Read Online Byzantium Endures by Michael Moorcock, Alan Wall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Moorcock, Alan Wall
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working for a man like Sarkis Mihailovitch, who specialised in no particular field. Thus I became familiar with auto-engines, steam-pumps, dynamos and mechanical looms. This broad education was to stand me in good stead in later years, though again there was to be a disadvantage, for some would think me a jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none.
Working for the Armenian brought out all my imaginative and inventive gifts. In his employ I began properly to develop my own ideas, based on things I had read in Pearson’s and similar journals. It seemed to me that I could develop a one-man flying machine which dispensed with the conventional fuselage and used the human body itself in this function. The Centre of Gravity would be determined by the position of the engine, rather than the position of the pilot. While Sikorski aimed at larger and larger planes such as the Ilya Mourometz, I dreamed of a kind of ‘flying infantry’. Each man would be equipped with his own wings and engine. Wings would be fitted to his arms, a motor on a frame would be strapped to his back, to allow clearance for the propellor. Tailplane and rudder would be attached to his feet.
I described my design to Esmé, who by now was looking after her ailing father full-time, and she was greatly impressed. She wanted to know when the first men would be seen flying over the domes of St Sophia’s Cathedral. I promised her that it would be soon; that it would be me, and that she should witness my very first flight.
Having made the boast, I became determined to fulfil it. I could not bear to make a fool of myself in Esmé’s eyes. She was by now a most beautiful young woman, with long, fine golden hair and huge blue eyes. She had pale skin, and that strong, full body typical of Ukrainian women. Yet I still did not see her as anything but an old and trusted friend, though I was by no means free of sexual desire. My main excitement lay in ambling along Kreshchatik at night and ogling the expensive whores who strolled up and down the boulevards. Alternatively I could go in the afternoons to Kircheim’s Café, a famous emporium of coffee and cream-cakes, and look at the young beauties who came there for treats with their mothers. There was more than one dark-eyed schoolgirl who returned my impassioned glances, yet there was none to compare with my wonderful lost Zoyea. A yearning for her still took me to the gorges where the gypsies had once camped; but they camped there no more.
Since I first conceived the idea of a flying man, similar projects have been successful, but in those days the principles of power-weight ratio were not fully understood. Moreover the engine I was to use was not properly suited to the task. I had promised Esmé that I would make my first flight by the next Sunday. I did not tell my boss, who had laughed at me when I had proposed the invention, but the only engine available at this time had come from his workshop. It was part of a repair: a small petrol engine normally used to drive a motor-tricycle belonging to one of Podol’s largest bakery concerns. The motor was in excellent working order and had only been removed while Kouyoumdjian made some adjustments to the chain and rear wheel. A minor job. I now realise that it was completely wrong of me to borrow the engine, particularly one belonging to so important a customer, but my promise to Esmé was paramount in my mind.
When Sarkis Mihailovitch left me to lock up, as he often did, on the Saturday night, I took a small trolley and went to fetch the rest of my equipment. I had prepared the frame which would strap onto my back and give proper clearance for the air-screw. This propellor was fitted over the existing driving-cog on the motor. My greatest aesthetic thrill had come after I had finished carving it. I had built the frame of wood, covered in treated canvas, for wings and for the double tailplane section which would fit on my feet. By keeping my ankles together I
Working for the Armenian brought out all my imaginative and inventive gifts. In his employ I began properly to develop my own ideas, based on things I had read in Pearson’s and similar journals. It seemed to me that I could develop a one-man flying machine which dispensed with the conventional fuselage and used the human body itself in this function. The Centre of Gravity would be determined by the position of the engine, rather than the position of the pilot. While Sikorski aimed at larger and larger planes such as the Ilya Mourometz, I dreamed of a kind of ‘flying infantry’. Each man would be equipped with his own wings and engine. Wings would be fitted to his arms, a motor on a frame would be strapped to his back, to allow clearance for the propellor. Tailplane and rudder would be attached to his feet.
I described my design to Esmé, who by now was looking after her ailing father full-time, and she was greatly impressed. She wanted to know when the first men would be seen flying over the domes of St Sophia’s Cathedral. I promised her that it would be soon; that it would be me, and that she should witness my very first flight.
Having made the boast, I became determined to fulfil it. I could not bear to make a fool of myself in Esmé’s eyes. She was by now a most beautiful young woman, with long, fine golden hair and huge blue eyes. She had pale skin, and that strong, full body typical of Ukrainian women. Yet I still did not see her as anything but an old and trusted friend, though I was by no means free of sexual desire. My main excitement lay in ambling along Kreshchatik at night and ogling the expensive whores who strolled up and down the boulevards. Alternatively I could go in the afternoons to Kircheim’s Café, a famous emporium of coffee and cream-cakes, and look at the young beauties who came there for treats with their mothers. There was more than one dark-eyed schoolgirl who returned my impassioned glances, yet there was none to compare with my wonderful lost Zoyea. A yearning for her still took me to the gorges where the gypsies had once camped; but they camped there no more.
Since I first conceived the idea of a flying man, similar projects have been successful, but in those days the principles of power-weight ratio were not fully understood. Moreover the engine I was to use was not properly suited to the task. I had promised Esmé that I would make my first flight by the next Sunday. I did not tell my boss, who had laughed at me when I had proposed the invention, but the only engine available at this time had come from his workshop. It was part of a repair: a small petrol engine normally used to drive a motor-tricycle belonging to one of Podol’s largest bakery concerns. The motor was in excellent working order and had only been removed while Kouyoumdjian made some adjustments to the chain and rear wheel. A minor job. I now realise that it was completely wrong of me to borrow the engine, particularly one belonging to so important a customer, but my promise to Esmé was paramount in my mind.
When Sarkis Mihailovitch left me to lock up, as he often did, on the Saturday night, I took a small trolley and went to fetch the rest of my equipment. I had prepared the frame which would strap onto my back and give proper clearance for the air-screw. This propellor was fitted over the existing driving-cog on the motor. My greatest aesthetic thrill had come after I had finished carving it. I had built the frame of wood, covered in treated canvas, for wings and for the double tailplane section which would fit on my feet. By keeping my ankles together I
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