Buzz Nausea, king of the aircraft-men. (Slight return)
"Well now then, lad. No doubt your ideas about the nature of the world have taken a bit of a knock."
He settled back in his ex economy-class seat.
I hadn't really thought about it. There was a machine-shop where I'd expected the upper half of the 747. I said as much, and Dave nodded encouragingly. I went on thinking out loud.
"It's wider than it should be. I mean, it's wider than the aircraft, and I've seen the things at the airport; wings and tails and stuff. No sign of wheelbarrows, big piston engines or a massive derrick... What is that thing?"
"That's the driveshaft and mounting for the bogies."
"Bogies?" I said. "Like on a train?"
"Exactly. We're hanging from the London to New York skyrail."
I was trapped in a Quonset full of spares with an escaped nutter. A Quonset that was upstairs from cattle-class on a well-travelled 747.
"Sky... What? Rail? But flight works. I mean, the airfoil shape of the wing creates lift and... Look, I've seen aeroplanes working..."
Dave's expression changed. He looked like he was about to tell me that my luggage was having a lovely time of it in Cairo.
"Have you, lad? Have you actually been outside a 747 or A380 when they're at 35,000 feet and seen how they stay up?"
I sat back.
"Well, no. I'd need a two-seat fast jet, and the CAA take a dim view of anyone flying too close to passenger aircraft, so short of joining the RAF and spending several years working towards a court-martial, I've had to take it all on trust."
"Well, then. There you are," he said, only slightly smugly.
"So, ok. Assuming I'm not off my head and/or having a spectacularly realistic dream, what's the skyrail attached to?"
"The sky, of course."
I slurped tea. We were well into the territory of the Flath Earthers and whichever ancient cosmological theory is was that involved numerous crystal spheres with stars painted on them.
Dave leaned back and pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat.
"Ah, now. We're just coming up on Greenland Junction. Mind you hold on to that tea."
I was about to ask why when the entire hut seemed to drop six inches. There was a loud crash as all the parts on all the shelves rearranged themselves at once. I clung on to my tea and the arm of the seat until everything stopped swaying.
"Turbulence?" I asked.
"No, points. Straight on for destinations to Vancouver. South for New York, Boston, Chicago and Los Angeles."
"Ah."
I paused.
"I have an awkward question."
Dave peered at me over the rim of his mug.
"Am I going to be allowed back, um, downstairs?"
He grinned.
"Of course. What are you going to do? Denounce the currently accepted view of science, write books and go on lecture tours? You'll get yourself invited onto daytime television and laughed at."
I nodded. I'd expected as much, although I was half-hoping that I'd be stuck up there.
"A good point well made. Look, um, cheers for the tea and destroying my ideas of reality, but I'd better sod off back to economy before the cabin staff take a head-count."
Dave was still looking pleased with himself. Maybe a perk of the job was pulling the rug out from under everyone who wandered into the place by accident.
"Cheers for your help with number five engine. You can find your own way back?"
You smug bastard, I thought.
The bakelite phone on the wall rang as I levered myself upright. An economy seat is an economy seat, even when it's at the far end of the stores.
Dave reached up for the phone.
"Engineering," he said.
Whoever was on the other end was clearly the bearer of bad tidings. Dave leaned forwards, pressing the handset against his ear and nodding.
He stood to replace the handset and then turned to me.
"It seems we've a spot of bother and have had to put the seatbelt signs on. You can go back down after that. It'll be a lot simpler for you to explain."
Oh, cheers for that, pal.
"More points?" I said.
"Nope. Air-pirates."
I must have looked a little skeptical. After all, he'd just told me that aircraft didn't work. What were these pirates using? Zeppelins?
Dave crossed to the other side of the hut and opened what I'd taken for a dartboard. I had to screw up my eyes against the glare and stifle a sneeze. He pointed at three impossible-looking aircraft circling slowly upwards. Behind the propellor-sized radial engine on each were stubby wings and a far-too-small tailplane. The bulbous fixed wheels and the engine cowling were black, the rest yellow. I could just make out the dice painted on the fin that rose directly behind each cockpit.
"See?" said Dave. "Buzz Nausea, king of the aircraft-men."
"But... What does he want with you, um, us?"
I leaned against the casement of the porthole for a better view. The aeroplanes didn't seem armed. Just, well, ludicrous.
"He says the skyrail destroys the freedom of the air, and a bunch of nonsense about not nailing ironmongery to the sky. He's a fool to himself; you can't stop progress, can you? People want to travel."
I nodded, distracted by the curve of the sky. It did look a lot like a crystal sphere from this angle. How had they attached they skyrail? Rivets? No More Nails?
"So he's just attacking a big aeroplane at random?" I said.
"Ha! No random about it. The Airlines had his girlfriend kidnapped. It was the only way to make him see sense. She's in First Class. A much more pleasant way to travel than one of those noisy things out there. They'll probably try to land on the forward deck and storm First Class through the piano bar."
"Piano bar?" I echoed.
"Yep. The original design for the 747 had an upstairs piano bar. Course these days they don't use them. Can't have the cargo falling downstairs drunk, apparently. Anyway, soon as Nausea's away from his toy 'plane, we'll let him have it with the firehoses and wash the beggar off the deck. People want to travel and we won't be held to ransom by his sort."