The journey was a blur of monotonous highways and quiet, efficient stops. The driver was a silent, professional shadow, and Albright spent most of the time reading through a thick folder of documents, the contents of which Robert could only guess. They spoke little. The questions Albright did ask were subtle probes about Robert's "theoretical interests," carefully designed to avoid spooking him. Robert answered in vague generalities, his mind a fortress under siege.
After two days of travel, they arrived. Wright Field wasn't just a airfield; it was a sprawling complex of hangars, workshops, and administration buildings buzzing with a focused, purposeful energy that was utterly alien to the slow rhythm of Oak Creek. The air itself tasted different—a mix of aviation fuel, hot concrete, and the high, thin scent of the Ohio sky. The roar of piston engines being tested was a constant, thunderous presence.
Robert was given a small, spartan room in an officers' barracks and told to rest. The following morning, Albright collected him. "Time for the grand tour, Mr. Vale. Keep your eyes open."
The tour was a carefully curated glimpse into the future. They walked through hangars where mechanics swarmed over skeletal airframes of planes Robert recognized with a historian's thrill and a time traveler's dread. A P-36 Hawk, its lines still elegant and slightly antiquated. The raw, powerful frame of a B-17 bomber, a aircraft that would soon become the grim workhorse of the European air war.
His guides were engineers and officers, proud men who pointed out innovations with proprietary pride. They spoke of engine horsepower, of bombloads, of range. Robert listened, his face a mask of polite interest, while internally he was screaming. He saw the flaws they couldn't: the limited range of the P-40 that would hamper it in the Pacific, the vulnerability of the B-17's defensive positions to head-on attacks, the engine cooling issues that would plague early models.
They stopped before a sleek, dangerous-looking prototype being rolled out for a test. It was the XP-41, a precursor to the legendary P-47 Thunderbolt. An engineer, a Dr. Silas Finch, with sharp eyes and ink-stained fingers, was enthusiastically explaining its new turbo-supercharger.
"...will give us unparalleled performance at high altitude," Finch declared. "It's the key to dominating the airspace."
Robert stared at the complex plumbing of the supercharger system. He knew its history. The early models were notoriously unreliable. The ducting was inefficient, causing power loss and overheating. The solution, a revised intercooler and a more direct airflow path, was so simple, so obvious to him, it was physically painful to keep silent.
Albright was watching him, his pale eyes missing nothing. "An impressive piece of engineering, wouldn't you say, Mr. Vale?"
"It's... very advanced," Robert managed.
"See any potential... hiccups?" Albright pressed, his tone deceptively casual.
Robert's mouth went dry. This was the trap. Show too much knowledge, and he was exposed. Show none, and he proved himself useless, a fraud who had gotten lucky with one schematic. He had to walk the razor's edge.
"The concept is sound," Robert said slowly, choosing his words with the care of a man defusing a bomb. "Forcing more air into the engine. But all that plumbing... it looks like a lot of surface area to lose pressure. And heat. Heat would be the enemy."
Dr. Finch's proud smile tightened slightly. "The thermodynamics are well in hand, I assure you."
"Of course," Robert said quickly, backing down. "I'm sure they are. It was just an observation."
But Albright's gaze had intensified. He had seen the flicker of recognition, the specific, technical nature of the concern. Robert hadn't just said "it might get hot"; he had identified the core engineering challenge.
The tour continued, but the dynamic had shifted. Robert was no longer a passive observer; he was a specimen under a microscope. They showed him blueprints, asking for his "hobbyist's opinion." They described theoretical problems, watching his face for tells.
The pressure was immense, a constant, grinding weight. He was surrounded by the cutting edge of 1930s technology, a world he understood better than any man alive, and he had to pretend to be slightly slow, slightly out of his depth. It was a form of intellectual torture.
That night, alone in his barren room, the silence was deafening. The roar of the engines was gone, replaced by the roar of his own thoughts. He took out the wooden swallow Arthur had carved, holding it in the palm of his hand. They always find their way home.
But where was home? Oak Creek was a memory, a beautiful, painful dream. This, Wright Field, was his new reality—a gilded cage. He was here because of his knowledge, and he was a prisoner because of it. He was expected to perform, to be the genius they suspected he was, without ever revealing the source of his genius.
He looked out his small window at the darkened airfield, where the shadows of warplanes hulked like sleeping giants. He was inside the machine now. He had a front-row seat to the forging of the arsenal of democracy. And he was expected to help swing the hammer, all while ensuring he didn't get caught in the gears himself. The caged bird was now expected to sing, but one wrong note, one melody that was too perfect, too prescient, and the cage would become a lab. He had to find a way to help without revealing himself, to nudge history without leaving a fingerprint. It was the most delicate, dangerous engineering problem of his life.