Icarus stood on top of his apartment building, putting the final touches on his newest wing mock-ups. The last five designs had been overwhelming failures – the fifth had landed him in traction for six months. He didn’t mind though – six months away from the accounting firm meant six months of unhindered scientific progress. He had designed most of this latest model from the hospital bed. Of course it was difficult with two broken arms, but that’s where his assistant Pinocchio came in handy.
He was a bit of a mystery this Pinocchio. He was a stoic, wooden sort of fellow – stiff and humorless. But he didn’t ask for wages and had a brilliant mind for figures, which, to Icarus, was enough to forgive a man of any faults.
Icarus connected the last joint of hollow piping together with a large lump of wax. He held the wing out in front of him to examine it, adjusting his glasses with his free hand.
“I’m still not sure about using the wax, Ic.”
“I don’t have a lot of other choices, Pin.” He glared over his shoulder at Pinocchio who had propped himself up against the wall. “Glue is too heavy. Bolts are completely out of the question.”
Pinocchio shrugged his shoulders with a creak. “If you say so, Ic. I’m just not sure that July in New York is that best time to test wings held together with wax.”
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