2018-06-15 Skyboard 2/4

"Nothing about this aircraft should be legal!" I remained silent. I knew he was bluffing.

I had finished the rigging and the indoor static tests and was preparing for the first outdoor static tests when the glider pilots came by again. Unfortunately, the girlfriend was audible even before she was visible. My spirits sank, and I mentally scratched off my plans for making progress for the rest of the day. Putting a brave face on the situation, I greeted the pilots.

There was much comment on the progress I had made. It was something to see: the full hull, rigged and loaded, tugging gently at her lines in the middle of the space. Her keel was about a meter clear of the floor, and the distilled water in the ballast cells refracted rainbows from the overhead lights onto the concrete. She seemed eager to go.

The girlfriend walked right up to the hull and poked one sharp fingernail into the envelope. Fortunately, it was tougher than it looked. If it had been a common polymer used for balloons, she would have holed it.

I moved quickly toward her, palm out to signal 'STOP.'

"Step away from the aircraft. Please don't do that again." I was polite but did not attempt to remove the sharpness from my voice. I would not hesitate to grab her if she repeated her attack on my creation.

She stuck out her lower lip and looked pissed. Her boyfriend cajoled her away from the skyboard, and I let it drop. It was clear that her own self-control was defective, but as long as her boyfriend engaged her, I did not care what she thought of me. The thought of her in my lab gave me a crawling sensation every time I turned my back. I made an effort to keep her in my peripheral vision, the same as I would a wasp in the room.

The other pilots had appropriate and stimulating questions. I put up a ladder, and several of them took turns feeling the lift and balance of the tethered skyboard. I had not yet fitted the foot bindings to the deck, and we had a lively discussion about the best placement for those and for the safety reel. The fittings for the hydrogen gas filling and pressure management also came in for some examination. I seem to recall that one of the pilots was a welder, who remarked on the numerous safeties I had designed into the skyboard and the ground equipment. I had safety signs posted everywhere, a habit carried over from my aerospace experience.

I was just turning from pointing out a nice bit of rigging to see the obnoxious girlfriend standing under the curve of the hull with a freshly lighted cigarette—and she tossed the lit match against the hull!

I leaped for her, but the two pilots nearest her got there first. They grabbed her—she didn’t seem to expect that—and hustled her out the big door. I don’t think her feet touched the ground until she was outside. I stepped on the smoldering match, then examined the envelope. Fortunately, there was barely a smudge; the momentary contact had not been enough to begin to melt the envelope.

Every hair on my body was standing up.

I gestured the group to join me outdoors. I wanted everyone away from the skyboard for the moment.

With my back to the lab, I stood a few meters opposite the girlfriend and her pilot. I was so angry I was shaking. My vision was razor-sharp from the adrenaline. The rest of the group stood to either side of the three of us, putting a bit of distance between themselves and what was shaping up to be a confrontation. Everyone had a good view.

I hate confrontations. I can never tell what people are going to do, and I hate that feeling, of having no control and no idea of what will happen next.

"You are welcome to kill yourself, but please don't do it on my property, and don't take any of my friends with you." It was not the nicest thing to say, but it was the truth, and it was as clear as I could make it at the time.

"What?" Her response seemed less about what I said and more affronted by being challenged at all.

"You heard me. If your match had melted through to the hydrogen and lit it off, you would have been the first to die. But most of the people standing here might have been killed or badly burned. If you want to die, that's your business, but don't kill anyone else, and don't do it in my lab."

"I did no such thing. You're lying." No hesitation. Denial as fast as reflex.

"There are other witnesses." I waved one hand, palm up, to indicate the pilots around us. A few heads nodded, but no one else spoke. "As this is an experimental facility, I have multiple cameras recording at all times. There are videos from several angles that show what you did."

That lower lip stuck out again, stubbornly. Seriously, how immature was this person?

It was clear I would not be receiving an apology, and that she was not feeling remorseful in the least. I decided it was time to remove the danger. "I want you off my property, now, and don't come back. If I see you again, I'll have you arrested and charged with attempted arson of an inhabited structure."

There was some profanity. It was not original or inventive.

I turned slightly to the pilot beside her. "You are still welcome here, but please do not bring her again." He nodded and turned as though to guide her back to their car.

She swore again, and this time, she flicked her lit cigarette at me. I think she meant to hit my face, but her aim and release were off. The cigarette landed in a small shower of sparks in the dirt just to my right. I stepped forward and ground out the embers, being careful to leave the filter end intact.

Her pilot had taken a firmer hold on her arm and was towing her doggedly toward their car. Her profanity varied slightly, but still lacked imagination.

I saw a few of the others exchange glances, but no one left with the couple. I don't think anyone wanted to be within earshot of the conversation they would be having.

I was partly sympathetic to my pilot friend. I genuinely hoped he would dump her, and the sooner the better. He seemed like a nice guy.

As for her—I didn’t want her back on my property at any time in the future. In my experience, someone who would poke a balloon like that is the same sort of person who will flip switches or turn valves 'just to see what happens.' Throwing a match in a flammable environment crossed a line into criminal negligence at best, and psychopathy more likely. In a technological society, I think people like that are a clear and present danger to everyone around them, and it’s only a matter of time before they cause a serious incident. I did not want that to happen in my lab.

Thoughtfully, I bent down and retrieved the cigarette butt, picking it up by the burned end. I tucked it into a sample envelope and put it in my pocket. Evidence, just in case.

We all went back inside. The mood was understandably subdued, but the evening ended without further problems.

Over the next couple of weeks, I made good progress on the static tests. I was watching the weather forecasts closely and making plans for my first untethered flight tests when several vehicles pulled up to the lab. Two of them I recognized as belonging to my glider pilot friends, but the third was an unknown. I rolled the big door closed, feeling as much as hearing the clang of the latch under my hand.

I greeted my friends, then turned to the man in a dark suit who had gotten out of the sedan. Now that I got a better look at its hubcaps and trim, it was clear that the car was from a government motor pool. Not good. I greeted the man politely and asked, "Can I help you?"

I am not the best judge of emotional responses, but I think the pilots looked a little embarrassed.

He flashed a shiny gold shield in a leather carrier, fast enough that while I could read 'Federal Aviation Inspector', I didn’t catch the smaller number across the bottom.

"I'm Inspector Newton. I'm here to inspect your 'aircraft'." You could hear the quotation marks. It was a direct insult, impugning my work before he'd even seen it.

I tried to conceal my annoyance behind precisely correct manners. "May I ask the purpose of your inspection?"

Newton puffed up a bit, then blustered, "I'm here to evaluate the aircraft's safety and compliance with regulations." He stuck out his chin as if expecting a challenge.

At this point, I should probably repeat that I had designed my skyboard from the beginning as an ultralight. At that time, there were practically no limitations on the ultralight class, except that the aircraft had to weigh less than a certain amount. I think it was two hundred fifty-four pounds or some such. Anyway, I had kept it under ninety percent of the maximum weight, so I was safe.

The significant thing was that there was no mandatory inspection for ultralights. You could sew together a parasail in your kitchen, strap a lawnmower engine to your back, and launch yourself into the wild blue yonder, as long as the full kit weighed something less than the limit. Newton was trying to pull something. He should not even have known anything about my work.

Somebody had squealed. I had a very good idea who.

Another item was that I had been to the nearest Flight Standards District Office (FSDO) months ago, and I did not recognize Newton. I had spoken with a very nice person—I forget her name—who made sure I had all the latest guidelines for the ultralight class. There was no mention of any inspection. I did not give my address. This Newton was new on the scene, or he came from outside my FSDO district. Why was he really here?

An additional thought floated up from the back of my mind. If Newton was indeed from the FAA (and why would someone lie about that?), he was a federal agent. That meant that if I lied to him, even by accident, I could be charged with a felony.

I grudgingly and wordlessly lifted the latch and rolled open the door, revealing my skyboard in all her translucent glory.

The rest of the conversation did not go well. I answered direct questions with gestures where possible, documents where possible, and minimum words when unavoidable.

Newton demanded, "Show me your pilot's certificate."

"Don't have one." It wasn't required for flying ultralights, and he knew it.

"Show me this aircraft's airworthiness certificate." That was a trick question; the ultralight class didn't have airworthiness certificates.

For the rest of his demands, I silently pointed out on my copy of Part 103, the ultralight regs, the various relevant requirements, and pointed out those features on the skyboard and in the documentation I had been maintaining.

Newton walked around my skyboard for over half an hour, poking and pulling at this and that. He climbed the ladder but balked at stepping onto the lift deck. Just as well, as I did not believe his wingtips would provide a suitable grip, and an accidental fall was the last thing I needed.

He could not find a single thing against the regulations.

This did not surprise me, but it seemed to infuriate him.

My friends seemed completely cowed and maintained an uneasy silence. I was grateful for their presence. I have no idea what Newton might have attempted had there been no witnesses besides myself. I was careful not to point out my recording system, which was logging everything in high definition and surround sound.

Then Newton blew a gasket about the hydrogen. "You're building another Hindenburg here! What were you thinking? Nothing about this aircraft should be legal!"

I remained silent. I already knew that the certification for a commercial airship forbade the use of hydrogen as a lifting gas. However, the ultralight regs said absolutely nothing about hydrogen. Certified captive gas balloons could use hydrogen if they were designed for it. I was in an undocumented area, and he knew it.

Finally, Newton said, "You have failed to provide satisfactory evidence that this aircraft is in compliance. We will be proceeding with an enforcement investigation against your operation of this aircraft." He stared at me, daring me to say anything.

I knew he was bluffing. I just looked at him, trying to keep the contempt out of my face. He knew, and I knew, that he was trying to pull something, anything, out of thin air to justify slapping a cease-and-desist order on me. I think he was still hoping I would cave.

I suddenly realized that his posture, leaning slightly towards me, was not just his being aggressive. He was wearing lifts in his shoes! He wasn't actually average height; he was short and trying to compensate for it. Now that I recalled the stiffness of his walking gait, and in climbing the ladder, I perceived that he was also wearing a girdle. How much of Newton's appearance was false?

I simply stood there, staring into space over his left shoulder. I knew better than to get into a staring contest. After a few minutes, it became clear that his bluff had failed. He didn’t say another word, just stomped back to his car and drove off in a spray of gravel.

I didn’t think that would be the last of it, but it was an adequate first engagement.

I turned to the group of pilots. "Hey guys. Thanks for the moral support. Having you all as witnesses made a difference." My friends seemed reassured that I was not mad at them.

"Let me guess. He showed up at your field, asked where to find me, and made bogus threats against you all if you didn't help him."

They all nodded and a few shrugged. The current club president said, "He was kind of scary, Robin. You know a club like ours can't afford to fight the FAA."

"Not a problem. I understand completely. You all did the only reasonable thing. So, what happened with little miss light-my-cigarette-under-the-gasbag?"

That distracted them. The now ex-boyfriend of the arsonist related the high points of their acrimonious break-up. We all commiserated. The party broke up rapidly after that.

After the pilots had departed, I sat and thought. What makes a person into a petty, dogmatic bureaucrat like Newton? Yes, FAA inspectors have a job to do, and it's an important one. His 'inspection' of my skyboard was nothing of the kind. He came in with a fight in his eye. I could have shown him the most long-certified aircraft ever, with an impeccable logbook and a spotless pilot's certificate, and he still would have tried to deny that it was in compliance.

Was it simply status quo, that Newton had never inspected an airship like mine? If so, then someone told him enough about it for him to know it was unique. I wasn’t sure the arsonist was that smart or had paid close enough attention to report that accurately. I could have been wrong. What if I was underestimating her, and she was actually a very smart psychopath rather than a not-too-bright narcissist? She could be serious trouble.

Was there something wrong in Newton's world, and he was simply fixing blame wherever he could? That would not be easy to solve. I would have to go over his head and convince his superiors that they had a loose cannon on deck. On the other hand, if he was a new transfer, it was entirely likely he was dragging some baggage. If my complaint was simply one among many, it might not be too bad for me.

Was there any chance that Newton was operating from fear, that the specter of the Hindenburg was actually driving his behavior? If so, then why didn't he lead with that? Why the folderol of the rest of the 'inspection'?

I supposed that it was possible Newton was simply a negativist, one who reflexively says "No" to everything. I found it difficult to imagine that being a sustainable approach for an FAA inspector. It would help to explain his recent appearance. Perhaps he had been transferred to get him out of another regional office due to his negative work attitude.

I did a quick online search. Federal Aviation Inspector Brion Newton, FG-14, had a history of complaints, lawsuits, and rogue behavior going back over a decade. That was just the public news stories and court rulings. The FAA still hadn't fired him. This was a bad 'un.

My scalp tightened. My pulse thudded behind my eyes and in my neck. The fine hairs stood up on my forearms. I drew a deep breath.

Whatever his reasons, Newton had put himself in my way now. I was certain that he was not going to let this go.

This was a threat to my project. Even worse, it was a potential threat to my autonomy, my freedom to act. If Newton started wrapping me up in red tape, I would be trapped in a never-ending calendar of other people's schedules. Even though I knew I was in the right and that I would eventually prevail, the prospect of the long slog of a bureaucrat's war was exhausting and depressing to consider. I thought of the cases I knew from history, of legal battles over patents and trademarks and regulations. I considered the number of righteous inventors who had died penniless, or who had only won their rights when they already had one foot in the grave. I would not go that way, not over this project.

There was still time in the business day to set wheels in motion. I quickly made more online queries, followed by a couple of calls. I had a busy night ahead of me, and an even more challenging day tomorrow.