فصل بیست و دوم

chapter-22

The 700s room on the second floor (named for the Dewey decimal designation for the arts) was crowded with Library Olympians.

Every team had raced up the steps, hoping to be the first to grab The Paper Airplane Book by Seymour Simon. Its call number was 745.592.

Fortunately, the Lemoncello Library had eight copies of the book on its shelves.

“You guys?” whispered Miguel after the team had grabbed their copy of the book and huddled together under a Nerf basketball hoop in a secluded nook so they could talk without all the other teams overhearing what they were saying. “Everybody’s reading this same book.” “Because there are all sorts of neat paper airplane designs in here,” said Sierra.

“But,” said Kyle, “if we follow one of these sketches, our plane will end up being just like everybody else’s.” “We need my dad,” said Akimi.

“Huh?” said Miguel.

“Well, not my dad, exactly. But someone with his architect-slash-engineer brain.” Miguel slapped his forehead with his palm. He had an idea.

“Aerospace engineering,” he whispered.

“Six hundred and twenty-nine point one,” added Sierra.

It was Akimi’s turn to say, “Huh?”

“Sorry. That’s the Dewey decimal number for aviation engineering.” “Oh. Right. I knew that.”

“It’s next door,” said Kyle, checking out the other teams. All seven of them had settled in at collaboration stations to pore through the paper airplane book. “Follow my lead, guys.” He loudly closed their copy of the paper airplane book. “Okay, team. I think that’ll work. Come on. Let’s go fold some paper and use our paper clip.” “And the glue,” said Akimi. “Don’t forget, we have a whole dollop of glue.” The four teammates sauntered out of the 700s room. Miguel whistled casually. Sierra hummed along.

The other teams were too busy debating the design of their paper airplanes to pay them much attention.

When Kyle, Akimi, Miguel, and Sierra slipped next door to the 600s room, the place was empty. Since the 600s were all about technology and applied sciences, the team passed several animated exhibits and dioramas depicting inventions and one about industrial gases, which used Mr. Lemoncello’s patented smell-a-vision technology and reeked of rotten eggs.

“Great,” muttered Akimi. “We had to come in here on sulfur day.” When they turned the corner at the end of a bookshelf labeled “629–632,” they saw a holographic image of a bald man with a paintbrush mustache projected behind a desk. He wore a three-piece wool suit and fiddled with a small rocket.

“That looks like Robert Goddard,” said Akimi. “My dad told me about him. Goddard invented the first liquid-fueled rocket.” “He’s also on an old airmail stamp,” said Miguel.

The others gave him quizzical looks.

“Stamp collecting is a very interesting hobby.” “Robert Goddard really was a rocket scientist,” said Akimi. “Maybe he can help us design a better paper airplane.” The teammates moved closer to the hologram’s very real metal desk.

“Hello,” the hologram said, “my name is Robert. You can call me Bob. I designed and built airplanes and spaceships. When I was your age, I was considered a nerd. Now I’m on an airmail stamp.” “See?” said Miguel. “Told you.”

“Professor Goddard,” said Akimi, “what’s the best design for our paper airplane?” “That depends on your objective. Are you going for distance or aeronautical acrobatics?” “Distance, sir,” said Akimi. “Whoever can keep their paper plane aloft the longest wins.” “Then you should be folding what we rocket scientists call a glider.” “Because it glides?” asked Kyle.

“Precisely. I suggest going with a Seagull. Remember to line up the wing flaps for good balance. Set the dihedral angle flat or slightly up, the vertical stabilizers to approximately forty-five degrees to the plane of the wings…” “The plane has a plane?” Kyle was totally lost.

“Keep going,” said Akimi, who apparently understood engineer mumbo jumbo.

“Do not use the elevators or your craft will stall.” “No worries,” said Miguel. “We always use the spiral staircases.” Akimi and Goddard stared at him.

“Never mind these guys,” said Akimi. “I understand what you mean. My dad designed the library’s front doors.” “Incorporating the old bank’s vault door?”

“Yep.”

“I am impressed,” said Bob. “Will you be the one launching the craft?” “Yes,” said Kyle, Miguel, and Sierra.

“Excellent. Use a soft or medium throw by gripping the underside of the nose. This aircraft flies best when launched level or at a slight up angle from a high place. A detailed schematic with complete instructions is available in the top drawer of my desk. Good luck. And happy paper-folding!” Robert Goddard vanished.

Kyle pulled open the desk drawer.

There were eight copies of the Seagull paper airplane design.

“I guess there’s one for every team,” he said.

“If they think to come in here,” said Miguel.

But none of them did.

They were too busy, back at their worktables down in the Rotunda Reading Room, folding the paper airplanes they had chosen from that one book in the 700s room.

—

At one p.m., the eight teams brought their finished aircraft up to the third floor.

The eight designated fliers stepped up to the balcony railing, where they were joined by Dr. Zinchenko and the panel of holographic judges: Orville and Wilbur Wright, Amelia Earhart, Neil Armstrong, and Leonardo da Vinci.

The spectators were ringed around the rotunda, eagerly anticipating the paper aircraft taking flight.

Leonardo, decked out in his flowing robes and floppy Renaissance cap, gave the prelaunch countdown: “Cinque, quattro, tre, due, uno—blast off!” Eight paper airplanes took off. The crowd cheered, rooting for their favorite fliers.

“That’s one small toss for a sheet of paper,” said Neil Armstrong, “one giant heave for paperkind.” Most of the paper airplanes drifted in looping circles, spiraling down the three stories under the dome in one or two minutes.

Akimi’s carefully constructed Seagull, however, stayed aloft for four whole minutes. The audience gasped in astonishment as it glided along, scarcely losing altitude. Finally, after what seemed like forever, it gently drifted to the floor, where it made a soft landing.

“Woo-hoo!” shouted Kyle.

He looked down and saw Akimi’s father in the audience on the first floor. Akimi’s dad marched over to the winning glider, proudly plucked it off the floor, and gave his daughter a thumbs-up!

“Thanks, Dad!” Akimi shouted.

Orville and Wilbur Wright announced that the hometown team’s glider had just set a new “hand-folded paper plane” indoor flight-time record.

“And it didn’t get lost,” added Amelia Earhart.

Akimi accepted the team’s Top Gun medal from Dr. Zinchenko.

And just like that, the Hometown Heroes were tied for first place.