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'Do?' replied Fnorp. 'We aren't going to do anything. Lola has turned out admirably – so much so that we've got her a leading role in Girls Make all the Moves, a thirty-something romantic comedy novel. No, I'm really here because I'm worried about Randolph.'
'I … see. What's the problem?'
'Well, he's just not taking his studies very seriously. He's not stupid; I could make him an A-4 if only he'd pay a little more attention. Those good looks of his are probably his downfall. Aged fifty-something as he is and what we call a "distinguished grey" archetype, I think he feels he doesn't need any depth – that he can get away with a good descriptive passage at introduction and then do very little.'
'And this is a problem because—?'
'I just want something a bit better for him,' sighed Dr Fnorp, who clearly had the best interest of his students at heart. 'He's failed his B-grade exams twice; once more and he'll be nothing but an incidental character with a line or two – if he's lucky.'
'Perhaps that's what he wants,' I suggested. 'There isn't enough room for all characters to be A-grade.'
'That's what's wrong with the system,' said Fnorp bitterly. 'If incidental characters had more depth the whole of fiction would be a lot richer – I want my students to enliven even the C-grade parts.'
I got the point. Even from my relative ignorance I could see the importance of fully rounded characters – the trouble was, for budgetary reasons, the Council of Genres had pursued a policy of minimum requirements for Generics for more than thirty years.
'They fear rebellion,' he said quietly. 'The C of G wants Generics to stay stupid; an unsophisticated population is a compliant one – but it's at the cost of the BookWorld.'
'So what do you want me to do?'
'Well,' sighed Fnorp, finishing his coffee, 'have a word with Randolph and see what you can do – try to find out why he is being so intransigent.'
I told him I would and saw him to the door.
I found Randolph asleep in bed. He was clutching his pillow. Lola had gone out early to meet some friends. A photo of her was on the bedside table next to him and he snored quietly to himself. I crept back to the door and banged on it.
'Wshenifyduh,' said a sleepy voice from within.
'I need to run one of the engines,' I told him. 'Can you give me a hand?'
There was a thump as he fell out of bed. I smiled to myself and took my coffee up to the flight deck.
Mary had told me to run the number-three engine periodically and left instructions on how to do so in the form of a checklist. I didn't know how to fly but did know a thing or two about engines – and needed an excuse to talk to Randolph. I sat in the pilot's seat and looked along the wing to the engine. The cowlings were off and the large radial was streaked with oil and grime. It never rained here, which was just as well, although things didn't actually age either so it didn't matter if it did. I consulted the checklist in front of me. The engine would have to be turned by hand to begin with and I didn't really fancy this, so got a slightly annoyed Randolph out on the wing.
'How many times?' he asked, turning the engine by way of a crank inserted through the cowling.
'Twice should do,' I called back, and ten minutes later he returned, very hot and sweaty with the exertion.
'What do we do now?' he asked, suddenly a lot more interested. Starting big radial engines was quite a boy thing, after all.
'You read it out,' I said, handing him the checklist.
'Master fuel on, ignition switches off,' he read.
'Done.'
'Prop controls fully u
p and throttle open one inch.'
I wrestled with the appropriate levers in a small nest that sprouted from the centre console.
'Done. I had Mr Fnorp round this morning.'
'Gills set to open and mixture at idle cut-off. What did that old fart have to say for himself?'
I set the gills and pulled back the mixture lever.
'He said he thought you could do a lot better than you have been. What's next?'
