Airship

by McAlan, Peter

  ‘No need for you to worry.’

  ‘If you are worried,’ declared the girl, ‘then so am I.’

  Renard grimaced with brusque affection.

  ‘I am worried that the Americans are going to beat me to it.’

  ‘Is that such a catastrophe?’

  ‘I’ve done a lot of things in my life, Tanya; I’ve hustled here and there, done a little of this and that. I’ve made money, that’s true, but I have never really made it big. This is my chance, a real chance to pull it off, become really secure. That’s what the Charles de Gaulle means to me.’

  Tanya grinned cynically.

  ‘Secure, ma mie? You have more money than anyone I know.’

  Renard shook his head.

  ‘Tanya, my finances are like a card house … one breath of wind, one puff … and … ’

  He snapped his fingers.

  ‘Everything depends on the success of launching the Charles de Gaulle before the Americans. It’s no use coming a poor second.’

  ‘Why do you think the Americans will beat you?’

  ‘Because I’m being faced with union problems, design problems and supply problems. Anglo-American are more advanced than we are. They’ll soon be starting their tests.’

  There was a silence.

  Tanya felt a little helpless. Such things did not mean anything to her. She was not even interested in the project except in so far as it affected Charles. She tried to say the right things, make the right sympathetic noises but, underneath, she wished Charles did not have this hang-up about materialism. She could rationalise and understand it well enough. He had come from a very poor background and it was probably the memories of poverty that gave him the urge to strive and measure his progress by material landmarks. Yet she hoped that one day he would come to the realisation that there were other things in life; other measurements of progress.

  ‘How long will you stay in Paris, ma mie?’ she asked.

  ‘Until the day after tomorrow. Time enough to recover from jet-lag and go to see one or two people at the Ministry of Transport.’

  ‘Then you will go to St. Lô?’

  ‘Yes; I must bring our flight tests forward ahead of the Americans.’

  Tanya sighed.

  ‘You’ll succeed, Charles. I know you will.’

  He nodded absently.

  ‘Perhaps, but … ’

  Tanya silenced him by bending over and kissing him.

  ‘No buts, ma mie. Not now.’

  *

  Danny Macmillan had just taken his seat at his favourite Italian restaurant on Congress Street — the Roma. Terrasino and his wife, Maria, had taken him there one evening and Macmillan had fallen in love with Italian food. The head waiter, Bruno, had greeted him in friendly fashion, given him a menu and taken his order for a Cinzano aperitif. When Macmillan had first gone to the restaurant, Bruno had mistaken him for an Italian. At twenty-seven, Macmillan was dark-haired, lean and angular, with hollow cheeks which gave him a superficial impression of mournfulness until one glanced into his twinkling dark eyes. Macmillan turned to contemplate the main task of the evening, examining each dish on the menu.

  ‘Hello.’

  Macmillan glanced up. It was a willowy blonde, the English girl who was working with Samantha Hackerman. What was her name? Ashton. She stood by his table smiling down at him. Confused, Macmillan rose to his feet.

  ‘Hi. It’s Miss Ashton, isn’t it?’

  ‘Claire Ashton. We met at the Carsons’ party. You’re Danny … ?’

  ‘Danny Macmillan,’ supplied Macmillan.

  Claire gestured towards the empty chair at his table.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone? Can I join you? I came in for a meal on my own but it’s much more fun to eat with someone.’

  Macmillan hesitated a moment and then moved round the table to pull out the chair for her.

  ‘I haven’t been in America long and it still gets lonely at mealtimes,’ she told him.

  Macmillan gave a half-smile. Not if the rumours he had heard about Claire Ashton were correct, he thought. Apparently the English girl had already propositioned some of the men on the project site. Rumour had it that she liked older men. Well, at his age he probably didn’t qualify. Looking at her attractive face he wondered whether the rumours were true or just scurrilous gossip. The girl didn’t have the hard expression of a whore. He suddenly felt guilty. Why should a whore look any different from anyone else? He was abruptly aware that she was asking him a question.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You were miles away,’ she said. ‘I was asking you what you recommended.’

  He reddened and glanced at the menu, then realised that Claire had not got a drink. He waved to the waiter, asking her what she wanted. She chose a Campari and soda.

  ‘How about a prime sirloin alla Pizzaiola?’ he suggested. ‘It’s a steak sautéed with fresh green peppers and tomatoes.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Macmillan ordered for both of them.

  ‘How do you like working for Anglo-American now?’ he prompted, after a short silence.

  Claire Ashton shrugged expressively.

  ‘It’s alright. I’ve never been a press officer before. What do you do? I think you told me at the party but I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘I’m a flight engineer. When the Albatross takes off, I’m her chief engineer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She did not sound especially interested or impressed. However, Macmillan turned the conversation to her impressions of America and Portland in particular. Whatever else he had heard about her, Macmillan decided that Claire Ashton was a very intelligent and attractive girl. He wondered again whether the rumours he had heard could be wrong. No; he knew one of the men whom Claire Ashton had apparently propositioned. He was a forty-year-old, happily married man whose strict Methodist upbringing had made him indignant about her behaviour. He wouldn’t have made up the story.

  Macmillan suddenly realised that he was gazing speculatively at the girl. He became aware of some indefinable expression in her eyes … a sort of hurt, a grief. He felt sorry for her, but whatever kind of problem she had was not his concern. She was good company for the evening, that was all. He insisted on paying for the meal and she did not really object. As they left the restaurant Macmillan motioned towards his car.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he offered.

  ‘I’ve just moved into an apartment on Bay View Drive,’ Claire smiled.

  ‘Good. That’s on my way,’ replied Macmillan. ‘I live further round in Back Cove.’

  They drove to Bay View Drive mostly in silence. Macmillan felt it strange that the girl suddenly withdrew in on herself and only answered his questions in monosyllables.

  As Macmillan slid into a parking space before her apartment block, Claire asked abruptly: ‘Like to come up for a coffee?’

  Macmillan’s eyes flickered to the dashboard clock. It was still early and he had no plans beyond watching the ball game on television.

  ‘That’d be nice,’ he agreed.

  Claire Ashton betrayed no reaction as she climbed out of the car, led the way into the building and took the elevator to her floor. She had a small two-room apartment on the fourth floor. There was a small kitchenette off the main living-room and a bathroom. She started the coffee machine without a word and went into the bedroom.

  Macmillan lowered himself into a chair and picked up a magazine, assuming that the girl had gone to freshen up. His mind was not on the pages before him. He was still wondering about Claire Ashton. He had to admit that he was attracted and impressed by her intelligence and reserved warmth. But he kept remembering the strange, haunted look on her face — a hurt animal look. He shook his head and sighed.

  ‘Well?’

  The sharpness in her voice made him glance up, startled.

  She stood in the bedroom door with just a loose silk dressing-gown on. It hung open, and Macmillan could see that she was not wearing anything underneath.


  His mouth dropped open as he stared in astonishment.

  ‘Well, do you want to screw me or not?’

  Macmillan slowly rose to his feet. There was a cynical, almost sneering expression on the girl’s face as she watched his reactions. He felt a tremendous anger surge through him. The girl misinterpreted the look and gave a hard laugh.

  ‘Shocked?’

  Macmillan shook his head slowly.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why? Should there be a reason or do you want a lesson in biology?’

  ‘You’re attractive and intelligent … ’ Macmillan fought for the right words. ‘Why go round acting like a goddam whore?’

  ‘Do men expect women to act like anything else?’

  ‘What happened to you to twist you up like this?’ Macmillan asked quietly.

  She detected the sympathetic note in his voice and bridled defensively.

  ‘Finish the small-talk. What are you waiting for?’

  Macmillan stood staring at her for a moment and then shrugged. He turned and walked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He could hear Claire Ashton’s voice raised: ‘What are you, a queer or something?’

  His face burning, he went down to his automobile and sat for a few minutes trying to gather his scattered thoughts. It was not that he didn’t feel like taking up Claire Ashton’s offer. What man wouldn’t? But he discovered, to his surprise, that he felt a compassion, a sympathy towards the girl. It was that fleeting look of a hurt animal in her eyes — so fleeting — that made him realise that she was a prisoner of her own emotions. Damn it! He should have stayed and tried to talk with her, tried to … Who was he kidding? It would take more than an amateur psychologist to get under Claire Ashton’s skin.

  Almost savagely, he set his car in gear and, with a scream of tyres, sent it into the night streets.

  *

  Charles Renard sat behind his desk gazing moodily in front of him. He had just spent two hours with the representatives of the Syndicat National des Pilotes de Ligne discussing the training of pilots for his prospective airship line, and was unhappy with the results. The SNPL people were demanding more simulator training and a higher degree of practical experience before allowing their members to take responsibility for flying the type of aircraft which the Charles de Gaulle represented. Renard could do no more than promise to consider their proposals at the end of two hours’ fruitless discussion. With the costs of extra training too prohibitive, he was going to have to find a way round the union objections.

  Earlier that morning his plant manager had informed him of another union problem. Dirigeable-Commercial SA employed its own small transport fleet of trucks. Two of his drivers, both members of the Confédération Française des Travailleurs, had been discovered breaking transport laws by working over the maximum daily times and falsifying documents. They had done this by taking out the EEC running disc which allowed the authorities to check times of loading and unloading, starting times, period of driving, rest periods and speeds. The transport manager had discovered that the two drivers had been using the same disc for a period longer than the prescribed twenty-four hours, which was illegal. He had sacked the men on the spot.

  Within the hour representatives of the CFDT had been howling victimisation and demanding reinstatement immediately.

  The transport manager had referred the matter to the plant manager and now both managers and union officials were demanding to see Renard. Renard’s immediate reaction was to back his managers, but he was in a vulnerable position. He just couldn’t afford a strike: even a day would put his schedule so far behind that he wouldn’t have any hope of catching up with Anglo-American. He bit his tongue, simmering in rage as the flushed-faced Breton union official made his demands.

  ‘Very well, Kerouac,’ he sighed at length. ‘Your men will be reinstated. In return I shall want full union co-operation and support about the application of rules and regulations. The CFDT supports EEC regulations on long-distance hauls and I would have thought that any contravention of the rules would be condemned and our company’s stance supported.’

  Kerouac shrugged.

  ‘It is not a clear-cut case in this instance, M’sieur Renard.’

  ‘And what would be a clear-cut case, if this was not?’ grunted Renard.

  The union man smiled disarmingly.

  ‘I trust you are asking a hypothetical question, m’sieur?’

  ‘Alright, Kerouac,’ Renard said, ringing for his secretary to show the union officials from the room, ‘but remember, the next time there is a breach of regulations, I shall not be in a compromising mood.’

  Marie-France hesitated on the threshold after the delegation had left.

  ‘Doctor Villemur wishes to see you, sir.’

  Renard, with great effort, controlled himself.

  ‘Send him in.’

  Villemur entered looking nervous and worried.

  ‘More problems?’ demanded Renard, glancing at his face.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ the designer said, ‘a big problem this time.’

  ‘Well?’ prompted Renard when the man paused.

  ‘The helium consignment which you cleared when you were in America … there are more delays in delivery. We will not be able to inflate the Charles de Gaulle in time for the scheduled tests.’

  Renard’s face went white.

  ‘But the tests are already behind the Americans’ schedule!’ His voice was dangerously high-pitched.

  ‘I know it,’ replied Villemur nervously. ‘The supplying company in America have a new union dispute on their hands. They don’t know how long it will be before they can supply us.’

  ‘What about alternative sources?’ demanded Renard.

  ‘We have started to make the necessary checks but … well, you know how difficult helium is to get, especially the amount we require for our purpose.’

  ‘So what do you suggest, doctor? Do we all sit round and give up?’

  ‘We are doing what we can.’

  Renard swore, startling Villemur to red-faced silence.

  ‘Marie-France,’ he said, pressing his intercom, ‘get me M’sieur Brisset on the telephone.’

  He glanced back to Villemur.

  ‘I’ll send for you when I have worked something out.’

  Renard’s talk with Brisset was short and unfruitful. There was no way even the French government could use their influence to obtain a large consignment of helium for commercial use. Renard put down the telephone and added colourfully to his vocabulary of invective. The Americans were going to beat him after all. Then he paused and frowned. Maybe not. Maybe there was a way …

  Chapter Five

  Tom Saxon was drunk when he left Justin’s Lounge in the Executive Inn on Congress Street. What’s more, he was belligerently drunk. He paused outside the hotel to take his bearings. Congress Street was a long main thoroughfare stretching nearly the entire length of downtown Portland. He looked around for a cab but could not see one. He had difficulty seeing anything amidst the enraged onslaught of bright neon which attacked his aching eyes. He blinked and swore aloud. How the hell was he to get back to — where was it? — South Portland? He stood swaying uncertainly. Several people passed him by, carefully avoiding him. The hell with them!

  He began to walk along; at least he thought he was walking. Onlookers saw him swaying and staggering. One woman passing by with her timid spouse in tow loudly declaimed about ‘drunken bums’ spoiling the city centre. Saxon turned with a leer and told her to perform several gymnastic gyrations which made her go bright red and hurry on, dragging her pale-faced husband with her.

  ‘If I had not been warned about my heart, Claudine … ’ Saxon heard him wailing as they disappeared.

  Suddenly, a man was at his side, a hand firmly holding onto his arm.

  ‘Want some help, mac?’

  Saxon tried to bring the man into focus and failed.

  ‘Wanna cab,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sure, mac,
sure. Got some money for it?’

  ‘Course!’

  ‘You’re drunk, mac. Helpless as a baby. Sure you got some money?’

  Saxon was vaguely aware that the man was laughing at him; vaguely aware that the man’s hand was inside his coat, feeling for his wallet. It suddenly dawned on his alcoholic befuddled mind that he was being ‘rolled’. He struck out at the man, who yelped but succeeded in dragging Saxon’s wallet from his pocket.

  ‘You bastard!’ cried Saxon, and tried to grab at the thief, but the shadowy figure ran off.

  ‘Bastard!’ screamed Saxon.

  ‘Now then, mister,’ another hand caught his arm.

  Saxon swung round to meet the new attack, and lashed out wildly. Two dark shapes grabbed him. One of them twisted his arm behind his back with a painful jerk. He bent double against a car. He dimly saw a flashing red light, felt something metal being put on his wrists.

  ‘Okay, mister, get in the car,’ a heavy voice was saying. Then, in an aside: ‘Jesus, this guy smells like a distillery.’

  *

  Carson answered the telephone.

  ‘Colonel Carson?’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My name is Sergeant Twoomy of the Portland Police Department, sir. We are holding a man who says his name is Saxon. Sounds English. Says you know him.’

  Carson’s jaw dropped.

  ‘You are holding him? For what?’

  ‘Do you know him, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, I know him. Wing Commander Saxon is a fellow test pilot with Anglo-American Airships here in Portland.’

  ‘Wing Commander? What’s that?’ The policeman sounded puzzled.

  ‘A British Air Force rank, sergeant. A colonel.’

  ‘Jesus!’ came the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Don’t that beat all? Well, sir, this Colonel Saxon is soused — but really soused. We picked him up in Congress Street and he tried to assault the arresting officers.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ moaned Carson.

  The sergeant was obviously pleased with the response.

  ‘When we searched him this guy, er, Colonel Saxon, had no ID on him, no billfold or anything. Says he was robbed … at least that’s as far as I can understand. Can’t tell too much on account of him being soused and his limey accent. The lieutenant here says if he is who he says he is, then maybe you’ll come down and go bail for him … if not, we’ll keep him in the caboose until we can get some real sense out of him.’