Presents:
FLYING CARPET
by
Aleksandr Beliayev
I first became aware of Professor Wagner many years ago. In a journal which today is hard to find, I read an amusing article: "A Day at the Races".
Who allowed such an unheard of mockery?
It was a big day at the Moscow Hippodrome. Posters advertised a "grandiose program" with huge money prizes, valuable trophies, the best horses and jockeys--Russian and foreign; a meeting of champions. A huge crowd gathered. Horserace regulars pointed out the famous jockeys and the beautiful, well-groomed, shining prize horses to novices; they uttered the sonorous names of the horses, recalled their lineages, victories, records, speeds, the names of their owners and stud-farms; in a word, everything which might pique the interest of the inveterate handicapper.
Suddenly, amid the shimmering, proudly beautiful representatives of the horse aristocracy, someone noticed an old nag. She was so extraordinarily thin that you could easily count all of her ribs. Her broken-down legs were bent and swollen at the knees. Her head was bent low, and her lower lip was trembling, as if the nag were whispering, complaining about her fate. An unknown boy-jockey sat on the horse. He was barefoot and wearing a red calico shirt. Someone with good eyes noticed that the boy was tied to the horse.
Soon everyone caught sight of this horrid nag, looking like a refugee from the glue factory. People laughed, were surprised, asked questions, grew indignant. How could this horse have wound up here? Who allowed such an unheard of mockery? What madman owns her? Look: she's impudently standing in the first row with the best of the morning's racers. A man in a top hat waves a flag. The brass horns of the regimental orchestra glisten in the sun and shake the air with the sounds of a march. The starting signal is given, and right away begins the most extraordinary, fantastic.
The boy-jockey in the red calico shirt bends low over the back of the horse and squeezes a lever on the pommel of the saddle. The nag begins to move her feet with such speed that it seems as if some fantastic, 40-legged whirlwind is sweeping through the hippodrome. Before the best prize horses could get three or four lengths from the starting gate, the frightening nag completed the circuit, broke the ribbon at the finish line, and, without stopping, ran around the track two more times. Finally she screeched to a stop, bending low her head, her lower lip thrust out. She banged a few times like a firecracker. The nag won, and her owner was to take the mind-boggling prize.
For a minute, the whole audience stood dumbfounded; but in the next moment, the hippodrome turned into a seething volcano. People panicked, shouted, waved their arms, screeched hysterically. A bawling crowd gathered around the nag. Indignant shouts rang out:
"It's a trick! Fraud! We won't stand for!"
"Look, there's a motor under the belly."
"It's as big as a cigar box."
"And it's got little levers on the legs."
"Who owns this nag?"
"Kill him! Tear him to pieces! Where is he?"
"There he isin the Panama hat. The inventor Wagner."
"He may be a scientist, but he's a cheat! Get him!"
"Gentlemen!", the man in the Panama hat tried to shout above the din of the crowd. "Calm down. I didn't bet on my nag. I'm not trying to take your money. I only wanted."
The shouts of indignation drown out his voice. Above his Panama were raised fists, umbrellas, canes. It's impossible to say how all this would have ended had not Wagner suddenly lift up a sphere, about the size of a billiard ball, brightly shining in the sun.
"It's a bomb!", he shouted. The crowd scattered in terror. The inventor disappeared.
This was the incident described in the journal. I became interested in Wagner, so I looked him up. After making his acquaintance, I spoke to him about this affair at the hippodrome. The young inventor gave a helpless gesture with his hand.
"Just my own stupidity. Nonsense. So many times I've told myself not to go down that path, not to bang my head on that wall. Here's my latest bump." And he wiped his forehead, on which there was in fact a bump. "Don Quixoteism".
"It might have been worse," I said, laughing. "Quick thinking saved you. But what wall and what Don Quixoteism are you talking about?"
"The wall of inertia, of ignorance, the conservatism of our government and our society. We are woefully lagging behind Europe and America in technology. We have still not given up the plough. To this day, the basis of our power supply is actual horse power. It's enough to drive one into despair. I just can't accept this, and so I keep playing Don Quixote. I make use of every convenient and inconvenient opportunity to convince these people that a small motor can be stronger than a large horse, that a self-propelled carriage could outpace any racehorse."
Wagner's eyes squinted sarcastically. "This nag that you saw is not alive; it's an automaton, a mechanical toy. They didn't even notice this. All they saw was a motor and levers. It's well put together, isn't it?", he asked happily, noticing confusion mixed with excitement on my face. Then he sighed. "I didn't even get a chance to explain. All they cared about was money. The scoundrels! They even suspected me of trying to cheat them out of their money. But let's turn that sad page and forget about it," said Wagner with his usual good nature. "Right now I've got this fascinating ideaan invention.", and he again wiped the bump on his forehead.
"Did they give you that decoration at the hippodrome?" I asked.
"No, I did this myself. This idea fills up my head, and there's a bump. On the forehead and the back of the neck. You should come visit me more often."
I took advantage of this invitation, and often called on Wagner. On each visit, I found him with a new bump on the head and scratches on his hands. His "idea", like a disease, had outward manifestations. Wagner shrugged them off with jokes, never revealing the true cause of these injuries. Once he met me with a bandaged head and right arm. Happily smiling, he gave me his left hand and said:
"The idea has ripened. In fact, it seems that it's time to bring in the harvest."
"Maybe we should wait until it's time to remove your bandages?" I asked sympathetically.
"It's nothing. If you can help me, it would be great. I have no doubt in you. So come visit me at the dacha tomorrow, and you'll see. Well, you'll see for yourself what'll you'll see," and Wagner slyly winked his right eye (the left one was covered with the bandage).
The next day, I disembarked from the train at an overgrown waystation and walked along a deserted village road. There were no dachas or forest growth to be seen. A cheerless, desolate little spot. On the horizon I could see grey peasant huts--the village of Koldezi, the goal of my journey. There were many wells in the village with high sweeps. Next to the highest sweep, Wagner was residing in the "clean" half of a peasant hut. He met me without bandages and treated me to tea with cream and rye pancakes with butter. Then he said:
"Well, if you're not too tired, let's go."
The inventor took a small suitcase from the table. In the entrance hall, he picked up an oar and two fishing poles, and we stepped out onto the dusty street.
"Why the fishing poles and oar?" I asked.
"Camouflage," Wagner winked at me. "So no one will be suspicious when they see someone with a suitcase walking to the field, not to the train station. Everyone will think we're going fishing."
I had my own opinion about this camouflage. If anything was going to arouse the suspicion of the locals, it was the fishing poles. I was well aware that for 30 kilometers in any direction were were no rivers or lakes or anyplace fish might be found. Fortunately, the village was empty--everyone was out working in the fields. The only person we encountered was an ancient old woman, crawling out to warm herself in the sun. Seeing the fishing poles, her jaw dropped open and she followed us with a surprised gaze.
We reached the outskirts of the village and boldly stepped out onto the so-called old testing ground about four kilometers from the village. At one time, there had been a military camp here. The large field, overgrown with weeds, was bordered on one side by an old, crooked fence; and on the opposite side by a earthen wall. Large piles of dried horse dung were heaped up next to and behind the fence. Wagner stopped next to these "Augean stables", dropped the fishing poles, and sat on the suitcase. All along the way he had remained silent. I was burning with curiosity, but I didn't pester him with questions, knowing that soon Wagner himself would reveal his secret to me. And now that moment had arrived. The beginning was unexpected.
"What do you think--is man a well-crafted creature? I think he was poorly put together. Worse then fleas. You're laughing? You shouldn't. The flea is an insignificant insect. Surely. But it can leap hundreds of times higher than its own height. Man--the crowing glory of creation--can at best leap two meters vertically and three or four meters horizontally. Isn't this an insult to human dignity?"
"And you have decided to correct this injustice of nature?", I asked, beginning to guess at his secret.
"Yes, I dare to think that I can correct this imperfection. Mankind has learned to sail to oceans, float in the skies, travel on skates and skis, climb up slippery telegraph poles. Why can't he also learn to jump like a flea--if not a hundred times, at least ten times higher and farther than his size? How? By using the muscle power of his arms and legs and a little contraption."
Wagner opened the suitcase and pulled out four springs, somewhat reminiscent of those found in mattresses. The springs were attached to boards, and on the boards were straps. Two springs were large--for the hands, the inventor explained; and two were smaller--for the feet. Wagner quickly strapped the boards with springs to his legs and asked me to help attach the hand springs.
"It's all rather primitive at this stage. Just for testing out the principle. The most difficult part is calculating the equilibrium," he said as I tightened his straps. "Thank you. Now you can help me climb up on the fence. The oar will come in handy for that."
The newborn man-flea climbed up onto the fence. Well, actually, I lifted him and set him down with my own hands, seeing as he was completely helpless with his springs on.
"And so, we begin. Attention! One, two three!" Wagner jumped. His foot spring got hooked on a board jutting out of the fence, and the inventor fell on his side.
"The first pancake comes out a lump," he said with good nature.
"Judging from your bumps and scrapes, this is far from your first pancake," I observed.
"On these springs, it is the first. It's the latest model. If you could help me, please, to get up and back on the fence."
This was becoming tiresome.
"And so, we begin."
"We continue," I corrected him.
"The whole matter depends on successfully landing on all fours. It's easier for fleas--they have six legs," said Wagner. "And sohop!"
Seeing how he was descending--with head down--I could already guess that this jump would also prove unsuccessful. And in fact the initial impact--with all his body weight--came on the hands. Wagner was thrown up and backwards. Describing an arc, he disappeared behind the fence.
I found the hapless inventor on a pile of horse dung. Wagner was lying on his back, wiggling like a overturned bug striving mightily to turn itself around onto its legs. To my surprise, Wagner's face was beaming with satisfaction.
"What springs, eh? Did you see how they threw me? This time it'll all work."
When Wagner jumped for the third time, it did in fact work--better than even the inventor himself had expected. He managed to land like a flea on all four legs. Wagner, apparently, put his leg muscles to work, and his second jump was higher and farther. The third and fourth jumps were even better. Suddenly, I heard an excited cry:
"Help! I can't stop!"
The poor fellow had never thought of this. I raced after him, but in vain. Wagner, like a gigantic flea, with huge leaps was quickly getting further and further away from me. The high earthen wall blocked his path. The leaper could not turn to the side. A few more jumps, and Wager slammed into the earthen wall with his head. He turned legs up and fell.
"I didn't poke a hole in the wall, did I?", Wagner asked me, slowly and with difficulty rolling his tongue as he came to. He could still joke.
******
I didn't see Wagner for several years. Unexpectedly, he telephoned, reminding me of himself. He invited me to his dacha, as easily as if we had just seen each other yesterday.
"There's news. If you don't mind, I can come pick you up in my car."
In less than an hour, I was riding with Wagner in his car along the magnificent Moscow-Minsk highway. On the surface, Wagner had changed little; only his beard had become longer and thicker. He himself drove the elongated, streamlined car. The car flew with such speed that I could hardly make out the bridges and beautiful hotels standing on the sides of the road, in picturesque spots, on tree-covered hills or on the banks of the river. After an hour of this furious driving, Wagner slowed down and turned off the highway onto a smooth road. We flew along at 50 kilometers an hour for about another 30 minutes, and finally stopped next to an isolated cottage.
"We're home."
We quickly ate breakfast in a cozy dining room with a wide Venetian window. Wagner unexpectedly pulled a massive drinking cup out from under the table and extended it to me.
"Here, take it!
I took the cup and was very surprised because I couldn't feel its weight. I placed it on the table, but as soon as I loosened my grip, the cup flew up to the ceiling and stayed there. I probably had a comic look on my face because Wagner burst out laughing and said:
"Oh, you should see your face! We should take a picture. But how will you drink your apple cider? It's your own fault. I don't have any other cups."
"Perhaps you'd be so kind as to explain. Is this some kind of trick, Professor?" I asked.
"I'm not a trickster and I'm not a magician," he answered, as if somewhat offended.
"The cup, it seems, was metallic. There's probably a magnet hidden in the ceiling. Am I right?"
"All will be explained in time. It's wonderful weather. Let's go take in some fresh air. But first I want to weigh you on a scale."
He weighed me, then, for some reason, suggested slipping a 1.8 kilogram weight into my pocket, and said "Punctum."
We left the house and set out toward the large field that was visible beyond a birch grove. It seemed to me that there was a lake in the middle of the field. Between the white trunks of the birches, I saw a shining surface. Getting closer, however, I could see my mistake. A large part of the field was covered with what looked like shimmering felt-- flat and smooth. From a distance, this "carpet" with a subdued light-gray shine resembled water.
Wagner boldly stepped out onto this "lake", and I, rather timidly, followed. In the middle of this "carpet"--which was several hundred square feet in area--I saw what seemed to be a small cross. When we got closer, it turned out that one axis of the cross was a slit in the carpet, and the other was a bolt fixed perpendicular over the slit. Radiating out from this central cross and stretching out in all directions were clamps, looking somewhat like doorknobs.
Wagner turned the bolt so that it was over the opening. At that very instant, I felt us rising up, as if on a flying carpet.
"Hold onto the clamps," Wagner shouted to me. I grabbed the handles, and just in time as our "aircraft" shook violently. Fortunately, this gust of wind was not repeated and we continued to rise so smoothly that I could not shake the impression that we were not going upward, but rather that the ground, the field, the birch grove, and Wagner's dacha were slowly sinking.
"Our flying carpet would rise faster if not for the air resistance," Wagner said. He sat opposite me, holding onto a doorknoblike clamp. Separating us was the slit through which, when the flying carpet was on the ground, passed the bolt, acting to hold the plane down, like an anchor.
"Yes, our flying apparatus is not too streamlined, at least as far as vertical flight is concerned," I responded. It was only with difficulty that I was able to force myself to speak, so overcome was I with this extraordinary adventure.
"I don't suppose that you're going to claim we're being pulled up by a magnet?", Wagner asked, craftily squinting his blue eyes.
"Alas, this is beyond my understanding," I replied. Wagner broke out into a loud laugh.
"It's a difficult problem," he finally said. "Perhaps you imagine that I've created some sort of Kevorite field, protecting a body against Earth's gravity. But Kevorite is a pure and unrealizable fantasy. Or you might imagine that I've given our flying carpet an electrical charge equal to the charge on the ground and the flying carpet is taking off like a gas bubble."
"I don't imagine anything," I objected. "Right now I'm interested in how high we're going. We're wearing summer clothes and we don't have any oxygen apparatus."
"No need to worry," Wagner responded. "The range of our flying carpet is very limited. Its ceiling is at 200-300 meters. You see, our ascent is already slowing down. When night comes, the temperature will fall, the moisture in the atmosphere will increase, and our flying carpet will descend. My calculations are exact. Punctum. It was not for nothing that I checked your weight. And so. But for now, we have plenty of time and I can explain to you the secret of our flying carpet. Look how many children are running to stare at us. Where are they coming from? They're shouting and waving their caps."
We slowly floated beyond the grove. Soon the river and the crowd of children on its banks were hidden from view.
"And so," Wagner continued, "all these wonders were born out of scientific work on the physics of thin films, which is little known to the general public. I advise you to acquaint yourself with the subject. In short, our flying carpet is made from a so-called solid chain, a body constructed from a series of bubble-cells. A fusion of magnesium and beryllium. The diameter of the cell is less than one millimeter, and the thickness of the cell wall is one-ten-thousandth of a millimeter. The empty space inside the cells is filled with hydrogen. With a thin-film wall thickness of one-thousandth of a millimeter, you already get weightless material; but with a thickness of one-ten-thousandth, like we have, metal actually flies. Depending on its size, a flying carpet made of such metal, as you see, can lift not only itself but also an added weight. Forgive me, but I'm going to take off my boots," he said, interrupting his explanation. "I've gotten into the habit of walking barefoot at the dacha." He removed his boots and placed them on the carpet. "And so" he continued. But just at that moment, we were hit with a strong gust of wind. Our flying carpet shook, the boots fell overboard and down toward the ground, and our lightened aircraft jerked upward. Wagner cried out, but his cry more resembled a groan. I understood that now we were beyond the help of the dampness of the night air or the lowering of air temperatures. We could not release gas to descend, like balloonists. The gas of our flying carpet was hidden deep inside the artificial "foamy" structure. We could not direct our flight either vertically or horizontally. We were helpless. We didn't have a radio. We had no supplies of food or water. This Wagner is a good inventor but a very impractical man. I was vexed with him, even more so because it was time to eat and I was hungry.
Thin Films -
They actually exist !
Read
Halfway Home for
Thin Films
Tell them
sent you!
"Does our situation perhaps remind you of an old story about a man who took it into his head to jump like a flea?" Wagner began to breathe heavily and angrily, but remained silent. "Great. This is a fine kettle of fish we've gotten into," I continued to nag at him. "There could be a storm during the night; our flying carpet would get overturned and we'd be smashed to pieces. Or maybe we'll eat each other out of hunger just like stranded shipwreck survivors. Or we'll die of hunger and the birds will pick our bones clean."
Wagner burst out laughing.
"I didn't know that you were so funny and could joke in the most dire of circumstances," he said sincerely, and I became ashamed. "But our situation is not as tragic as it may seem to you. Fortunately, my flying carpet is made out of a solid film that is relatively brittle. We can break off pieces, thereby reducing the area of the carpet, and we will sink, like an overloaded raft. Quick, to work!"
Wagner began to break off pieces of the porous foam, beginning from the edge of the slit in the center of the carpet. I followed his example. We threw the pieces down toward the ground, but they invariably flew back up and disappeared somewhere in the blue sky.
You like this?
See Beliayev's novel:
The Struggle in Space
A detailed summary
presented by
"The fusion is not cheap and it's a shame to lose these pieces, but I know some flyers who will be able to retrieve them with a net. All the pieces will be floating at the same altitude--no higher than ten kilometers. You see, we're already going down. Just a few more pieces. Wait. Stop throwing the pieces. We're over a lake. Yep. We have to cast off some ballast. Take off your boots!"
We landed safely in an overgrown grove of hazel nut trees. We tied the flying carpet down with suspenders and belts so that it wouldn't fly away. We returned home barefoot, hungry, and excited.
THE END
Translated by Eric Konkol
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