"I meant, why recharge it, Sir."
"You've agreed not to call me Sir," Pick said. "Which brings us to what do I call you?"
"My name is George."
"Well, George, the reason I am recharging the battery is that this is my grandpa's airplane. Most light civilian aircraft like this one have been taken over by the armed forces, for reasons I can't imagine. This one, however, Grandpa got to keep because it was essential to his business. Or at least he got our Senator to tell the Air Corps it was essential to his business. He and our Senator, by happy coincidence, are old pals. By the time they had gone through all this, the pilots had gone into the Army Air Corps. You following all this?"
"More or less," Hart said, smiling.
"More or less, Pick, " Pick corrected him. "You will call me Pick. That is an order."
"Yes, Pick."
"Which left the airplane here unattended, so to speak. Airplanes which are left uncared for tend to deteriorate. The batteries, for example, go dead, and the tires go flat, et cetera.
Still with me, George?"
"Yes, Pick," Hart said.
"Better. So Grandpa, who is a master, by the way, of getting people to do things for him, remembered that the U.S. Navy, at enormous expense, had turned his grandchild into a Naval Aviator. Naval Aviators, Grandpa reasoned, know something about airplanes."
"And he said, `Go check on my airplane,' right?"
"Right. And so I pumped up the tires and took the water that had condensed in the fuel tanks out of the fuel tanks, and pulled the engine around to remove the oil that had accumulated in the cylinders. It was my intention to run up the engine, you see. Running up the engine is something one does when one's airplane has been sitting around."
"And the battery was dead," Hart said.
"And the battery was dead. George, you are a clever fellow, indeed."
"Yes, Pick."
Pick laughed.
"Give me a hand with this, will you?" The battery wasn't all that heavy, but putting it in its battery compartment was awkward. Hart wondered how Pickering had managed to take it out. Finally it was in place, and connected.
"Now we will open the hangar doors and push the airplane outside," Pick announced.
The huge doors of the hangar moved with an ease that surprised Hart. Pushing the Stagger Wing Beechcraft was easier than he would have thought, too, but obviously one man couldn't do it.
"What were you going to do if I hadn't turned up? You couldn't push it by yourself."
"Run it up in the hangar, of course," Pick said.
"Wouldn't the-wind from the propeller-"
"We Naval Aviators call that `prop blast,' " Pick furnished helpfully.
-prop blast have blown things around the hangar?"
"I don't know," Pick said. "I never ran an engine up in a hangar. "
This guy is a cheerful idiot, Hart decided. And then modified that: a nice cheerful idiot.
When the airplane was outside and turned at right angles to the hangar, Pickering opened another compartment in the fuselage and took out a fire extinguisher.
"You know how to work one of these?" he asked. Hart nodded. "Maybe we will be lucky," Pick went on, "but if there is a cloud of smoke and flames, you will extinguish them using this clever device. Think you can remember that?"
"Right, Pick."
"Do not stand where the propeller turns," Pick ordered solemnly.
"Getting whacked with a propeller stings."
"Right, Pick." Pickering pulled the engine through several times and then climbed into the cockpit. Hart saw him moving around inside, but he had no idea what he was doing.
The window beside Pickering opened.
"Clear!" he shouted, and now he sounded very professional.
Hart picked up the fire extinguisher, wondering if he would have to use it.
There was a whining sound, and then the propeller began to turn, very slowly. The engine coughed and stopped. A small cloud of dark smoke came out of the exhaust ports.
The whining of the starter began again, and then the propeller moved through several rotations as the engine coughed, burped smoke and died again.
It is not going to start, Hart decided, as he watched Pickering's head disappear as he moved around the cockpit.
The whining started again, the propeller turned, the engine coughed, coughed again, discharged an enormous cloud of smoke, and then caught with a mighty roar and began to run.
Hart could see a delighted smile on Pickering's face.
After a few moments the roughness disappeared.
I wonder how long it takes to-what did he say?-run up an engine?
He set the fire extinguisher on the ground and looked up at the cockpit.
Pickering was shaking his head and making gestures. After a moment Hart understood them: he was not to put the fire extinguisher down, but to get into the airplane with it.
Hart made a wide sweep around the wing and went to the fuselage door. It was closed.
The wind-the prop blast-blew it closed.
With some effort, he forced it open against the prop blast, laid the fire extinguisher on the floor, and then climbed aboard.
The prop blast slammed the door closed. He looked at the door, saw a handle that locked the door, and turned it.