The Amazing Flight of Darius Frobisher by Bill Harley

hardly knew where to look first. In this wonderful workshop all the bike parts seemed to be almost alive—each wheel and hub and frame carrying a promise of something that might be. He turned slowly, trying to take everything in. His eyes fell upon a picture hanging over the workbench. It was obviously old—the paper was yellowed and curled up at the corners. Darius stood on tiptoe and stared. It was a colored pencil drawing of a boy on a red bike. The bike was suspended in the air, supported by large balloons attached to each fender. Birds were flying around the boy on the bike, and the boy was waving his hand, wearing a very large smile.
    “Who’s that?” asked Darius. “Is it real?”
    “What’s real and what’s true?” asked Daedalus. “They say that when Orpheus played on his harp, the trees walked nearer so they might hear him. Do you believe that?”
    “I don’t think so,” he answered honestly.
    “Then you miss the point entirely. It’s not whether the trees could walk—it’s how beautifully Orpheus played.” Daedalus paused and looked up at the picture. “That’s a boy’s dream,” he said. “That’s what that is.”
    “What boy?”
    “The boy in the picture, of course. Now, listen, you have your rim. Can you put it on yourself? I expect you can. And it’s getting close to ten o’clock. Aren’t you afraid of your Aunt Inga eating you alive?”
    The mention of Aunt Inga brought Darius back to earth, away from the boy on the bike. “Omigosh, you’re right. I have to go.”
    Darius headed for the steps, where he stopped again. There underneath the basement stairs, he saw the bike—the bizarre piece of machinery that Darius had seen Daedalus riding through the air over the housetops. He turned back to Daedalus.
    “It was
you
, wasn’t it? There’s the bike you were riding! You know how to fly on a bike.”
    “Impossible,” said Daedalus. “Inconceivable.”
    “But your bike was flying! That’s a miracle! How do you do it?”
    “I don’t,” answered Daedalus. “You saw nothing of the sort. Must be loony.”
    “But—” Darius began.
    “No, not now. Some other time. You’re about to be eaten—you’d better run.”
    “Okay, but can I come back?”
    Daedalus looked intently at Darius, as if he were sizing him up.
    “Please,” begged Darius, “I could help you. I could pay you by working on bikes. You could teach me, and we could fix bikes together. And maybe I could work on my bike more. It’s really still a big mess.” Darius felt his cheeks grow hot. Had he said too much?
    But Daedalus smiled. “Why not? Bring that old clunker of yours and we’ll fix it up like new.”
    “I’ll be your assistant,” said Darius.
    “Splendid!” said Daedalus. “My assistant. But you must come only in the morning. I work on bikes in the early morning. In the afternoon I read and think.”
    “What do you think about?”
    Daedalus raised his eyebrows. “The universe,” he answered.
    “The whole universe?”
    “As much of it as my brain will hold,” Daedalus said. “There are dimensions most people have never dreamed of. I try to see them.”
    “Dimensions?”
    “Dimensions. Aspects. Elements. Parts. I think if I could only see a couple more of them, then I could solve the problem of—” Daedalus stopped and looked at Darius. “Oh, enough of that. At any rate, while I’m trying to think about it, I can’t be disturbed.”
    “Okay,” said Darius. “It’s better if I come early in the morning anyway, before Aunt Inga is up. That way she doesn’t ask so many questions.”
    “Now, off with you, my young hero. Venture forth on the wine-dark sea! And next time, before you come, let your aunt know where you’re going.”
    “Do I have to? I’m afraid she won’t let me.”
    “You must tell her, if you want to come back.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Darius. “Good-bye, Daedalus.” He ran up the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the yard filled with hundreds of