Waffen

By TR Nowry

Back of the book:
Rahani stood at her grandmother's bookshelf and ran her fingers across the aligned spines. They were all written over a hundred years ago, all first drafts, hand typed and bound by a legend in their family, the greatest inventor the world would never know.
She pulled the only one in a red cloth cover.
It had been in her family forever, yet only one word of it had ever been read, the title, "Waffen".
She gently tugged at the covers, and found it as sold as a block of wood. Its delicate pages and soluble ink had been glued together, to keep its dangerous knowledge from ever landing in the wrong hands.
This shelf was their tree of knowledge, and this book was their forbidden fruit.
She had read the others as a child, but this one always held a spell over her. Her curiosity ached to know what secrets were locked within.
She wanted to sink her teeth into its forbidden truth.
But once opened, it could never hide in plain sight again. Eventually, all its secrets would leak out.
She marveled at the ingeniousness and the utter simplicity of this ancient form of lock and key. Pick the wrong solvent, and the ink washes away, along with the glue. Try to force it, shave it down one whittle at a time, and you'd spend a tedious forever, and still lose all but a few of its precious words.
Yet, soak it in the right formula, and it emerges as legible as all the rest, just with a permanent stench of death.
She put it in the plastic bag.
Her grandmother was missing, and may well be the first casualty her family would have to endure. The rugged mountains that had protected them from their enemies for centuries... protected them no more.
This, was war.
She added the solvent, closed the bag, and pondered the irony, while the glue released its grip on the past.
The key had been hiding under everyone's nose, the entire time.
The most dangerous book in the world was guarded by a creature so fierce that bears, mountain lions, and ravenous wolves ran at the very sight of it walking their way.
It feared nothing.
Was feared by everything.
And an ounce of its essence unlocked the most powerful book in the world.
She turned her head and coughed, as tears ran down her cheeks from the fumes.
Waffen was German for weapons, and the book was now, and forever more, seeped in the stench of its key, the bitter wrath only dozens of skunks could unleash.
Rahani just hoped that what these trapped words could release would be as powerful as the smell. She hoped it would be enough to turn back the evil army, marching their way... an army that had never known defeat.
Waffen is the Seventh book in The Hummingbird Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TR Nowry
• Release date: Nov 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301466238

TR Nowry

I'm an Indie author living in Bumpass (yes, there really is a place called Bumpass). Indie, in my case, means no cover artist, no editors, and no marketing of any kind. For good or bad, it's just me, a taped together laptop bought in '03, and some horrendous credit card debt for over a decade of typing. The Hummingbird Series was written with each book more like a season on a TV series than what some may expect from a 'traditional' or 'mainstream' series from those Publishing House factories. It starts with The Art of the Houdini Scientist, then continues with Patent Mine, Hell from a Well, The Heredity of Hummingbirds, Mourning after Dawn, Daughters of Immortality, and Waffen, with others on the way. Questions or comments? They're always welcome at my Xanga blog or Facebook (TR Nowry). I'll be sure to answer... on those months I can afford to pay my phone bill. Found some typos and have a hankering to help an indie author instead of hurling stones? Both sites work well for that too. Please continue to support your favorite Indie authors by recommending them to your friends and writing thoughtful reviews, it's the only marketing most of us will ever get!

Book preview

Chapter 1

-- Warning --

Waffen is the seventh book in The Hummingbirds Series.

Starting here would be like starting with season seven of SG-1, enjoyable, but lacking much of the rich back-story that's seasons 1-6. Though they can be read in any order, it's probably best to start the series with The Art of the Houdini Scientist... and read your way up. But as noted on the previous page, I wrote this series out of order, so reading them out of order really isn't as big a problem as you might think. Just don't expect to know everything about what happened in season two by watching season seven, it rarely works out that way.

This book, like this series, is intended for adults, and is not for younger readers.

Waffen

by TR Nowry

Since sunup that morning, she had been straining to follow the paths that wove between the trees along the valley, disappearing and reappearing seemingly at random. Unlike the adventures of her youth, she didn't find this exciting, but taxing and tiring instead.

It taxed her failing eyesight. Eyes that were easily good enough to find her way amidst the familiar were failing her now as they looked upon the new.

The different.

The strange.

It taxed her coordination to fly this slow and low, as she tried to follow a tiny footpath that would have been hard enough to see on the ground. From two hundred feet in the air, it was nearly impossible.

But the hints and flickers she glimpsed were enough.

In her thirties she would fly for hours, a thousand miles a day was nothing to her, but now, spending so much time wrestling controls and sitting in a chair was wearing her down. This would be her last such adventure, the last path she would ever strain to follow, the last village she would visit 'for the first time', and the last leap into the unknown in a very long life of trying to honor the legacy she had been born into.

Her eyes and body may be failing her, but she still had luck on her side. Her hunches had never failed her before. And they wouldn't now.

She circled the area above the very spot where she had lost the trail.

She looked north, No.

She looked northeast, No.

She looked east, Yes, she whispered, then leveled off in that direction.

Flying for six long minutes without a glimpse was nerve-wracking, but the path finally reappeared, bigger and clearer than ever before.

She glanced at the horizon and knew she had six or seven hours of challenging flying still ahead of her.

She was exhausted already, and her day had barely begun.

The sun was falling fast, but she knew she was close, she could feel it in her gut. She was flying over clearings, barns, pastures and crops, she had to be within an hour at most of the village proper, though which direction it was from here was still unclear.

What was clear was she wasn't going to make it there.

Not this time.

Not before dark.

She had ten or twenty minutes of flight left. Her fuel was fine, but she could only land under sunlight. Her eyes simply weren't as good as they once— she broke hard and circled left as a man looked up from his modest garden.

She was five hundred feet in the air, but she knew what she knew.

She saw what she saw.

She circled his modest clearing, just to be sure, now slower and lower at two hundred feet.

It had been decades since— It was a part of her life she had put behind her, a part she had dared not think about. But such opportunities didn't offer themselves very often. Only once before had she glimpsed what she stared at now. Only once in her very long life, as a matter of fact, had she seen this before.

It wasn't something she could afford to pass by.

She put down on a patch of weeds just a few feet past the edge of his garden, nearly clipping the branches of trees as she did. He cautiously approached, hoe still in his hands, poised like a weapon. When she let go of the stick and held up her hands, he paused. She pointed up at the swinging blades, then gestured for him to stay back before she removed her helmet.

Unbuckled from the seat, she crouched along the ground as she got out from under the slowing blades. She straightened, smiled, then squinted at him, just to be sure. Hi, she said, then took off her glove and thrusted forward her right hand, My name's Shadona. She shook his hand as he lowered the hoe. Sorry about putting down in your garden, but I was—

No worries, Miss, you, uh, missed— no harm but to them weeds, I expect. Could be called a favor, I guess, in another light. No, uh, har— I— What the hell is that? He gestured with the tip of the hoe.

She smiled. It's complicated. Lots call it a helicopter, but that's not really accurate, but it's not really an autogyro either. It's a hybrid mix of a tip jet and a gyro. Been flying them since I was a teen, and none of the names really fit. Tipgyro is the one I like the most, think it sounds the most accurate, but that hasn't really caught on. Most call anything with rotary wings a helicopter or a gyro, even when they're not, so I've stopped trying to correct them. He finally let go of her hand. I hate to impose, but, I didn't catch your name.

He stopped staring at the strange device, still unclear about what name to call it. Sorry, Miss. Name's Frances.

Frances? she said. Frances, she repeated softly, then smiled. What are the odds? My father was named Frances. She squinted at him again, the urge to touch his scruffy chin was difficult for her to resist. This, uh, is always awkward to ask, but do you mind if I stay here tonight? I can't fly at night, you see. Or, more accurately, I can't see at night well enough to fly.

He looked uncomfortable and took a backward step.

She gestured to the gyro, I have a tent. I can sleep outside on the—

No Ma'am, that wouldn't be proper of me to— He pressed the handle of his hoe on the ground, then used its clay-caked tip to point to the modest house. Got's room inside, and wild dog tracks trampling all what's left out here. Tent ain't no safe place to spend a night 'round here. He looked up from the ground, Been more than a few years since I had a guest, but I'm remembering my manners, Ma'am. Wasn't born this rude. He dropped the hoe to the ground.

She couldn't stop smiling. That's very generous of you, Frances. Thank you. She returned to the gyro and retrieved her pack of food and clothes, now that the blades had come to a stop, and walked with him into the house.

It was dangerous to meet strangers in such a way. More so to go into a stranger's house so quickly. But she could tell a lot by simply shaking someone's hand. Far more than most ever could.

And she trusted her gut.

It never steered her wrong.

He sipped her delicious berry-flavored tea after supper as they sat at the table around the flickering lamp. I've never had this before, he said. Never seen such a device before. Where'd you say you're from?

She sipped from her mug. I live in a town called Bestoms. It's where my uncle lived, and was one of the first towns to— but you've probably never heard of it. I wasn't born there. I'm not an official — well, not officially — but I am kind of an emissary of sorts. We've got access to a lot of technology, as you can see, that can bring a lot of good to towns, like yours.

Don't have much dealings with peoples in town. Help them, harm them, means the same to me.

She offered him another caramel-coated cream-mint patty. They've got some form of government, don't they? Votes and such. Mayor, sheriffs, deputies and the likes?

Yes, Ma'am, for what good it do.

She frowned, then reached across the table and put her hand on his. Does a powerful farmer, banker, or such pretty much own the town?

He nodded, but stared at her hand, touching his.

She patted it, then held her mug. Same for most towns I've seen. Doesn't mean it has to stay that way. Never really does. When people are isolated by great distances, it's easy for a few bullies to rise up and keep everyone else down. Gets harder to do the same, when you know there are other towns around, just like stealing gets harder, the more people are looking. Sometimes just letting folks know they can leave and do better elsewhere can spark a profound change in a bully's way of thinking. Hard to keep good folks on their knees, when people know they can just up and leave.

Gyro huh? Knew we was isolated around here, but I'd never heard or seen such a thing in all my life.

She smiled, then sipped. It's not new, really a reinvention of something very old. Hundreds of years old, maybe thousands, nobody knows for sure, but it's a new twist on something old. Towns I've visited have built proper runways for airplanes that can carry dozens of people and tons of cargo in a single trip. Planes are faster and far more comfortable too. Planes, now that's the way to travel. Fact is, that's a big part of why I'm here, to try to find a suitable place for a runway, so your town can be a part of the world, so to speak. Got twelve towns connected already.

He looked befuddled. Twelve towns? Never knew there were that many. Suppose I should have, though. But never seen someplace other than this.

That's all too common too. By foot, most towns are a few weeks or a month's journey apart, enough to discourage anyone from going anywhere. That much inconvenience cuts down on trading and traveling an awful lot. But that doesn't have to be the case. When folks are that burdened by travel, they simply don't, unless they desperately have to. She pulled a toy propeller-on-a-stick from her sack, revved it with a rub of her hands, and let it shoot up to the ceiling, then drift across the room. All my gyro is, is a bigger version of a toy. She unfolded a paper plane, then tossed it across the room. We've got big versions of these too, and they work a lot better. But you notice how the plane kind of skids across the ground and crashes into the wall, where the gyro quietly lands? That's why I'm here first, in one of those that lands anywhere. You know the mayor or governor?

Not personally, no, Ma'am.

That's ok. Didn't really expect you to. She looked around the room. You live alone?

Yes Ma'am.

She looked him over as she slowly put his life together from a room full of tiny clues. A chill ran across her. They run you out of town for something?

He slid his chair out from the table, stood, then turned his back to her, hand still on the edge of the table.

My sister was almost hanged, once, for something she never did.

He turned her way, but didn't look up from the dirt floor.

Son of a rich man died, and they wanted someone to blame, so they blamed her. Was a close vote, but she left town after that, and never came back. Can't say I blame her, after what happened.

He wavered, then sat. Don't wants to talk it, Ma'am.

She rested her hand on his. Especially to some stranger that just landed in your yard. I understand. My sister doesn't talk about it either. Changed her entire life, and she never says a word about it. Look, it's ok. Really, I don't mean to impose. I just— I... if there's something I need to know before I get to town, that's all of your story that I really need. That's all that would be helpful to me, right now. She gave his hand a gentle pat, then returned to her mug. Sis was lucky. When she left, she had already found the love of her life. And had already talked him into going with her.

Wasn't lucky for me.

She patted his hand again. There's always a fresh start in a new town. It's something to think about.

He watched her hand as it left his for the last time that night. Twelve, huh? How far a walk might that be?

She shrugged. You're the most remote I've ever seen. Months to the closest at least, but it isn't the best. Bestoms, which is pretty good, is about in the middle of it all and is, maybe, a year by foot. She paused. But it's hard to really say. The woods are thick, the hills are steep, and I've only seen them from the air. So, it's just a guess on my part. I've never walked from one town to another, not ever. By air, it can be covered in a single day. Same can be crossed in half the time by plane. She smiled as she leaned back in the chair. You ever seen an emu? She smiled when he perked up and finally looked her in the eyes. He had kind, but very sad eyes. It's a flightless bird, big as I've ever seen. Each egg is bigger than a bowl, and a big emu can weigh over a hundred pounds.

He leaned back in his chair. A bird that big? Never heard of such a thing. Not never.

She smiled wide. Emus. My aunt Dawn talked about them once with my sister. Turns out it wasn't just another of the wild stories she was known for. There was a family that had raised them centuries ago, locked in right here, by the same mountains that surround us now. Jonestown was the name of the place. But unlike other farmers that were around when civilization collapsed, they never harvested their flock for meat. She tapped the table by his lamp, then slid it to the side so it no longer hid her gestures. "See, when the fertility problem hit, it hit all of a sudden. When it takes years to bring a cow to market, farmers think short term. When people were starving, farmers' thoughts shifted to quick profits, so they slaughtered three times as many as usual, thinking the herd could easily recover when times got better and crops recovered. But that took populations down too far too fast. When they discovered the vast majority suddenly couldn't reproduce, it was already too late. Since those animals were only used for food, and people demanded to eat, the farmers had no choice but to give in to demand. The big livestock animals like cows and buffalos never recovered, and are probably extinct by now. Nearly repeated the same mistake with deer.

But emus, they were another story. They were almost considered pets and were raised for their eggs, rarely eaten for their flesh. Because of that, their tiny farm, run by a single family tucked away, well off the beaten path, didn't fall under the same kinds of pressures other farmers succumbed to. Not only that, but emus averaged eight eggs a clutch, three clutches a year, and often have eighteen productive years in a lifetime. A single productive couple could easily have around five hundred offspring in their lifetime, and even those thought infertile still managed dozens of births out of those hundreds of eggs. The shells even change color so you can tell at a glance which are fertile, and which are breakfast. Kept safe from predators, they had nothing to rebound from and easily thrived into herds that numbered in the thousands.

Still abundant, even now.

But the town was so remote that this wondrous bird never had a chance to spread... until recently. Emus, she smiled. Would have been nice if Aunt Dawn had had a chance to see them again before she died. She looked him in the eyes, It would have brought a smile to her face for sure, just like it did for me. They look a lot like giant, long legged and long necked, wingless turkeys. It's a wonderful irony, I think, that a flightless bird only became truly popular, thanks to a girl in a helicopter. She adjusted the lamp. Each bird contains about three gallons of oil."

Lamp oil? he said, almost enthused.

It burns, sure. But it really shines in soaps and such. Makes one of the best hand lotions I've ever used.

Easily been a decade since I've had eggs, and getting oil every year is a horrible chore. He stared at the blackened windows of an overcast night. If you weren't here, I'd probably never have lit this one.

She turned it down. You think it might rain?

He inched it back up, but not as bright as it was. Yes Ma'am, been feeling that way. How far would someone have to go to get a couple emus?

By foot, it's too far. I think Aunt Dawn was right about transportation being a key, transformative technology for societies. You should see how quickly it changes everything. Towns without it tend to stay locked in the past and are too easily ruled by bullies, while those with it get to share wonderful things like emus. Best thing about them is you can ship them as hatchlings, or even as eggs. Feeding them when they're that small is a chore, but even a gyro as small as mine can ship a few hundred eggs from town to town. She yawned, unable to fight back her exhaustion. But eggs are the least of the things it can bring. She got up and grabbed her bag. I've had a long day, Frances, and I'm not nearly as young as I was when my adventures started. If it isn't too rude, I'd like to turn in now.

He stood, lamp in hand. Yes Ma'am. He led her to another room. Here you go. It isn't much, but it's more comfortable than—

She looked in. I can't—

Oh, no Ma'am. I'll sleep on the chair. Done it plenty before.

She returned to the living room, placed her bag on a chair, then went outside.

Frances grabbed his lamp. It's not what— he ran to catch up. I couldn't ask a person to sleep on chairs no way, you understand. I—

It's alright, Frances. I have a kind of cot that I brought with me. It'll do better than a couple of chairs. She wrestled it out from under the gyro, then dragged it back to the house. She arranged the chairs and set it up in the room along a wall. I would feel just as bad if I kicked you out of your bed, as you would to have me sleeping on chairs. I planned to sleep in the woods on this anyway. Being indoors is a big bonus for me.

Chapter 2

When she woke the next morning, it was already raining.

As they stood by the window and watched the water come down, the dirt floor near the door slowly turned to soft mud, while smaller puddles formed by the windows.

How long have you been living here, Frances?

Born near here. This place, he shrugged, a few seasons.

Shadona looked up at the leaking ceiling. She guessed the mud and straw building wasn't more than a few decades old. Mud and straw construction needed constant repair, and this had been neglected for more than just a few seasons. Frances showed the same signs as his house. He had given up on himself and was just going through the motions, only repairing what he absolutely had to, just to get by. The home showed what the man tried hard to hide behind a tucked-in shirt and a belted, yet well worn, pair of pants. She squinted at him and still glimpsed the same qualities that made her circle back and land in his yard. You just grow enough for yourself, I see. You do much trading in town?

Once a year. Buy oil, pay taxes. Don't stay no longer than needed. He pressed the dirt wall with his hand, then leaned away. Can't afford nothing else.

You got any family in town?

He looked down, then walked to the table and sat on its edge. None to speak.

She walked over and joined him. I don't know anyone but you in this town, but back home I come from a large family. Nieces and grandchildren everywhere. My sister is still living around the town where I was born, the outskirts of the same one that tried to hang her when we were young. She rarely ever leaves. When her husband died, she kind of fell apart for a while. Her daughter Ruth moved home and stayed with her for three years, only moving out when my sister got better. Losing a loved one is a very hard thing to take. Even the strongest people can spiral out of control sometimes. I just wanted to sulk and be left alone when my husband died, years ago.

He straightened from a near slouch, Sorry, Ma'am.

She rested her hand on the back of his. No need to be. I loved him for a very long time. Forty wonderful years.

He looked her in the eyes. You kids when you met?

A drip added its splash to the puddle by the window. I had given up on love, when we met, and had thrown myself into teaching instead. My sister had been married for almost twenty years by the time I first laid eyes on him. He—

Older sister?

Shadona shook no. We're the same age.

How old are you?

She smiled with just the slightest hints of wrinkles, I'm older than you. People in my family don't seem to age normally. Aunt Dawn died before she was forty. My parents died in their sixties, within months of each other. I—

I'm forty-three. How much older can you be?

I met my husband when he was twenty, and I was about your age now.

He did the math in his head. Forty-three plus forty happily-married years equaled, You can't expect me to believe you're in your eighties. I might believe fifties, maybe, but not eighties.

She smiled anyway. "Thank you. But my age doesn't really matter. I look the way I look, I feel the way I feel, and I am as old as God wills me to get. I was very sad when my husband died, same as my sister was with her loss, I expect. Sadness is a bit like towns in that way. You can get stuck in them.

Stuck in the hopelessness of them.

Stuck on the thought that you have no choice but to stay in them.

Sadness is like a town. Sometimes you can change it, but sometimes you just have to move to where the happiness is. Sometimes, you have to find it. She patted his hand and looked outside as the wind blew the rain against the walls and spun the blades of her gyro. This may be where I found you, but it doesn't have to be where you stay. Life moves on. Sometimes like a leaf falling from a tree, like a leaf on a stream, or one on the ground. When you embrace the wind, wherever you find it, you don't always know where it'll take you. You just know where you're stuck if you don't go."

He watched the blades spin faster as a mini-wave surged under the door.

I'd be outside right now, wind relentlessly slapping against my tiny tent. The sound of the drops beating like a drum against the thin cloth. She patted her arms to resist the memory-induced shiver. You ever have to do a lot of camping in a tent?

He studied the features of her face while she looked out the window. No hints of eighty anywhere. Few hints of fifty. Just a blanket for the long walk into town. Isn't even waterproof, but it helps.

She walked him over to her bed, still held off the floor by the chairs like a makeshift cot. My parents called this a travois. It's fantastically useful. When it stops raining, I'll show you how it works. But it lets you comfortably double the weight you can carry, and it doubles as a ladder, a tent, and a cot. And can keep you safe from dogs by keeping you eight feet up in a tree. They're not that difficult to make. One of my students actually makes her living making these. Made this very one.

He felt the cloth. Cotton?

She smiled, Milkweed. It's more useful than cotton and easier to grow. She sat on it like a couch.

He sat beside her. We needed the rain, but I needed to weed today.

She tried her best to look depressed too. I can't fly in the rain, either. She put her hand on his, I've got some more cookies and tea. Nothing like a hot cup of tea to cheer you up on a dreary day.

He kindled a small fire in the earthen fireplace.

You're the furthest east I've ever gone, Shadona said as the rain continued into the night. Do you have any interaction with The Emperor's old army?

He shrugged. Every now and then a few will wander into town, mostly leave us alone. Usually they're lost or runaways, not true soldiers. Half starved, frostbitten, or skin and bone. Lost tends to troubles, but runaways usually fit in just fine. Haven't been any for years. He looked up from the crude map to town he had just drawn for her. But then, I don't get news out here, Ma'am.

She sat across from him at the table. You like the solitude?

He traced a circular stain on the table with his finger, then strummed it with a few rapid taps.

My sister wasn't the only one that abandoned life in town. My parents did too. They had this place, high enough on the mountain that it was very discouraging to reach by foot, was even challenging to get to by air. Their entire life, not a single visitor. But was it ever so beautiful, and peaceful, once you got there.

He looked up.

They had a modest little home, the same log house my mother was born in. Same one I grew up in. They lived there her whole life. She rubbed a circle of her own, without a stain to go by. I think they were happy there. I think they thrived in the solitude they shared. Some people do, you know. My sister lives that way too, in the same house she built with her husband. She traced the circle again. I hope I'm not putting you out too much, Frances. I'd hate to think I was abusing your hospitality.

He straightened. Solitude wasn't my choice. Is what is, that all. You get used to it, I guess, after you live with it long enough. And, eventually, being surrounded by people makes you uncomfortable, like it does me now.

Hope I'm not making you uncomfortable, Frances.

He quietly stared at the table.

She traced the circle with her finger again. How long have you been by yourself? she quietly said. But when he didn't answer, she circled instead. I've been surrounded by people for years since my husband died, and still been very alone. Even in a crowd. With teaching, you connect just a little with a lot of people. But it isn't the same kind of connection. It doesn't fill the void. She sighed, just a little. I can't believe it's rained as long as it has. Two days, and it looks like it wants to try for a third.

Clouds get stuck around here too.

She looked up and smiled. You got any good fishing around these parts?

There's a river not far from town, but I've never fished it. Reserved for the people.

Rivers are rare. Only one of the towns I've been to has one, and it didn't have much fish to speak of. My sister has artificial ponds — big tanks, really — dug into her yard, stocked with fish. She grows them like any other crop or herd of animals. Can build them anywhere. For a while, she made a healthy living just flying live fish to The Inn as a delicacy. She rummaged in her pack for an envelope and ripped it open. Have some dried fish soup here. All it needs is a bowl and some hot water. She ripped open another for him. Used to cost a week's labor in the field to earn enough to eat such a delicacy, when The Inn was the only place where you could get it. Now they sell a few dozen packages like this for about what a farmhand would earn with an hour of picking.

Frances got two bowls, the only two he owned, added the boiling water, and stirred it in.

Things can change faster than you think, Frances. Good ideas suffer from neglect, while silly fads take off. I stopped trying to guess the pace of trends anymore, but when they catch, they really go. She stirred it with a wooden spoon as she turned her focus to the soup. The best way to tell when it's soaked enough is when the broccoli is limp again, and the carrots and peas start to squish under your spoon. She covered the bowl with an upside-down plate to trap in the heat.

He mirrored the same.

She continued to tell him stories in an attempt to get him to open up, but he had been shut down for so long it may well have been impossible to do.

But she tried.

It was who she was.

It was actually something she was good at.

Opening up new people was very much like opening up a new town for trade. Reluctant and difficult at first, but it was usually worth the time and effort.

And just like towns, it required a certain amount of persistence, and an equal measure of patience.

Is it hard to fly one of those? he continued their long conversation, while the lamp flickered well into the night as it drizzled outside.

She touched the side of the pot, heating on the tiny stand above the lamp. I think it's starting to simmer. She sat on the chair. "It's very hard to fly. Probably the hardest thing anyone would ever learn. Less than one out of ten will ever master it, and my antique is far harder than most.

My Aunt Dawn, when she made the first one, she tried hard to include something she called a cyclic. That makes the blades actually flap, or change pitch, as they spin around. It's very complicated to build rotors with cyclic controls, but it makes it much easier to fly when you do.

Unfortunately, she could only get it to work on small models, nothing the size of my gyro. The moving, pivoting parts just wore out too quickly to make big versions practical, or reliable. Takes years to learn how to fly one without a cyclic. We have them now, but I grew up on this one, have flown it every summer. Sometimes, I'll take it up with no particular place to go, just to feel the wind on my shirt, see the ground disappear below my feet. It offers a view of the world that can't be matched, anywhere.

Airplanes that need runways, they just take a few hundred hours, and you can learn the basics in a few weeks. Six out of ten pass those classes."

He may not have been following everything, but he leaned forward like he was interested.

We've made a lot of progress with cars and tractors too. They don't fly, but move along the ground on wheels, like self-powered carts. Most new models can easily move three times faster than a man can run. They take just a few hours for anyone to learn. They've gotten very complicated over the years, compared to Dawn's first version. She paused when she noticed she had lost him a little. "Generally, to make something easier to use, you have to make it more complicated to build. More complicated to build usually means more parts, and more parts means more things to fail.

When you're on the ground, that's no big deal. It just means you have to walk if something breaks down. But in the air, a tiny failure can be fatal. She smiled. Dozen towns, but only eight have gyros, and only three have shops advanced enough to make them. Probably half of those ever made are used by my relatives. From a material and time perspective, they're very expensive to build. You could make dozens of tractors with the same material and time, or even three or four planes. Planes and tractors can move dozens of people or a few tons of cargo with each trip they take. My gyro, on the other hand, can only seat two, three at most, and is good for a few hundred pounds of cargo at best. It's only practical for trips like this, to towns without runways, or for moving one or two people hundreds of miles, quickly. She gestured outside, As long as it isn't raining, dark, windy, or too cold."

He stared at his lamp for a while. Been here since I was twenty, and I never thought of cooking something over my lamp before. Never heard of it anywhere before today. Never imagined flying, or riding on something rolling across the ground. He leaned back, then tried to clean a spot on the table with his sleeve. I doubt I'd fit in, in that world of yours, any better than I fit this one.

She patted him on the back of his restless hand. That's why I'm here, Frances. None of those other towns were ready to fit in on that first day I landed in their backyard. But people are good at adapting, much better than they give themselves credit for. They're good at seeing an opportunity when it comes by. But that doesn't mean it'll be easy. She let go. It's a daunting task ahead of me. But I'm good at teaching towns how to reach for the sky... and touch it.

He touched the pot with his hand. Sure takes a long time this way.

She shrugged. My mother used gas lamps to light the house, she gestured to the windows. "They sat on the sills and only stood, maybe, a foot tall. The smoke went outside like a chimney, but they'd heat in the winter, cook in the summer, and provide light all year round. They're still popular, though winter heating is largely done by solar now.

That's most of the stuff we have to offer a town like yours, is ways to do things more efficiently. The cooking is slower with your lamp, but if you were going to have it lit for the light anyway, might as well cook with it too. You burn the same amount of fuel, makes the same amount of light, and the hot meal, slow as it is sometimes, is free."

He leaned back in his chair. I don't see what you folks get out of it. You plan on selling all these lamps and such to people in town? Most arounds here as poor as me. He pointed at the window. I can't even afford glass for those.

Flying in stuff like that would be too expensive. We license such things. But more important than licensing agreements, we get people out of it, Frances. When most of the people in a town toil from morning to night just trying to grow enough food to survive, they don't have time for anything else. It took a room of thirty people almost two years to work through the equations to modify Dawn's jet engines so they would work on planes. She tapped a finger to her temple. Thirty people, thinking about a single problem for two years before it could be solved. The solution would never have been possible if they had to plow fields by hand, chop wood for cooking, pick cotton, and dig up potatoes all day too. I need the thinking people can do, I need it to solve the really big problems of the day. So, to free up those minds, we can afford to give—

He tapped the table with his finger and shook his head, Licensing?

Basically, that's where we show someone in your town how to build something, say one of those cooking lamps for windows, and they build them. But for every one they sell, they give us a small percentage of the profit. It's a fundamental principle—

Someone else builds it, does all the work, but you get something for each one they sell? He leaned back in the wooden chair and shook his head, both hands signaling for her to stop. They'd never do such a thing 'round here. They'd just—

She smiled. I know. They'd just steal it. Happens all the time. She ran her finger around the circle stain on the table. "Truth said, it almost doesn't matter to me if they do steal it. It's the freed-up minds that I'm most interested in, not the profits so much.

But the principle behind licensing is a very important one.

It means that you can own thoughts.

Ideas, if they're original enough, belong to those that created them.

Say you came up with a way to turn bug farts into... say, inexpensive window glass. With a licensing agreement, you'd make a few pieces of, let's call it Plexiglas, then you'd go to people that were already making glass, and you'd show them your new stuff without telling them how it was made.

If they were interested, you'd license the process to them and teach them the technique. They would do all the work on making the Plexiglas and selling it, and you'd get a small share of their profits. They do all the work and make a big profit, you do no additional work on it, at all, and make a small share of their big profit, that they never would have had without you, and everybody in town would get cheap Plexiglas instead of expensive glass. Everybody wins.

Without licensing, you not only have to come up with the idea, you have to build a business around it from scratch. Inventors rarely make great businessmen, and you'd have to do all your own sales as well. You have to make every window yourself, or risk letting its secrets get out.

You'd have to guard your secrets like a paranoid squirrel in a forest fire, while the traditional glass people hunt and harass you, and try to drive you out of business at every turn, because every piece of Plexiglas you sell, is a window someone closes to