Chapter 163 - Noah’s Laboratory
Down at the boathouse on the edge of the lake, a brand-new brass plaque had been mounted beside the heavy cedar doors:
THE ARTHUR VANCE MEMORIAL AERONAUTICAL WORKSHOP.
Inside, the spacious workshop smelled of aromatic cedar shavings, aircraft varnish, and electrical solder.
Noah stood over a massive twelve-foot workbench, wearing an anti-static lab coat and safety goggles, carefully calibrating the digital telemetry antennas of a brand-new, six-foot scale model of an autonomous alpine rescue seaplane.
The aircraft was painted in gleaming midnight-blue and gold, bearing the dual crests of the French Republic and the Vance family on its twin composite rudders.
Beside him sat Dr. Moreau, wearing his reading glasses, holding a micro-soldering iron, watching the ten-year-old boy work with open, grandfatherly pride.
"The wing dihedral is three degrees wider than the original prototype, Noah," Dr. Moreau observed, pointing a tweezers at the carbon-fiber spar.
"It increases low-speed lateral stability by eighteen percent during mountain downdrafts, Doctor," Noah explained, his fingers moving with flawless, practiced speed. "When the alpine rescue teams test this model next month, it will be able to deliver emergency medical payloads into twenty-knot crosswinds without losing GPS lock."
The boathouse door creaked open.
Sister Beatrice walked in, carrying a large wicker basket covered with a red-and-white checkered linen cloth. The aroma of freshly baked cinnamon brioche and warm peach tarts filled the workshop air.
"Enough with the microchips, young man," Sister Beatrice commanded with loving, grandmotherly authority, setting the basket down on an empty corner of the bench. "A brilliant brain requires butter, sugar, and cinnamon. Eat before your sister discovers where I hid the tarts."
Noah laughed—a bright, ringing boyish laugh—and pulled off his safety goggles, taking a warm brioche from the basket.
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"Did you put habanero in these, Sister?" Noah teased.
Sister Beatrice gave him a dry, conspiratorial wink as she took a seat in the sunny window armchair. "Only for the men who breach my gates without an invitation, my child. For commanders who save their families... I use pure vanilla."
