The Aeroplane Speaks [12]
Speed, the complaints of the Under-carriage are stilled, and then, the friendly Lift becoming greater than the Weight, the Aeroplane swiftly and easily takes to the air.
Below is left the Earth with all its bumps and troubles. Up into the clean clear Air moves with incredible speed and steadiness this triumph of the Designer, the result of how much mental effort, imagination, trials and errors, failures and successes, and many a life lost in high endeavour.
Now is the mighty voice of the Engine heard as he turns the Propeller nine hundred times a minute. Now does the Thrust fight the Drift for all it's worth, and the Air Speed Indicator gasps with delight, ``One hundred miles an hour!''
And now does the burden of work fall upon the Lift and Drift Wires, and they scream to the Turnbuckles whose business it is to hold them in tension, ``This is the limit! the Limit! THE LIMIT! Release us, if only a quarter turn.'' But the Turnbuckles are locked too fast to turn their eyes or utter a word. Only the Locking Wires thus: ``Ha! ha! the Rigger knew his job. He knew the trick, and there's no release here.'' For an expert rigger will always use the locking wire in such a way as to oppose the slightest tendency of the turnbuckle to unscrew. The other kind of rigger will often use the wire in such a way as to allow the turnbuckle, to the ``eyes'' of which the wires are attached, to unscrew a quarter of a turn or more, with the result that the correct adjustment of the wires may be lost; and upon their fine adjustment much depends.
And the Struts and the Spars groan in compression and pray to keep straight, for once ``out of truth'' there is, in addition to possible collapse, the certainty that in bending they will throw many wires out of adjustment.
And the Fabric's quite mixed in its mind, and ejaculates, ``Now, who would have thought I got more Lift from the top of the Surface than its bottom?'' And then truculently to the Distance Pieces, which run from rib to rib, ``Just keep the Ribs from rolling, will you? or you'll see me strip. I'm an Irishman, I am, and if my coat comes off---- Yes, Irish, I said. I used to come from Egypt, but I've got naturalized since the War began.''
Then the Air Speed Indicator catches the eye of the Pilot. ``Good enough,'' he says as he gently deflects the Elevator and points the nose of the Aeroplane upwards in search of the elusive Best Climbing Angle.
``Ha! ha!'' shouts the Drift, growing stronger with the increased Angle of Incidence. ``Ha! ha!'' he laughs to the Thrust. ``Now I've got you. Now who's Master?''
And the Propeller shrieks hysterically, ``Oh! look at me. I'm a helicopter. That's not fair. Where's Efficiency?'' And she can only sadly reply, ``Yes, indeed, but you see we're a Compromise.''
And the Drift has hopes of reaching the Maximum Angle of Incidence and vanquishing the Thrust and the Lift. And he grows very bold as he strangles the Thrust; but the situation is saved by the Propeller, who is now bravely helicopting skywards, somewhat to the chagrin of Efficiency.
``Much ado about nothing,'' quotes the Aeroplane learnedly. ``Compromise or not, I'm climbing a thousand feet a minute. Ask the Altimeter. He'll confirm it.''
And so indeed it was. The vacuum box of the Altimeter was steadily expanding under the decreased pressure of the rarefied air, and by means of its little levers and its wonderful chain no larger than a hair it was moving the needle round the gauge and indicating the ascent at the rate of a thousand feet a minute.
And lo! the Aeroplane has almost reached the clouds! But what's this? A sudden gust, and down sinks one wing and up goes the other. ``Oh, my Horizontal Equivalent!'' despairingly call the Planes: ``it's eloping with the Lift, and what in the name of Gravity will happen? Surely there was enough scandal in the Factory without this, too!'' For the lift varies with the horizontal equivalent of the planes, so that if the aeroplane tilts sideways beyond a certain angle, the lift becomes less than the weight of the machine, which
Below is left the Earth with all its bumps and troubles. Up into the clean clear Air moves with incredible speed and steadiness this triumph of the Designer, the result of how much mental effort, imagination, trials and errors, failures and successes, and many a life lost in high endeavour.
Now is the mighty voice of the Engine heard as he turns the Propeller nine hundred times a minute. Now does the Thrust fight the Drift for all it's worth, and the Air Speed Indicator gasps with delight, ``One hundred miles an hour!''
And now does the burden of work fall upon the Lift and Drift Wires, and they scream to the Turnbuckles whose business it is to hold them in tension, ``This is the limit! the Limit! THE LIMIT! Release us, if only a quarter turn.'' But the Turnbuckles are locked too fast to turn their eyes or utter a word. Only the Locking Wires thus: ``Ha! ha! the Rigger knew his job. He knew the trick, and there's no release here.'' For an expert rigger will always use the locking wire in such a way as to oppose the slightest tendency of the turnbuckle to unscrew. The other kind of rigger will often use the wire in such a way as to allow the turnbuckle, to the ``eyes'' of which the wires are attached, to unscrew a quarter of a turn or more, with the result that the correct adjustment of the wires may be lost; and upon their fine adjustment much depends.
And the Struts and the Spars groan in compression and pray to keep straight, for once ``out of truth'' there is, in addition to possible collapse, the certainty that in bending they will throw many wires out of adjustment.
And the Fabric's quite mixed in its mind, and ejaculates, ``Now, who would have thought I got more Lift from the top of the Surface than its bottom?'' And then truculently to the Distance Pieces, which run from rib to rib, ``Just keep the Ribs from rolling, will you? or you'll see me strip. I'm an Irishman, I am, and if my coat comes off---- Yes, Irish, I said. I used to come from Egypt, but I've got naturalized since the War began.''
Then the Air Speed Indicator catches the eye of the Pilot. ``Good enough,'' he says as he gently deflects the Elevator and points the nose of the Aeroplane upwards in search of the elusive Best Climbing Angle.
``Ha! ha!'' shouts the Drift, growing stronger with the increased Angle of Incidence. ``Ha! ha!'' he laughs to the Thrust. ``Now I've got you. Now who's Master?''
And the Propeller shrieks hysterically, ``Oh! look at me. I'm a helicopter. That's not fair. Where's Efficiency?'' And she can only sadly reply, ``Yes, indeed, but you see we're a Compromise.''
And the Drift has hopes of reaching the Maximum Angle of Incidence and vanquishing the Thrust and the Lift. And he grows very bold as he strangles the Thrust; but the situation is saved by the Propeller, who is now bravely helicopting skywards, somewhat to the chagrin of Efficiency.
``Much ado about nothing,'' quotes the Aeroplane learnedly. ``Compromise or not, I'm climbing a thousand feet a minute. Ask the Altimeter. He'll confirm it.''
And so indeed it was. The vacuum box of the Altimeter was steadily expanding under the decreased pressure of the rarefied air, and by means of its little levers and its wonderful chain no larger than a hair it was moving the needle round the gauge and indicating the ascent at the rate of a thousand feet a minute.
And lo! the Aeroplane has almost reached the clouds! But what's this? A sudden gust, and down sinks one wing and up goes the other. ``Oh, my Horizontal Equivalent!'' despairingly call the Planes: ``it's eloping with the Lift, and what in the name of Gravity will happen? Surely there was enough scandal in the Factory without this, too!'' For the lift varies with the horizontal equivalent of the planes, so that if the aeroplane tilts sideways beyond a certain angle, the lift becomes less than the weight of the machine, which