one of them, and for eternity,” and what that might actually mean. The great onslaught on Rome led by the Oldest Drinker was yet a few years away, and so the rumors, it was felt, were just that: the insane whispers of those who feared Darkness more than they loved Light. I was recovering from a fever, a minor one but one that made me distrust what my eyes showed me, especially at night. I was seated in the Apse of the Basilica of St. Peter, in what people claim is St. Peter's chair (because it is ancient and made of acacia), as I often did when I sought aloneness in illness or self-doubt. A little table made of cedar, ancient too, sat beside me empty except for a goblet of water, for I was never hungry when I was ill. My attendants had left me alone, as I had requested, and the Basilica was empty. No sounds echoed in its great Nave or Transepts, for the only one who could make a sound was myself, and I sat quietly, my feet dangling above the floor, not quite able to reach it.