Laslo enlisted Snorri's help in building his ornithopter. He planned to use the flathead six engine from the '52 Dodge pickup, which otherwise had been rendered non-operational the last time "the Agents," as they were called, had lobbed a grenade--or something--over the wooden fence that defined the back lot behind the cafe. Laslo built a winch over the resultant crater in order to pull the engine out--it was the only recognizable part of the truck--and was pleased when Snorri, who had been watching from the kitchen's back window, came out and performed an impromptu design change that reinforced the strength of the wooden beams.
"Where did you learn to make a winch like that?" asked Laslo.
"It's like boats," Snorri said by way of explanation. He thought of a home far away and long ago where he built boats and sailed them. He never thought he would go this far. The two men pulled on the ropes, taking turns, until the engine was raised above ground level, and they swung it around and landed it on the rim of the crater. Laslo smiled down on it, beaming.
"I think this thing could run all day at about 3,000 RPM," he said to the slender man who stood next to him peering down on the greasy iron lump of an engine at their feet. "Do you know what an RPM is?" he asked.
"No."
"No matter," Laslo replied. "You're in charge of wing construction."
Snorri frowned as he nodded assent. He liked Laslo, and thought he would have made an excellent Dane. "I'll go ask Denise to help me . . . Google? . . . wings." He went back into the kitchen. As the screen door slammed and bounced behind him, Laslo glanced again at the engine and then went down into the basement to look for a battery and a gas can.
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