/ Chapter 4 – Dreams of Fancy Flights /

The greyhound bus rolled down the highway, Frank looking out the window and reliving the memory of testing his peroxide rocket. A week ago Saturday, he pedaled his bike at 4am to a remote location out of town. A rickety trailer was attached to the bike, built out of spare lumber and wheels he scavenged from the junkyard. Within the trailer was his peroxide rocket and his Launch Control Center – which was a battery and a large button reclaimed from an old radio. By 8am, he'd been rolling back to the farm chock-full of the joy of triumph in his heart.

Fortunately, the weather cooperated with unseasonable February warmness with barely any snow on the ground. The launch had been a complete success, with the Rocket Gods smiling on him as they even allowed him to find the rocket with a couple of hours of searching. Frank knew recovery was often the most difficult part of a rocket launch and he was very happy that he found it with minimal trouble. The fact that the rocket had worked was a relief, not only because it represented a lot of hard work, but also because he now saw it as stepping stone to other things. Bigger things.

On this note, he was heading to the nearby University library hoping to do some research. There was a device he'd been watching for several years, hungrily looking at various science magazines, hoping for more news. It was a rocket worn on people's back that allowed them to fly. Fly like Superman or something. They were called "jetpacks," and the idea had set his imagination ablaze.

But he'd been very frustrated, because while there was much talk and lots of excitement, there was very little actual results. He read about some development here, or a little demonstration there, but he wanted jetpacks he could use. Frank would daydream about flying to school, casually landing in front of his classroom with the other kids staring open-mouthed at him.

"Morning, guys," Frank would say casually in his daydream. "Nice day for flying, eh?" He'd hang up his jetpack on a rack, like a coat. There couldn't possibly be anything cooler than this.

Several weeks ago, however, he spotted something that had to be an omen of some sort. He'd read about one version produced by Bell Aircraft that used hydrogen peroxide as a fuel, and suddenly the idea of a jetpack seemed real. Not just real in the sense that someone else might have jetpacks, but real in the sense that he could have a jetpack.

Now his rocket launch a week ago wasn't just about launching a rocket. It was about whether he had a working rocket engine that just might be adaptable to personal jetpack flight.

Since he'd read about the Bell jetpack, he'd scoured books and magazines for anything he could find about how to build one. Unfortunately, information was sparse and engineering diagrams nonexistent. He did find some pictures, however, and traced diagrams as best he could from them, but it was definitely difficult to get information out of that.

He made a plan to take the bus to the University library about forty miles away, which was much bigger and would have a better selection of books on control systems that he could use to develop his jetpack. The local library didn't have much in the way of deep technical books, which he knew was needed if his project was to be a success.

The bus rumbled down the road, Frank alternating between thinking about plans for his jetpack and imagining himself flying with it on his back, until he finally reached his stop mid-morning. He exited the bus near the university, bright sunshine and a cool breeze hitting him in the face, feeling like it would be a great day for flying – if only he had a working jetpack. He started off toward the campus; he'd been here before when he needed more information, so knew just where to go. Surely a full-blown university library would have something about building jetpacks.

Several hours later, Frank sat in the library, surrounded by various books on rockets and how they were controlled. Unfortunately, he wasn't finding anything particularly useful for jetpacks. He wasn't expecting a book like How to Build a Jetpack in Five Easy Steps, but he'd hoped there might be something on the subject. However, eventually he had to face the reality that information that specific simply didn't exist.

He took a break for lunch, and decided that he needed more basic research on exactly how rockets were maneuvered, the different types of fuels, and generally how much power would be needed to lift his weight off the ground and hopefully fly around. When he returned, he started have more success at finding useful information. One fortunate thing was that the university library had a new gadget called a copy machine that allowed him to make duplicates of book pages with especially useful information. The librarian seemed to have a soft spot for him, because she let him use it as much as he wanted.

As it approached mid-afternoon, Frank decided to take another break and flip through a Popular Science magazine. He came across an article about the 1964 World's Fair that was coming that summer, which he'd heard bits and pieces about. It sounded like an incredibly cool thing, but he was pretty sure Pa wouldn't be up for taking him there. He could dream though.

He eagerly read through the article, all the various exhibits exciting him about the world of the future. It was inspiring to read that there really were people trying to make things better, even if he was currently stuck in Pittsfield on a farm. Like Newton, he knew that eventually he'd make his escape and join the people making things happen. He had to be patient and bide his time, but he'd make it there someday.

Toward the end of the article, his eye was caught by an odd advertisement:

INVENTORS

Our organization is running a contest, looking for the most innovative
inventions that will improve the world. Help take us into the future and win a
prize for yourself! A grand prize of $50 will be awarded to the best invention
entered in the contest, with a possibility of marketing your invention to the world.
All inventions remain your property and you hold all patents.

Apply in person in the Main Hall at the 1964 World's Fair
in Flushing Meadows, New York on August 1st, 1964.
We look forward to seeing you and your invention!

Suddenly Frank's head was filled with the possibilities of a cool fifty dollars in his hands. He imagined the equipment and supplies he could buy with that money, since there was never enough of the latter to fund his various projects. And he had a barn-full of inventions – surely there was something that could win the fifty dollars.

Frank frowned, chewing on a knuckle, thinking about the contest. One wrinkle was that he would be going up against adults, many of whom would have much greater resources than he did, and would probably have some cool stuff of their own. He needed something good, something big, something that would impress the judges that only he deserved that fifty dollars.

Suddenly it hit him. He knew exactly what would win the prize. His jetpack. There was no way a jetpack would fail to win an invention contest. He imagined himself walking up to the judge – no, flying up to the judge.

"Sir, I am John Francis Walker. Oh? You don't normally see kids flying around? Well, you see, sir, that's why I'm here. Allow me to present my jetpack. No, no, please, applause is not necessary. Thank you for this check, I'll put it to good use inventing more things to improve the world. Oh yes, I have many other ideas. A job? Well, I am only 11, you'd have to ask my pa..."

But Frank soon returned to Earth as reality came back to him. There was the little teeny detail that his jetpack didn't actually exist yet, and he didn't quite have a handle on how, exactly, to build it. But he had five months to figure it out, and if he worked hard – maybe the hardest he'd ever worked – he knew he could do it. He had to do it.

Frank slowly bent the piece of sheet metal until it reached just the right angle. He checked a photocopied diagram on his workshop table, hoping the shape was close to the picture.

It was three months after his vow to make the jetpack a reality, and so far he was running into frustration after frustration. The first problem was that his fuel of choice, hydrogen peroxide, looked like it wouldn't cut it. In his reading, he'd discovered that the Bell jetpack's biggest problem was that the fuel didn't last long enough and had issues with maneuvering, and Bell was trying out some different fuels. Figuring that he might as well learn from their experience, he also decided to try some other fuels.

He even poked his head into the chemistry department of the university and pinned down a very nice professor who was willing to answer his questions about what fuels they might be trying. He didn't mention that he was actually planning on trying these things in reality, for fear that the man would withhold what he knew. In the end, however, Frank learned what he thought he needed to know.

Unfortunately, making peroxide work was far easier than other fuels, and he was running into considerable roadblocks. But this time, he thought he knew what was wrong, based on the pictures from the books. A few more days and he'd be able to…

"FRANK!" his father shouted from the doorway.

"Huh?" Frank said, looking up.

An irritated sigh blew out of his father, like a racehorse impatient for action. "You need to quit ignoring me, Frank," Pa said.

"I'm sorry, Pa," Frank said contritely. "I wasn't ignoring you; I was just thinking."

"If you can spare some of that brain, you were supposed to spread the fertilizer out in the east field."

Oops, Frank thought. He glanced at the clock, and the time had run away from him. Again.

"Son, this project of yours is getting out of hand," Pa said, with a frown. "You've never been this distracted. And that side job you've been doing is taking you even more away from the farm. We're right on the edge of spring, and it'll be time to plant soon."

"I know, Pa," Frank said, knowing all too well. "I'll help, it'll get done."

"Look, are you sure this gadget's worth all this time? I've been seeing you try to make it work and it's been a bust. What makes you think that thing will fly?"

"I'm optimistic?" Frank said.

Pa scoffed. "Optimism doesn't pay the bills or plant the fields or harvest the crops."

This irritated Frank. "Did you need optimism when the farm was having trouble? Why didn't you just give up?"

"I wasn't trying to make some flying contraption that doesn't even work," Sam said, getting angry now.

"I can make it work!" Frank said, his own temper flaring.

"No, you can't!" his father shouted back. "And maybe it's time you figured that out!"

Frank pulled himself back and pushed his anger down. It wouldn't be good to make his father too angry such that he might forbid him working on it all.

"I'm not giving up," Frank said more quietly, but firmly. "The crops will get planted, Pa. Just give me a few minutes and I'll do the fertilizer." He turned back to his project.

Frank heard his father breathing in the doorway for a few seconds, then exited. He knew he had to tread a delicate balance with Pa, and lately he hadn't been paying as much attention to that as he should. His father tolerated his projects, for which he was grateful, but if it started interfering too much with the farm work, that was liable to change in a hurry.

He made a promise to himself – starting right now, it was farm first, jetpack second. It was also worth keeping in mind that he hadn't yet broached the subject of his trip to the World's Fair, for which he was saving up his money from his side job. Pa was much more likely to allow him to go if the farm was humming along well, which put him generally in a much better and more tolerant mood.

Sighing, feeling like he was calmer now, Frank put down his work and headed out to put down the fertilizer. He decided to do a double-duty that day to make it up to Pa and hopefully get his father out of the mindset that the jetpack was becoming a problem.

Frank decided that today was the day.

Sam Walker had traveled into town to a farmer's meeting, which assured Frank of at least four hours of uninterrupted peace. Frank had waited for just the right time of his father being away from the farm so that he could try out his jetpack, which he thought was about as ready as it would ever be.

It was a bright and sunny late June day, the sky filled with white puffy clouds. While he knew it was ridiculous to worry about cloud cover for his jetpack test, he couldn't help but fantasize soaring through the air and possibly having visibility trouble if he got high enough to hit fog. Absurd or not, he decided that if he did get that high, he would stay below the cloud ceiling.

In truth, the whole thing made him nervous, considering that it was, technically, very dangerous to actually leave the ground. But he had come this far, and it was time to see if his dream could be a reality. He tried to do as much as could regarding safety; he'd gotten an old motorcycle helmet, as well as some goggles. Unfortunately, there just wasn't much else he could do. He'd tried to start off with a very small amount of rocket power, but he couldn't really get off the ground. He needed a full test.

Frank stood in the yard, hands on the control sticks. The controls were from bicycle handlebars, each with a hand-brake. But his weren't brakes; one was the starter for the engine, while the other was the throttle for the power. By moving the control sticks, they would change the angle of the engine thrust, hopefully giving him steering capability. Hopefully.

He started his countdown. "Ten. Nine. Eight," he said out loud, his nervousness increasing with each digit. "Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Ignition." Frank hit the engine start, which to his relief, at least started up. He prepared to launch. He squeezed the handle for engine power.

The machine suddenly jerked him forward, causing him to fall on his belly. Unfortunately, the surprise of falling caused him to involuntarily clench his hand, giving him full power. Frank yelled out as he shot across the yard into the crops, which also caused him to go completely out of control, flipping and twirling, spraying excess fuel from his engine everywhere. This went on for a good five or ten seconds before it suddenly occurred to him to release the handles. The engine immediately shut down, leaving him lying in the dirt in the middle of the field.

Frank lay there dazed, trying to get his wits back. He unhooked the middle belt and shook off the jetpack, then stood up and vaguely realized he smelled something burning. He looked around wildly and saw corn plants smoldering and patches of fire here and there, and he panicked as he realized that he needed to put it out before it got out of control.

He stamped out some smaller fire around him, then ran over near the barn and got a water hose. It was fortunate that the fires were relatively close to the yard. He sprayed water over the large fires, putting them out before they could spread significantly.

Finally, he felt like things were back in hand. He dropped the hose to the ground and turned off the water. He slowly walked back and surveyed his disaster, feeling stunned at the level of failure. The field opened before him like a theatre playing some Shakespearean tragedy starring his jetpack in a one-machine show. It humbly lay in the middle of the field, surrounded by a funeral pyre of blackened crops. For himself, he was bruised and battered, but didn't seem to have any serious injuries, for which he was grateful. Clearly, he'd been far too confident in his ability to control the thing.

The bigger problem was that he knew his father would be furious, and there was no hiding all the bare patches in the field that Pa would no doubt notice the second he got home. Frank had no idea how he was going to explain this. Sam Walker barely tolerated his projects and never seemed overly impressed by anything he did, but this event took things to a whole different level. The idea of burning the farm was like burning his father's dreams.

Frank walked dejectedly over to his jetpack, picking up one end and dragging it back to his workshop, leaving a sad trail of defeat in the dirt. There was nothing to do except wait for his father to return and try to explain what was unexplainable.

Several hours later, his father drove up in the truck, parking it as usual. Frank had decided in the meantime to explain to him right off, rather than have his father figure it out for himself. Frank knew his father would respect him for 'facing the music,' which might buy him a tiny bit of a break. But he knew it wouldn't be enough.

"Pa, I need to tell you something," Frank said, fear coursing through him. "I had an accident with the jetpack. Everything is okay, but part of the field got burnt."

Sam blinked in surprise, then his temper started to rise. "What!?" he yelled. He looked around and then spied the blackened ground. He jogged over to check it out for himself, then blew out a breath in relief when he saw it was a relatively small part of the field.

Frank just waited by the truck, watching the process. Pa started to walk back to Frank, his face hard as stone, with a look of deep disappointment.

"Son –" Sam started, then stopped with a heavy sigh. "Well, first off. Are you okay?"

At some level, Frank was gratified that at least his father asked. "Yeah, Pa. I'm okay. Bruised up, but I'm okay."

Sam nodded. "All right. Give it to me straight. What happened?"

Frank gave him the short version of the story, though he didn't characterize it as wanting to try it while his father was away, just saying that he'd been ready to try it.

"It was good thinking to get the hose," Sam said grudgingly. "I give you credit for that. But Frank. I've been patient with your contraptions. You've been working hard lately. I saw that and appreciated that. But when you're burning up the farm, things are out of control."

"I know, Pa," Frank said, trying to look as ashamed as possible. "It was a bad mistake. I see that. It won't happen again."

"That's not enough this time," Sam said, hard faced. "I'm not saying you have to stop with your gadgets. But this one's dangerous and I have to put my foot down. No more 'jetpack' or whatever you call it. You have to accept that you can't make this work."

Frank's heart sank, as his jetpack dreams seemed to go up in smoke, images of his fifty dollars burning as well. "But Pa…"

"Frank, it's not a good time to argue with me," Sam said in a low, angry voice, along with a warning glare.

The wisdom of this advice fortunately penetrated Frank's skull, which he realized had been far too thick lately. He realized that he needed to give his father some time to calm down, and he himself needed to think through how he could salvage the situation.

"All right, Pa," Frank said, giving in – for now.

Sam stalked off toward the house, entering through the screen door with the usual bang, though this one seemed extra loud.

Frank stood in the yard, trying to figure out what he could do that might calm his father down and possibly change his mind. Looking at the blackened crops, it occurred to him that while it was most likely too late in the season to replant, he could at least clean out the damaged crops and re-fertilize the soil.

He went to the barn and got out a rake and spent the next few hours cleaning out the damage and putting down a nice layer of soil so it didn't look so bad. There were still bare spots and there wasn't anything he could do about that, but at least it didn't look all burned up, except for a few scorched plants that he thought would still grow and were salvageable. Clearing out the evidence of his debacle helped his mood as well.

It was late afternoon when he finished. He went in and began making dinner for himself and Pa, deciding to make a couple of steaks and potatoes, which would most likely improve his father's mood. Sam just sat in the living room brooding with a Farmer's Almanac. Frank hadn't tried to talk to him, figuring the less said, the better.

Dinner itself was a silent affair, Frank just serving it up without comment. Sam read a newspaper, more-or-less ignoring him. The tension in the room was starting to get to Frank, as his father finished his dinner and then left the room, again without any comment. Pa didn't usually go in for the 'silent treatment,' so this was a bad sign.

Later that night, Frank poked his head into the living room, where his father was sitting in his chair, reading a fishing magazine. Fishing was his father's only hobby, so he thought this was slightly better and maybe it was relaxing him a little bit. Frank had decided on a strategy regarding his jetpack. His primary concern was winning the fifty dollars and being mid-summer already, he didn't really have enough time to fix things anyway.

"Pa?" Frank said tentatively.

Sam slowly lowered his magazine, his eyes narrowing. "Yeah?"

Frank figured that his father expected him to beg for more jetpack time, so he was happy he could surprise him a bit. "Pa, maybe you're right that I need a break from working on the jetpack."

Sam raised an eyebrow, but then fell into a suspicious look.

"There's something I'd been thinking about for a while," Frank said, trying to keep his voice casual. "It's part of the reason I made the jetpack. I didn't know how it would go, so I haven't brought it up, but the World's Fair is in Flushing Meadows this year."

"Frank, I don't have time to take you to Flushing Meadows," Sam said firmly.

"I didn't think you did!" Frank said quickly. "But there was this contest where people could enter inventions and win fifty dollars. I wanted to enter my jetpack. I don't know how it'll go now, since I couldn't make it fly, but I've been saving up to take the bus. I even budgeted money to stay at the hotel for two nights so I could check out the Fair. I'll plan the whole thing! And I'll do extra work before I go, to make sure things don't get behind."

"You're only eleven years old," Sam said. "That's young to travel by yourself."

"Twelve in a couple months!" Frank said, trying to keep his cool, but now sounding desperate. "Pa, I know I messed up today, but I put so much work into this. I'll make it up to you however you want. Just please let me do this."

Sam looked like he was at least considering it. Frank knew that his father respected hard work, so hopefully he would be sympathetic to wanting it to pay off. Frank was silent, giving him a minute to think.

"Not sure about this," Pa grumbled. "You don't really deserve a special trip. Feeling like I'm rewarding you for burning the crops. You could have killed yourself."

"Really, Pa," Frank said, giving extra remorse. "I'm sorry. I learned my lesson. I really do understand how bad I messed up and how bad it could have been. I swear I'm not taking the whole thing lightly."

"On t'other hand, I think a trip on your own would do you good," Sam said. Frank's heart soared at this. "My pa sent me at twelve on a train to visit my Aunt Flo and Uncle Larry. Didn't kill me, though it was scary. It taught me to handle myself."

"Really?" Frank said. "What happened?"

Frank was actually interested in the story, though as a side benefit, he was thinking telling the tale would relax his father and put him in the frame of mind to let him go. Sam related the story and Frank's theory was confirmed as Pa's mood improved as he described the trip.

By the end of the evening, things were settled. They discussed some extra work Frank would do, but he hardly cared about that. He was going to Flushing Meadows.

Author's Note: Aww, poor Frank. :) Reviews are greatly appreciated!

The official story site is at www. frankandathena .com for discussions of the story! - T.K.