A Bolt From the Blue by Diane A. S. Stuckart Read Free Book Online Page B

“Tell me, Master, is this what I think it is?”
    “If you think that it is a flying machine,” he replied with a small smile, “then yes, it is.
    “A scale model, of course,” he was quick to clarify as my eyes grew wider, “although I have also commenced work on the frame of the man-sized version. Still, there are several modifications that must be made to the design before either craft is deemed flight-worthy. Weight distribution is one issue that I—”
    “A flying machine?”
    The abrupt question came from my father, his tone incredulous. Worse, his usually placid expression reflected more than a hint of anger. Staring at the Master as if the younger man had taken leave of his senses, my father shook his head.
    “Can it be, Signor Leonardo, that you summoned me to Milan on a fool’s errand?” he sputtered. “I thought to be serving the duke on a project of great importance, but you appear to be having a joke at my expense. I think it best that I forget this matter and return home to my own workshop.”
    He paused to give me a concerned look and added, “And perhaps I should take my, er, son with me.”
    “Father, no,” I cried before the Master could make a reply.
    Clutching his tunic sleeve, I persisted, “I cannot leave, and you must stay as well. Signor Leonardo would not jest about such a matter. I have seen with my own eyes many of his wonderful inventions. If he says he can build a machine that flies, I am certain it can be done.”
    “Your loyalty to your master is commendable,” my father replied in a stiff tone, “but I would be remiss in my duty to let you be led astray. Had God meant us to fly like birds, he would have given Adam feathers, rather than creating him naked and in need of a fig leaf. Surely you must see this is folly.”
    “Folly to those who are not bold enough to dream.”
    With those words, Leonardo carefully lifted the miniature flying machine from the table. Holding it in both hands at arm’s length, he assumed his familiar tone of lecture that I knew well from the workshop.
    “Consider this, Signor Angelo,” he went on. “Had you never before seen a bird in flight, you would call me mad or worse if I were to describe such a creature to you. For, without any knowledge that such a feat was possible, you would claim that no creature could leave the confines of the earth for the sky.”
    He paused to raise and lower the model a few times, causing its cloth wings to flap in a quite birdlike fashion.
    “And yet we all know that the falcon can soar with the clouds and that the lark flits from tree to tree with but the beat of a wing. Why should man, with his mighty intellect, not be able to devise a craft to mimic a bird’s form, thus allowing him to sever his bond with the earth and join his feathered brethren?”
    With those words, he handed the model to my father, who took it with apparent reluctance. I saw a new spark of interest in his eyes, however, as he deigned to study the design.
    “Hmmm . . . interesting,” he muttered, carefully turning the small machine about. Indicating the supporting portion of the wing framework, he added, “This piece appears overly heavy and rigid for its purpose. Replacing it with two narrow rods would lighten the weight and add flexibility while still maintaining stability. And certainly the choice of wood is a factor. You will require something with strength yet suppleness—perhaps ash—with special care taken for the quality of the grain.”
    “And that is why I require your help, Signor Angelo,” the Master replied with a small smile. “While I am certain that my craft is soundly engineered, building it will require the expertise of a man who understands every nuance of the wood that will form it.”
    My father merely snorted. Then, with a grudging nod, he conceded, “With the right materials, a large-scale version of this machine should prove but moderately difficult to build. Whether or not it can be made to fly is