He gave it a couple of breaths before replying, “Okay. I’m willing to give ecumenism a try.”
He thought she might offer to shake hands on it. She didn’t, so he didn’t, either.
After another few minutes, when he finally relayed the message about Captain Denne calling everyone to an immediate meeting, they got up and walked back to the main lounge side by side, but with only their auras touching.
Chapter 16
“I was chiefly disgusted with modern History. For having strictly examined all the Persons of greatest Name in the Courts of Princes for an Hundred Years past, I found how the World had been misled by prostitute Writers, to ascribe the greatest Exploits in War to Cowards, the wisest Counsel to Fools, Sincerity to Flatterers, Roman Virtue to Betrayers of their Country, Piety to Atheists, Truth to Informers. ...
“Here I discovered the Roguery and Ignorance of those who pretend to write Anecdotes, or secret History; who send so many Kings to their Graves with a Cup of Poison; will repeat the Discourse between a Prince and chief Minister, where no Witness was by; unlock the Thoughts and Cabinets of Embassadors [sic] and Secretaries of State; and have the perpetual Misfortune to be mistaken.”
—Lemuel Gulliver, A Voyage to Laputa, &c., Chapter 8.
* * * *
“... From the few words thus preserved, we glean several important items of knowledge ... We ascertain ... very distinctly, from this admirable inscription, the how, as well as the where and the what, of the great surrender in question. As to the where, it was Yorktown (wherever that was), and as to the what, it was General Cornwallis (no doubt some wealthy dealer in corn). He was surrendered. The inscription commemorates the surrender of—what?—why, ‘of Lord Cornwallis.’ The only question is what could the savages wish him surrendered for. But when we remember that these savages were undoubtedly cannibals, we are led to the conclusion that they intended him for sausage.”
—Edgar Allan Poe, “Mellonta Tauta.”
* * * *
Facing the crew had been hard enough. It helped that Gage Burkhardt Denne was the second airship commander to have been hired and trained by NTC, which meant the second in this century (not counting fliers of softshell miniatures like the Goodyear Blimp), junior only to the Old Man of the Clouds Wolfgang Z. Eckener himself; that she had earned a reputation for putting subordinates on record; that both her first and second hats, as well as the cook and the entire cabin crew, had been as whammied as she; and that she had been among the earliest to recover. The worst trouble she anticipated from her crew was with that tippet of a third hat, and if Candace Siroonian Altocumulus merited a recommend for keeping the ship on keel throughout the crisis, she also merited a censure for taking him through the storm instead of playing things as safe as possible under emergency conditions. Denne had made sure Altocumulus was fully aware of that little quidproko.
There were still the passengers. And rich fancy-class passengers didn’t tend to hold captains—or any other officials—in awe just for the sake of vested authority. Passengers were civilians who had hired the Company’s services for ten days maximum, if they chose to make the round trip. The Company had no control over their lives or incomes. Thanks to International Court Guidelines and watchful world opinion, it would take outright proof of illegal activity before the captain could so much as clap a passenger in handcuffs. And the passengers knew it very well. This present lot especially. A bunch of them, including several of the better-behaved types, had already made a forbidden, unsupervised goodysnatch into the ship’s upper regions. Yes, Captain Denne knew about it, though she didn’t know whether they knew she knew, and she wasn’t planning to broach the subject if she could help it. If they only want to feel mischievous, let ’em get away with it once or twice a trip—that was Company Policy, the infamous Memo 517B-12, though they tried to keep it as secret from the passengers as they tried to keep the fact that the lower halves of their dirigibles’ hulls were protected by nearly invisible steelplas safety netting, quarter-meter mesh. If Jones Ribald’s and Tolliver’s swords had landed just right, that first morning out…but they hadn’t, they’d slipped through, and there’d been holes to patch in the ship’s skin.
This lot was going to be slicey enough without the chance to get any impression that she was waiting for them to gather. Let ’em think they were waiting for her. She sat tight on the bridge, sipping coffee and practicing her steely gaze on her first and third officers, till Second Hat Airborne phoned her that everyone was finally assembled and ready in the main passenger lounge, even the lollybrowsing clerics. She took the call on her spare wristphone. Her good one, a gift from Kokomo Joe of the Fighting Broncs, had gotten smashed in the orgy.
“All right, Siroonian, you’re in command again, for the moment,” said the captain. Nominally, First Hat Flier had taken over as soon as his head cleared.
“Captain, sir,” the third officer replied, with absolute lack of expression.
“I could hold it down, Captain,” Flier suggested.
“Sorry, ffellowes. I’d like to leave you in command, but I want everybody who was affected, all together. If we can trust you not to hunt out any more storms, Siroonian?”
“Sir!” the third hat repeated. If that young woman didn’t transfer out to one of NTC’s upcoming competitors in the airship business, Denne was sure as jennifer going to put in a personal blacklist “request” to keep her in other skippers’ ships on every run from now on.
Family-naming her officers and crew was part of Gage Denne’s brusque side, the side passengers saw only if and when circumstances called for it. In fancy-class etiquette, family-naming anyone without permission was the depth of crassness. Too many fanciers disliked the family names they were stuck with for life—didn’t fit into their own little self-imagined worlds. Since Denne’s own childhood, this “polite” reticence about family names had even spread among realizers, which struck her as plain silly.
Striding in and taking her first look around, she saw that they weren’t all assembled and present, after all. Trust Wright Oland Airborne to make a miscount. But careful here: if she didn’t want to undercut herself, she had to make sure she knew who was missing. And she had to see it in half a minute or less ...
Carstairs and Catstep flanking this doorway; the so-called Musician of the Spheres shrinking like a violet behind the harp; “Chef” Martha Hines Lightouch resting her bulk in one of the salvaged stackable chairs; Doc Cecily Payne Caduceus standing with one hand on the cook’s shoulder; the two Olympians enthroned all by themselves on the starboard sofa, with Steward Andrew Gorky Stewart hovering at Juno’s right arm and Stewardess Peach Ming Blossom looking unhappy at Jove’s left; Second Hat Airborne standing at something like parade rest near the center of the lounge; Nkima and Braniff flanking the stateroom corridor; Major Ilna Grafin von Cruewell, looking half naked without her dog, standing near Braniff, legs braced and head turning as if to eyeball people; Amahl Korfu Garson hovering at her elbow—at least the young gofer had changed his dirty uniform for a clean one; the madre and Windsong, suddenly looking like old chums, sitting one on each side of Belladonna Jones the Ribald on a couch brought in from either the Honeymoon or the VIP Suite; the lovebird honeymooners and Oziah Prendergast Gillikin “the Third” sharing the larboard sofa; the World Famous Ballerina Petrovka sitting crosslegged on a clean place in the carpet. Twenty-one souls, everyone except Carstairs, Catstep, Braniff, and Nkima in the final stages of recovery from an unscheduled drug sidetrip—No, that blasted SS woman and one other passenger—which one?—hadn’t been affected. That made seventeen victims, counting Denne herself and Lance ffellowes Flier who was waiting respectfully at her back. There ought to be eighteen victims. Who ... Ah!
“All right, Officer Airborne,” said the captain, turning to him. “Where’s our stowaway?”
“Ah,” said the second hat. Wright Oland Airborne didn’t look quite recovered yet.
Before he could finish his report, Major von Cruewell spoke up. “I understood, mein Kapitan, that we were met here for the precise purpose of investigating Herr Tolliver’s disappearance.” Even acting very marginally subdued, the dratted SS woman was still almost the worst of the lot.
Almost. “Among such other matters as severe physical, emotional, and social damages,” said His Olympian Godship. “To the Aeolian tune of five billion tridols.”
The major turned her dark glasses toward him. “To you, mein Gott, money is life. To the rest of us, life is life.”
“Von Cruewell’s right,” the captain cut in. “This time, anyway. Your deityhoods can file suit later, along with the rest of us, after we find out who to sue. Let me assure all of you,” she went on, staring at each of them in turn, “that the Nostalgic Transport Corporation is not responsible.”
“The Nostalgic Transport Corporation,” said Jove, “disclaims all responsibility.”
Juno added, “The Nostalgic Transport Corporation is totally irresponsible.”
“To protect its tribillions,” said Firebird Tallchief Petrovka. “But who else could afford to repay us for this night.” She made it a statement. Rubbing her wrists, she glowered around at the group as if she, personally, held every last one of them to blame.
“All this will be settled later!” said Captain Denne. “Now where is Tolliver? Who was the last to see him?”
“Possibly—possibly—myself.” It was the bridegroom who spoke up, looking apologetic. Or maybe just nervous. “I ... That is, finding his body—lifeless, as I supposed—in the bath, I tugged him out, but before…anyone else could verify his condition, he had disappeared.”
“Meaning you left him alone in the bathroom,” Denne interpreted. “Whammied. Was the pool filled?”
Poe nodded. “It was. That was chiefly why I assumed him dead, of drowning if not of an overdose.”
“It may not yet be clear to you, mein Kapitan,” said von Cruewell, “that while Herr Tolliver was as whammied as the rest of you, Herr Poe, myself, and my dog were not. I believe this is because we three did not eat tonight’s famous iguanice soup.”
Chef Lightouch coughed, looking embarrassed.
“Interesting,” said the captain. “Why not?”
“For myself,” the major replied, “because Valkyrie seemed to object to something when the soup was set before us. For Herr Poe, because he claims to dislike the taste.”
Denne gave him the steely gaze. “You’re a registered fancier, M. Poe.”
“I know, I know, but—Believe me, had I known that the blighted stuff was full of whammy, I should have forced it down somehow!”
His bride looked alarmed and started murmuring private protests to him, stroking his cheek. Gillikin gave his shoulder a couple of pats and said,
“He suffers fits of reality perception now and then, Captain. Under treatment for it.”
“All right.” The captain gave the roomful another lookaround. “Who else besides M. Poe enjoys a good whammy now and—”
“What?” exclaimed the bride. “See here, Captain—sir—”
“Be quiet!” Denne snapped.
“With all respects, Captain Denne,” said Poe. Since he began like that, she nodded for him to go on. “You misinterpreted my remark. To the best of my knowledge, I have never taken whammy, nor any other true controlled substance, and have no desire to try any such for its own sake. But tonight, for the sake of not finding myself set apart, isolated—and if I had had any culpable foreknowledge, I should most certainly have sought to avoid suspicion at all costs—Oh, damn!” he finished, managing to glance around at everybody else as if he and not they had been humiliated. “Put it to the vote. If you so decide, I stand ready to swallow a bowlful now and let the rest of you watch me make a fool of myself.”
“Corwin, no!” said his bride.
“You mean, of course,” said the ballerina, “that the rest of us made fools of ourselves.”
“Of course we did,” said Windsong, and Mother Jackson added, “Leave the poor man alone.”
“Quiet!” Captain Denne repeated.
For an instant, they all were. Then von Cruewell said, “You have already made a fool of yourself, Herr Poe, in making such an offer.”
He turned one hand palm up—the other was hugging his bride’s shoulder—and gave no other reply. Everybody else, blessedly, kept quiet. It was a good thing that most of them had reason to feel shamefaced.
Denne cleared her throat and told them, “Let’s try it again. Herr—I mean M.—Poe, you found M. Tolliver floating in the bathwater, pulled him out, ascertained that he was dead, and then just left him there. Have I got it right so far?”
“I could hardly ascertain that he was dead. I could simply find no sign of life, and my wife—”
“What do you mean, you couldn’t ascertain whether or not he was dead?”
“In Herr Poe’s world,” said von Cruewell, “the question can be very much a problem.”
To vent off the pressure building in her head, Denne half shouted. “M. Poe, are you or are you not ‘suffering’ a fit of reality perception tonight?”
“Thunderbolts,” Juno reproved her, “are my husband’s to launch.”
“With all respects to your tribillions, M. Juno McGolden Olympian,” Denne replied sarcastically, “inside this airship, I outrank you both.”
There was a general gasp, and one or two voices murmured, “McGolden!” Both the Olympians glared daggers at the captain. But otherwise, her deliberate rudeness in family-naming a passenger—and that particular passenger, too—put the frost on any revolt.
Ironically, while shaking everyone else, it seemed to steady Poe. “In answer to your last question, Captain,” he said, “I was perceiving reality when we sat down to dinner several hours ago. Since then, having by the merest quirk of fate escaped being whammied myself hardly means that my evening has been entirely free of stress and strain—”
“He’s been a hero,” said his bride.
Denne pointed a glance at the bandage on his left hand. She herself sported one above her left eyebrow and another round her wrist, where Kokomo Joe’s gift wristphone had broken and dug in. There were too many bandages around the lounge to make a fuss about any of them. She nodded again for Poe to go on, which he did.
“And for much of the time, including this present moment, I have experienced considerable difficulty determining which mode I am in. I suspect that at the time I found M. Tolliver, my perceptions were mixed, though I would be hard pressed to say in what proportion.”
“So you left him lying there at the bathside,” Denne repeated, “and then either somebody else came in and moved him, or else he got up and walked away.”
“I will explain some things,” said von Cruewell. “They will make all of you fear and mistrust me the more, but I will explain them anyway, since Herr Poe does not. I suspected him. Who would not, when he alone remained undrugged? Therefore, we confronted him, Valkyrie and I. He ran from us and very prudently locked the door between bath and corridor. When I found this door locked from the inside, I myself unlocked it from the corridor side. We went through the bathroom, Valkyrie and I, to find Herr Poe at his bride’s bedside in the Honeymoon Suite. He told us of Herr Tolliver, and we returned at once to the bathroom, but found nothing. The pool was filled with water, and there were wet places on the floor, but there was no body, neither alive nor dead.”
“You unlocked the door ...” said Steward Stewart, and Gofor Garson edged a few steps away from the major. Their reactions were typical.
“Jawohl,” the major said loudly enough to quench the murmur. “I unlocked the door from the other side, very easily.”
The captain spoke more loudly than the major. “You’re saying that he couldn’t have gone out by the corridor door.”
“Not before I unlocked it. He could not h
ave gone out earlier and then relocked it behind him from the corridor side. This zeppelin’s doors can be locked only by persons who are inside the room with the lock. Ja, that is a wise precaution.”
Denne continued, “He certainly couldn’t have come out by that door while you were in the corridor. And he couldn’t have gone out through the Honeymoon Suite without our newlyweds noticing something—”
“Without my husband noticing,” said Garvey. “I was flat cold in the middle of whammy nightmares.”
“I feel for you, Angel,” said Windsong. “Plain old garden nightmares can be frightening enough, let alone the hothouse variety. But could M. Tolliver have sneaked past while you were preoccupied with your spouse, M. Poe?”
“Well ... possible ... But no. That door, too, remained locked from the inside.”
“The door between your Honeymoon Suite and the corridor, you mean,” Denne clarified, and when he nodded, she went on, “What about the door between your suite and the bathroom?”
“What good would that have done M. Tolliver, all by itself?” said Gillikin.
“I had left it open,” said Poe, adding wryly, “Once in the bathroom, the obersturmbannfuehrerin experienced even less difficulty getting into our suite.”
“You left that connecting door open. But you never glanced back into the bathroom to see what the supposed corpse might be doing?”
“Captain Denne,” Poe replied, “I apologize for my dereliction. M. Tolliver could hardly have squeezed through the Honeymoon Suite while I was kneeling at my wife’s pillow, but I suppose he could have danced a galliard there in the bathroom without my noticing.”
“But he couldn’t get out while Major von Cruewell was in the corridor,” the captain repeated. “Well, Major, could you and your dog have missed Tolliver when you went through the bathroom to the Honeymoon Suite the first time?”
“It is possible. Ja, possible. But it is not likely.”
Jove tried to reassert himself. “Why unlikely?”
The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK Page 83
