Underneath it a small biplane fighter was making another run, first matching speeds with the dirigible, then edging upwards. A strong metal loop was fastened to the biplane’s upper wing, and a long trapezoidal hook mechanism dangled below the airship’s belly. The fighter swayed and dipped as it rose into the buffeting wake of the huge dirigible, then again as it hit the prop-wash of the six bellowing high-speed diesels. It rose sharply, and the observers on the Grey Tigers bridge sucked in their breaths, certain it would crash into the thin structure of the airship’s belly.
Instead it pulled nose-up, almost stalling, then slipped into contact with the hook. A cable locked the mechanism shut, and it moved smoothly backwards with the aircraft pivoting and jerking on the hook-and-ring connection. The rise stopped with the biplane just below the entrance hatch intended for it,
“What?” Professor Director Gunter Porschmidt spoke with his usual quick, slightly angry tone. Some of the white-coated assistants around him moved away a little. “What? Why do they wait?”
Gerta Hosten replied. “Because, Herr Professor, the plane will only fit into the entrance hatch if aligned precisely with the airship’s keel . . . and it is difficult to get it to point that way traveling at ninety miles per hour.”
Porschmidt blinked at her. “Oh. Yes, yes, make a note.” One of the assistants scribbled busily.
Tiny human figures on ropes dropped out of the airship’s belly. Laboriously, they fixed rope tackle to the biplane’s wings and body, and the trapeze swung it up once more. On the second try—the first crumpled a wing against the side of the hatch—they got it through. Porschmidt beamed, and there was a discreet murmur of applause from the Research Council officials with him.
“Good, good,” the chief scientist said. “But perhaps we should assign a better pilot to the next series of tests?”
“The pilot is Eva Sommers,” Gerta said. “Her reflexes were among the ten best ever recorded in the Test of Life; she has fifteen kills to her credit from the war down in the Union and is currently the Air Council’s best test pilot.”
“Oh.” Porschmidt shrugged. “Well, the purpose of operational testing is to improve the product.”
“Herr Professor?”
“Yes?”
“While this is undoubtedly a great technical achievement,” Gerta said, “given our current quality control problems, don’t you think—”
He made a dismissive gesture. “The Chosen Council told me to design a device which would give us greater heavier-than-air scouting capacity than the enemy’s new ship-borne aeroplanes. Production is not my department.”
Horst Raske waited until they had left his bridge before putting a hand to his forehead and sighing.
“Well, this proves one thing conclusively,” Gerta said, watching the Orca turn away.
“What?”
“That the Chosen are still Visager’s supreme toymakers,” she added.
“Brigadier, I do not think that is funny.”
“It isn’t. Porschmidt falling out a hatchway without a parachute at six thousand feet, that would be funny.”
“If only the man were an incompetent!”
“If he were an incompetent, he wouldn’t have passed the Test of Life,” Gerta said. “Unfortunately, that is no guarantee that he will not be wrong—just that he’ll be plausibly, brilliantly wrong with ideas that sound wonderful and are just a tantalizing inch beyond realization.”
Raske shuddered. “I hope some of his ideas work out better than that.” He nodded towards the disappearing airship. “When I think of the conventional models we could have made for the same expenditure of money and skilled manpower . . . and you’re right, quality control has fallen off appallingly.”
“A complete waste of—” Gerta stopped, struck. “Wait a minute. The problem there is hull turbulence, right?”
Raske looked at her. “Yes. No way to eliminate it, that I can see. An airship pushes aside a lot of air, and that’s all there is to it.”
“But fifty, sixty feet down there’s less problem?”
“Of course—but you can’t put the hook gear that far down. The leverage would snap it off at the first strain.”
“Yes, but why do we want to hoist the plane aboard the airship’s cargo bay?”
She began to talk. Raske listened, his face gradually losing its hangdog expression.