Orville and Wilbur

The sun was out that autumn day in 1903 when the horse-drawn carriage drew to a stop in front of the Wright Bicycle Shop in Dayton, Ohio.

Four people got out of the carriage, three men and a woman.

The senior man paused on the sidewalk, inspected the facade of the building with a jaundiced eye, shook his head ruefully, then opened the shop door. Before he or his colleagues could enter, a youngster pushing a bicycle hustled out of the shop. "Thanks, mister," the kid said.

As the youngster threw himself on his bicycle and pedaled away, the four people entered the shop. A bald man in his late twenties or early thirties stood behind the counter making a notation in a ledger.

"Mr. Wright?"

"Yes?"

"Mr. Wilbur Wright?"

"I'm Orville."

"We represent the federal, state, and local governments, Mr. Wright. This other gentleman is an environmental activist representing various groups of concerned citizens. We are here today to discuss your request for a license for your flying machine."

After the introductions, the visitors were shown into the workshop in the back of the building, where they found Wilbur fixing a punctured bicycle tire. He wiped his hands carefully before shaking hands.

When they were all seated on benches and crates, the senior government man said to the Wrights, "As you may be aware, the farsighted lawmakers in our state, federal, and local governments anticipated that this day would eventually come. Heavier-than-air machines that could fly have been predicted for centuries—even government consultants said the invention was inevitable. Our lawmakers devoted a great deal of thought to the ways in which flying machines would impact our society; they established bureaucracies to study the matter still further and promulgate regulations, which has been accomplished." With a hint of pride in his voice, the bureaucrat summed up, "The United States is now ready for a flying machine."

"And the State of Ohio," the woman chimed in.

"And the City of Dayton," the second male bureaucrat proclaimed.

The environmental activist didn't say anything.

"Wonderful," said Orville. "Wonderful, wonderful."

Wilbur nodded his concurrence.

"You were absolutely correct in contacting us before you flew," the federal bureaucrat informed the Wrights, "because the bureaucracy, the FAA, has decreed that flying machines must be licensed before aviation is attempted."

"Hmm," said Orville, and glanced at Wilbur, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows. Both men were thinking about the unpowered glider flights they had been making for the past three years at Kill Devil Hill, North Carolina. Unfortunately they hadn't thought to inquire about licensing requirements.

The bureaucrat didn't mention the glider flights, so the Wrights didn't either.

"You need an experimental license for your flying machine. The paperwork is relatively simple. One of our people from a flight standards district office will look your machine over, determine if it is airworthy, and if it is, will sign the experimental license. Of course, the license will contain an addendum of all the things you can't do with the airplane."

"Uh-huh."

"As you are probably aware, you must fly the plane for 25 hours before you carry any passengers. If your machine is defective or unsafe it will presumably crash before the 25 hours have passed."

"We can do that," Wilbur responded. "After the initial period of experimentation, we wish to show the airplane to prospective buyers and solicit orders. It is our ambition to go into business designing, manufacturing, and selling airplanes."

"To the military?"

"To whomever will buy."

The federal bureaucrat looked relieved. "For a second there you had me worried. Obviously, military aircraft procurement is outside my jurisdiction, but since you are also going to sell your plane to civilians, the federal regulations will have to be complied with."

"Oh."

"You will need to license your aircraft in the Normal or Utility category before you can manufacture and sell it to civilians. To obtain the license you will need to develop a testing program that establishes a flight performance envelope and proves that your machine is safe to fly anywhere in that envelope. Our engineers will work with you to develop the testing program, manufacturing processes and procedures, and come up with suitable warnings and notices so that prospective pilots will understand how to operate your airplane."

"This testing program. How long will it take?"

"A couple of years, minimum. If the airplane is properly designed and manufactured, of course. More if there are problems. More if you want your machine certified for flight in instrument conditions or known ice. More if we have difficulty tearing test pilots away from other projects."

"This testing sounds expensive."

"You bet it is," the bureaucrat agreed. "This is your government. You wouldn't want us to cut corners and let you off on the cheap, endangering the flying public, would you?"

"I suppose not."

"Speaking of public safety, this is a good time to ask who the licensed pilot will be."

"We are going to be the pilots," Orville said modestly, gesturing at Wilbur, "but we don't have flying licenses."

"You can't fly without a license. That's the law. And the licenses can only be issued by another licensed pilot who has been authorized by the FAA to examine people and issue licenses."

"Who might that be?" the Wrights inquired.

"There is no one. No one knows how to fly."

"Hmm," said Orville. Again.

"We call it the Red Queen Rule," the federal man explained. "It's a Catch-22 if ever there was one, but I didn't make the law. I merely enforce it."

"We understand."

"Nothing personal," the FAA man intoned mechanically. "Protection of the traveling public is one of our big responsibilities."

The bureaucrat was silent for several seconds, then he said, "Of course, the State of Ohio wants to discuss some other issues with you."

The Ohio woman cleared her throat. "Where do you propose to fly this machine?"

"In the sky," Wilbur said lightly.

Ohio was not amused. "I'll rephrase that. Where is your airport?"

"Oh. Huffman Prairie, on the outskirts of town."

"Is that a properly established field?"

"It's a cow pasture. Mr. Huffman promised to move his cattle for us."

"You must get the airfield approved by the FAA and the State of Ohio before you use it," the official informed the Wrights. "Public notices and hearings will have to be held, obstruction information obtained, runways surveyed and constructed and properly marked, airspace designated, instrument approaches designed and approved...the list goes on and on. The process will take years. And if government funds are involved...well, it's a good thing you are young men."

The government man smiled tightly. It was more of a grimace than a smile. "As always, safety is paramount," the government man continued. "No one wants your flying machine to crash into their house or place of business. Hit a school or hospital. Finally, we will have to have proof of adequate insurance on the flying field and the flying machine."

"We have been talking to insurance agents," Orville said ruefully. "They say that without a safety record, they won't sell us insurance because they can't calculate the risk. We thought we'd just fly without insurance and take our chances."

Ohio was horrified. She shook her head from side to side and wrung her hands. "Safety," she mumbled. "Safety."

The last bureaucrat spoke up. "Mr. and Mr. Wright, the noise problem is the city's primary concern. And safety, obviously. Dayton prides itself on being a warm, fuzzy place to live; the noise your machine will undoubtedly generate steaming through the atmosphere will have an adverse effect on our citizens."

"The economic impact of our machines will far outweigh any negative aspects of flying," Orville said. Wilbur nodded his concurrence.

"That's what you say," the fourth person shot back, "but the environmental impact of flying machines will adversely impact the lives of every man, woman, and child on the planet. The pollutants from its motor will get into our air and water, be ingested by every living thing in the food chain. The noise will disturb nesting and hunting creatures. Babies and old ladies will be startled from their naps. Birds will have to contend with flying machines invading their space. What right have you bicycle mechanics to negatively impact the lives of every bird, beast, fish, and plant on the planet just to gratify your selfish ambitions?"

"Well..." Orville said, marshalling his thoughts.

"We hadn't considered that aspect of it," Wilbur admitted.

"If this flying machine really takes off," said the activist, "pardon the pun—people and things will be transported willy-nilly all over the planet in ever-increasing numbers. Conceivably this process could continue until the entire population of the Earth is completely homogenized and the Earth has but one economy and one government. Am I right?"

Orville looked at Wilbur and Wilbur looked at Orville. Finally Orville admitted, "In the very long run, perhaps."

The activist pressed him. "What will be the impact of massive tourism and widespread migration? A few people will make some money, sure, as people gallop all over the globe to see what they can see. But we're talking racial mixing and social disintegration...not to mention the unplanned mixing of flora and fauna that evolved in isolation. Civilization as we know it will probably collapse. Mr. and Mr. Wright, you will be the persons responsible. How can you argue that the social good of your flying machine will outweigh the bad?"

"Social disintegration?" Wilbur muttered, looking questioningly at Orville.

"You two tinkerers strike me as dangerously un-American," the activist proclaimed, crossing his arms.

"Serious social deviants," Ohio said loudly.

"I want to see the thing," said the federal man. He stood and squared his shoulders with an air of authority.

Wilbur and Orville reluctantly led the entourage to the tool shed out back, lit a lantern, and removed the bed sheets that covered the flying machine, protecting it from dust and prying eyes.

The government people stared. They were gawking with their mouths open when another man slipped through the door of the shed. He stood near the door taking it all in, saying not a word.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the environmental activist. "I have never seen a more dangerous machine. Where are the seat belts, shoulder restraints, fire extinguishers, emergency exit signs?"

The federal man took up the refrain. "Where is the emergency locator transmitter? The transponder? The radio? You didn't seriously think we would let you fly this thing without a radio, did you?"

What if you crash?" the activist demanded. "How will you prevent the release of gasoline and oil into the environment? Good heavens, this machine is a hazardous waste spill looking for a place to happen."

"How do you intend to navigate?" the city man wanted to know. "After you take off from your licensed airport, how will you find your way back? We will not permit you to fly in government airspace without some assurance that you can indeed return to licensed premises without endangering people or property."

"Safety," murmured Ohio with her eyes closed.

"Safety," agreed the activist.

"Safety," said the city man firmly.

While the other government employees were chanting the safety mantra, the federal man inspected. Finally he twanged a bracing wire and turned to the Wrights.

"I certainly have seen my share of flying machines in my years with the government. Of course, none of them ever got off the ground with their load of required safety equipment, but that is not the fault of the FAA, which exists to protect the public from dangerous aeronautical adventurers. Like you two." He gestured contemptuously at the Flyer. "This thing will never fly either. It's wrong, all wrong. It'll never get off the ground."

"Good day, gentlemen," the government people said, and stalked out of the tool shed. They made their way back through the bicycle shop to the carriage waiting on the street.

The man who had not said anything came forward now to inspect the flying machine.

In the silence that followed the departure of the entourage, Wilbur said to Orville, "Guess we wasted our lives, huh?"

"If only we had asked the government first," Orville moaned. "We've certainly learned our lesson."

The latecomer turned toward the Wrights. "Government doesn't grant freedom," he said. "It eliminates risk by depriving its citizens of their freedom of choice. Statute by statute, decision by decision, rule by rule, government reduces the universe of possibilities one by one. For our own good, they say. So people will be safer. That's a law, like gravity, and we just have to live with it."

He punched Wilbur on the arm. "You fellows hang in there, though, keep working: You'll fly someday and the world will be better for it."

"Who are you?" Orville asked.

"I'm a lawyer." The man put a hand on the Flyer, took a deep breath, then exhaled with a sigh. "Ah, patent litigation, crashes, wrongful deaths, tort suits, defect claims, punitive damages... the contingency fees.... You have shown me the future and it will be glorious! You are going to make the lawyers rich beyond the dreams of avarice."

With a gleam in his eye, he shook both their hands. "Godspeed to you, gentlemen," he said, and scurried away.

When he isn't flying, Stephen Coonts, AOPA 1056593, writes books. His latest book, Hong Kong, was published in September by St. Martin's Press. The author recently sold his Piper Pacer in favor of a brand-new Aviat Husky A1B. Visit his Web site ( www.coonts.com).