The Final Flight by James Blatch (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

“Fine. I got a little lost at Abingdon, but soon found my way back.”

Millie’s hand shook as he raised the teacup to his mouth.

Mrs Lazenby left the room and closed the door behind her.

“So, Mr Milford, what branch of the Royal Air Force benefits from your service?”

“I’m an engineer by trade. I used to keep various fighters and bombers in the air, but about ten years ago I found myself working on the electrical and now electronic side of things.”

“Interesting. Do you work with innovations like Autoland?”

“I’m impressed you know the proper name. In fact I did some work for the Blind Landing Experimental Unit just after the war and then worked with Philips to develop autopilot technology. Quite satisfying to see it in civil airliners today.”

“I’m sure it is. I see where young Milford gets his prowess from.”

Millie laughed. “I’m no match for Charlie when it comes to maths, I’m afraid. I’m much more of a practical type.”

The professor smiled. “And that is why you need some help with the numbers from us?”

“I’m not sure even Charlie could decipher these figures. It’s the sheer volume of sums needed. I think only a large computer will do.”

“Well, that’s what they’re best for. It’s frightening, actually, how quickly they can rattle through calculations. They can perform in an hour what a human would take many weeks to complete. Maybe months, actually.” Belkin clasped his hands together on the table. “So, Mr Milford. Exactly how can we help you?”

The professor spoke with a soft Scottish burr, possibly Edinburgh. Much clearer in person than on the telephone. He looked kindly and had a gentle manner.

Millie replaced the teacup on its saucer, knowing he was about to gamble with his own freedom and possibly much more.

“I need to be very careful about what I tell you. Do you think it is possible for you to treat this as an academic exercise, unrelated to anything physical, as such?”

“I see. I think so. Academic exercises are what we do best at Oxford.”

Millie delved into his sports jacket pocket and retrieved the tape. He placed it on the table between them.

“On this tape are numbers. The numbers represent distance, in feet, I think. I’d like to know if you can read it, and whether your computer could look through the readings and spot any imperfections.”

“Imperfections?”

“What I mean is, anything that makes little sense. A sudden jump in the numbers that seems implausible.”

The professor appeared to think about this and finally removed his half-moon glasses, waving them in his hand as he spoke. “You’re talking about variance, I think. A mathematical term for deviation from a datum. With the right parameters, then yes, as long as we can extract the data, we can create a routine to trawl through and highlight any sets of data that deviate outside of parameters we set. Something like a percentile scale. Do you see?”

“I think so. Basically, what I’m looking for is a pattern unlikely to exist in reality. So, for instance, you might get ten minutes of height readings in a range of say three hundred to four hundred, followed by a second or so of height readings that show one thousand two hundred, then it goes back to the original range. Do you think that’s possible?”

“I think so, yes. How many height readings are we talking about?”

Millie thought for a moment. “The tape records twenty-seven every second, and each tape runs for fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“Twenty-five thousand numbers on the tape,” said the professor. “It sounds like a lot to you and me, but to the machine, it’s just a few hours of whirring.”

“If you can read this tape, I am hoping to deliver one hundred more.”

The professor put down his tea and clasped his hands together on the table.

“Mr Milford, may I ask whether this is an official visit from an RAF officer? Or are you doing some freelance work?”

Millie looked around at the kitchen. Faded cupboards and yellowed ceiling. One door to a lower hung off its solo hinge.

“It’s not official,” he said, watching Belkin, “but it is Royal Air Force business.”

“I see. And yet I don’t. Which, I suspect, is your intention?”

“Professor Belkin, I do very much appreciate the delicate position I am placing you in. I think I can only appeal to your good nature to help an RAF engineer who needs a dose of modernity in, shall I say, a neutral environment.”

The professor seemed to consider this before giving a brief nod. “Very well. I do not operate the computer myself, I’m sure you appreciate that, but I do set the tasks for the boys in white coats and I believe I can enlist some help from the team.”

Millie exhaled.

“Wonderful.”

“Our first task is to read the tape. And I make no promises about the success of this. Lord knows if this tape will even align with our computer, but there’s only one way to find out. ”

A clock in the hall struck midday.

“If I can get you some more tapes in, say, ten days’ time, would you be able to read them before the end of term?”

“It depends on how long the processing takes, but in principle, yes.”

“When will you be able to let me know if you can read this tape?”

“I’m not sure. They are a keen lot, your son’s cohort, and the department is open on a Saturday. I may wander over later today and try my luck. But it might have to wait until Monday. Would you like me to call you at your work?”

“No,” Millie snapped back, more harshly than he intended.

The professor laughed. “Silly me, of course not. We are to move in the shadows, are we not? Perhaps you would leave a suitable contact?” He finished his tea as Millie wrote his home telephone number.

“You’re nervous,” Belkin said as he took the note.

There was a quiet tap at the kitchen door.

“I am. This is rather out of the ordinary for me and not without risk. But