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  I call Kylie with the news about the interface. She can’t wait to test it with the program, saying she’ll be over sometime tomorrow morning. I know Gramps is out in the shed, rummaging around for a solution to the wiring problem. I wish I could join him.

  Computers and Circuit Boards

  I’m up early enough to have breakfast with Mom and Dad before they head off to work. It’s nice, like when I was younger, before Gramps had to move in. I look at the fourth chair at the breakfast table and grin, trying to picture my little sister sitting there.

  “What are you so happy about?” Dad asks.

  “I was just wondering what it’s going to be like with a little sister,” I confess.

  “I’m glad you like the idea,” Mom says, giving me a kiss on the forehead as she gets up for more juice. I can’t help noticing her expanding stomach.

  “What’s it like?” I ask as she sits back down.

  She looks at me like she is surprised by my question. Then she smiles, and seems almost embarrassed. I expect the nurse in her to surface with a clinical answer, just like all of our other ‘talks’. I follow her gaze towards Dad, who looks back at her with a smile.

  “Well,” she begins, slowly gathering her thoughts, “physically, it’s hard to feel much of anything for the first three months. Sometimes at night though, I think about those cells dividing, multiplying, like my mom’s old percolating coffee pot.” She smiles at the memory. “I’ve felt the hormonal change take place. For me, my muscles seem to… vibrate, I guess is the best description, in anticipation. It’s like there’s new energy moving through me, which is really what it is; new life; another human being.”

  She stares across the table at the empty chair. Her eyes glow warm and misty. “Emotionally, I feel tremendous love, for your father,” she looks at him, “for you,” she says, placing her hand over mine, and then, moving it to her stomach, “for your sister.”

  She pauses, glancing down where her hand rests. “Over the next couple of months, it’ll begin to feel like I’ve been eating too much. My skin will stretch tight and itch and my back will begin to ache. I won’t be able to sleep very well. And then, on the big day, indescribable pain.” She stops, her hands clenched. I think I hear a hint of fear in her voice. Then she relaxes again. “But I’ll forget all that when I hold that new baby in my arms for the first time. I’ll look into her eyes, and the love will overcome the pain.” The glow returns to her eyes. “And life will continue on like it has for thousands of years.”

  It’s quiet for the next minute. I notice Mom check the time on the microwave. “That’ll have to be it for today,” she concludes, getting up, “or I’ll be late for work.”

  “Yeah, I’d better be going too,” Dad adds, clearing his dishes away. “Could you check the hy-gens for me?” He quickly disappears down the hall to their bedroom not waiting for my answer.

  A minute later I’m sitting here by myself while they get whatever else they need for the day. Then they are out the door. The house grows quiet. Handsome strolls leisurely up to his bowl to nibble. Then he walks over to the screen door and mews quietly, asking to be let out.

  “There you go, boy,” I say as he squeezes through the door, not waiting for me to open it wider. Apparently his business is urgent.

  I look across the driveway, towards the garage and past the old truck. I can see in through the window where Gramps has his shop. Then I see him pass in front of the window and back. I grin. He is already out there, tinkering away. I push the door open to go see what he’s up to.

  “Morning Tyler.” He greets me jubilantly as I walk in.

  “Hey Gramps. You sure got an early start today.”

  “Late last night, you mean.” He looks up at me over the top of his special glasses, smiling.

  “You mean you’ve been out here all night?”

  “Well, I took a short nap up on your couch about ten last night, but otherwise, yeah. I had an idea to help the windings go a little faster and I just wanted to see if it would work. Before I knew it, the sun was coming up again.”

  I look across his wide work bench and notice an old kitchen mixer, the kind that comes with all sorts of attachments. The remnants of the connecting piece of a ground beef grinder is sticking out the end. The auger that had once been used to push raw meat through the grinding plates, has been stripped down to its round, metal axle, except for a bump at one end; the outer end has been shortened, drilled, and tapped so a thumb screw can tighten down anything inserted into a newly cut slot.

  “Here,” Gramps says, excitedly handing me a drill. “Put a one inch wood bit in here and drill a hole in that piece of two by four.” He nods towards the wood while handing me a threaded brass connector. “Then twist this into the end.”

  I start my task without question, because I think I know his plan. I’m fabricating the piece which will steady the other end of the winding frame. At the same time, I watch as he attaches one of the winding frames Jennifer left with me yesterday. Then he waits for me to finish.

  “Great!” he exclaims, taking the freshly drilled two by four. “Let’s see how this is going to work.”

  He inserts the frame into the brass connector. I can see it isn’t tight. “So the brass thing is acting like a bushing?”

  “That’s right,” he responds slowly. “Now take hold of the two by four again and let’s see if it all works like I hope.”

  I steady the piece of wood. He plugs in the mixer and begins twisting the variable speed dial. The motor starts to turn slowly.

  “It doesn’t need to go too fast,” he informs me. Everything seems to be meshing smoothly.

  “That works pretty good.” I have to raise my voice a little to be heard over the motor. “That’ll make doing the windings go a lot faster. Now if there was a way to count the revolutions…”

  He holds up a finger. With the other hand he pulls one of those clicker counters out of his pocket. He holds it close to the grinder axle. The bump I had noticed earlier comes around to push against the clicker lever, incrementing the counter by one. “All we have to do is mount it somehow.”

  “Can this piece of wood be mounted somehow, too?” I ask as he turns off the motor.

  “Of course,” he replies, like it’s a silly question. “I planned this to be a one person operation. It’s the mixer that’ll move when a new frame needs to be inserted for winding.”

  “That’s good. Now all we need is some wire for the windings.” I figure we’ll have to buy the wire, and I don’t know where the money will come from.

  “It’s just another problem to be solved,” Gramps says. His voice almost always sounds encouraging. I grow hopeful. “You know how I never like to throw things out?”

  “Yeah. Mom’s always complaining that you have a ton of junk laying around out here,” I gently tease. It’s kind of a family joke.

  “There’s no such thing as junk,” he corrects me. “Only material to recycle that hasn’t found a new use yet. When I was your age, I got involved with my high school’s recycling project. Back then it was just glass and cans we were trying to keep out of the landfills.”

  “Yeah, those big piles of garbage where they tapped into the methane for power until a few years ago. We read about that in seventh grade.”

  “Yeah, and once that methane is gone, your generation gets to reclaim whatever they can from those piles to free up the land for a useful purpose,” he adds, sounding apologetic. “I always thought landfills were a bad idea. It’s too bad we didn’t have today’s technology to break that waste down back then.”

  “So anyway, we were talking about wire for the windings?” I say, refocusing our discussion. I have noticed recently, and more often, Gramps’ thoughts seem to wander sometimes. “You were saying you never throw anything out.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He startles a bit. “Take a look under the far side of the work bench, over by the wall there.” He points towards the end on the outside wall.

  I walk over and pee
r under the worn bench top. On top of the first shelf are some old gears. Some have axles attached, others just sit alone. I look back at Gramps.

  “Underneath,” he instructs me, wagging a finger, “in that makeshift box.”

  I reach under and grab hold of a homemade wooden crate. I yank on it, but it doesn’t want to budge.

  “Need help?” he asks.

  “No. I just didn’t expect it to be so heavy.” I get into a position to get better leverage, bracing myself against one of the workbench legs. Then I give a strong pull. The box slides, grudgingly, from its resting place of many years, leaving a trail in the build up of dust. Inside the box I see numerous motors of many sizes and shapes.

  “There’s your wire,” Gramps says. “All you have to do is harvest it, make sure you have enough length, and wind it onto Jennifer’s frames.”

  I look at him with a smile. Another problem solved. I pull one of the motors out. It must weigh at least twelve pounds. “Where did all these come from?”

  “Some are from refrigerators, some from washers or dryers; all sorts of obsolete machines. I kept them out of the landfills.”

  “And now we’ll find a new use for them,” I state proudly.

  “And then the casings can be taken to the salvage yard to be used for something else, too. That’s the way to do it!”

  I carry the motor to the near end of the big workbench and try to set it down easy. A soft thud still announces its weight to the room. I turn it around, looking for a way to crack it open.

  “You might need a grinder,” Gramps suggests, “and some of the wire may be different sizes and probably not the same size as Jennifer used.”

  “That’s not good,” I say.

  “Well, it’s not so bad either. You can adjust the number of windings for the different wire sizes to meet the requirements of the field strength you’re trying to generate.”

  He says it with such conviction that I don’t feel the need to question him. If Jennifer has a problem with it, she can listen to his explanation.

  “What time’s your girlfriend coming over to test the controller?” he slyly asks.

  I feel a little embarrassed and caught off guard. “Uh… I’m not sure; probably after lunch.”

  “Good. I’ll put the prototype circuit board upstairs by your computer. Then I think I’ll go take a nap. Work on the wire if you want. There are tools all around, but you know that.” He reaches up to one of the many shelves and pulls a grinding wheel down. “Just slip this in the drill.” The old abrasive wheel is not much more than a nub. “See you later,” he adds, stepping towards the door, forgetting about the circuit board.

  “Thanks Gramps,” I say as he passes through the opening with a wave.

  I rummage through the box of motors and select a smaller one that is held together by screws. I try to loosen them, but they are so frozen with age, that I strip the slots and have to grind them off anyway. Something tells me Gramps knew that would happen. It isn’t going to be easy, harvesting all the wire, but at least the price is right.

  It takes almost an hour to break into the first motor. I have to twist and pull on the axle to remove it from the housing. I look at the armature in a familiar way, knowing its brushes and commutator. I guess some of that stuff we learn in school is useful.

  It takes a minute to find a small pair of wire snips on the workbench. I cut the wire connecting the commutator to the motor’s winding and begin to unravel it. The smell reminds me of the time I watched Gramps attempt to fix an old radio. I had never seen tubes in anything electronic up until then, and that was the first time I had ever known anything electronic to ‘fry’, as he calls it.

  The ball of wire in my hand is growing rapidly. This is stupid. I stop. It would be nice if I could unwind the wire directly on to Jen’s frames. I sigh, and think about the process. It might be too difficult to go directly from the motor to the frame. What I need is something to wind the wire around as I take it off the motor.

  I look around the shop, spotting a pile of pipe in one corner. Out of nowhere a thought pops into my head; use Gramps’ mixer contraption to create a spool of wire from the motors. Then transfer it to Jen’s frames. I wonder again if I could wind directly from the motors. That would probably require two people.

  I walk over to the door, opening it to take a look outside. I sure wish Kylie would get here. I’ll go get the G-bits ready for when she does. “G-bits!” I’d forgotten to check the hy-gens like Dad had asked me to do.

  I head to the solar shed and quickly check the equipment. Finding everything to be working fine, I record my observations into the logbook. Then I grab another pair of used plates and head up to the loft to harvest and convert the bits. We’ll need a lot more before our test flight can be made.

  Gramps is awake to join me for lunch, though he’s moving pretty slow, not waking easily from his nap. Kylie calls, asking if I can pick her up. She wants to test with the computer Jared brought up from storage, and bring her laptop so she can modify the program during the test if needed. I’m there in fifteen minutes.

  “You look ready to go,” I comment as she walks out of their house, laptop trapped under her arm. She lays it gently on the seat in the truck.

  “You bet,” she replies. “I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you called yesterday. Help me with the other computer?”

  I follow her in to get the rest of the equipment. On the way, it seems she is dressed nicer than when she’s just hanging out around her house. Her hair is neatly styled, and as she turns to carry the keyboard and monitor out, I notice a slight touch of makeup. I must be smiling.

  “What?” she asks, smiling back.

  “Nothing,” I answer, a little embarrassed by my unkempt appearance. “You just look really cute today and I feel like such a slob.”

  “So what else is new?” she jokes, heading out to the truck.

  I grab the other computer and follow her. We place all of the equipment between us in the front seat. I drive a little slower to keep from jostling the electronics too much. We sure don’t need any equipment failures.

  “So what’s Jared doing?” I ask as we drive back to my house.

  “He just went out to the hangar to get ready to weld.”

  “You mean he’s just getting started?”

  “Uh huh,” she answers.

  “I thought he’d have most of the welding done by now.” My voice probably sounds disappointed.

  “Dad asked us this morning, not to work alone out there,” she explains, “just in case something were to happen. Jen will be getting there soon. Don’t worry. He’ll get it done.”

  “Seems like there’s always rules for what we can and can’t do,” I observe. “And we’re short on time.”

  “Well, it would be even worse if Jared got seriously hurt and ended up in the hospital. Or,” her voice softens, “if something bad happened to you.”

  I look over at her. I can see worry in her eyes. “Your dad’s probably right. And I know about carelessness. But nothing bad is going to happen to either your brother or me,” I assure her, reaching my right hand up to cover hers where it is holding the computer steady.

  “I hope not,” she says quietly. “I don’t want to lose anybody else in my life, at least not for a long time.”

  I pull my hand back to the steering wheel to turn into our drive. Parking the truck in front of the garage, we carry the computer equipment upstairs. We have it set up and humming away in less than ten minutes. I head downstairs to retrieve Jennifer’s original containment field, now with more windings, and the circuit board. Gramps happens to come in the door as I start back up the stairs.

  Kylie takes the board from me and looks at it closely. “What are these DIP switches for?” she asks a moment later.

  “I figured you might need a way to address each board and that’s where you’ll do it. I used an eight bit address. Right now though, it’s set to accept anything for testing.”

  “Hmm,” she
puzzles. “My test program only sends a stream of data. I’ll have to add the addressing function. I guess I was most concerned with just sending data about power. I only have a single slider control on this test program.”

  “That’ll work okay for now,” Gramps says. “The addressing will be necessary for flying though.”

  “I’ve been thinking it would be nice, since the G-bits can’t be contained when the power is off, to have three levels of control,” I suggest, “two static and the third dynamic, enabling flight parameters.”

  “How do you want that to work?” Kylie asks.

  “Well, there’s a minimum amount of power that’s needed for containment. In that mode, we insert the G-bits into all of the fields. If we have too much power, it might cause the craft to lift on one side or the other, making it unstable.”

  “I can understand that,” Kylie agrees.

  “Then, in mode two,” I continue, “the power would be increased to zero G, essentially giving the saucer the ability to hover. I would like to have that mode to allow some tuning of the fields to make sure they are all lifting the same; to balance it. Then in mode three, any additional power will cause lift and maneuvering ability.”

  “Sounds like some good ideas there,” Gramps says. “But can’t the program, if it were interfaced with a horizon indicator, take care of the balancing act?”

  “I suppose,” I answer, “but we need to balance in all four directions since, when it’s not moving forward, it will be hovering in place.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right,” Gramps agrees. “I keep forgetting this thing is not going to fly like an airplane.”

  “So, let me summarize,” Kylie says. “I need three modes of operation, two system-wide and one with eight bit addressing for flight controls.”

  “That will be a good start,” I confirm. “And a way to calibrate the zero G mode.”

  “So a virtual slider of some kind for each field,” Kylie mutters to herself. She opens a notepad and starts writing.

  “Is that possible?” I ask apprehensively.