"Africa in the seventies. Well, damn, again. From the look of him, we may have known some of the same people in some of the same places."
"Shall I see what I can find in records of that time, Ed?"
Shaking my head, I said, “No, thanks. Don't waste processor time on it unless he says or does something to make a records search worth the trouble."
We met and matched speeds with flight 949 in full stealth mode to avoid spooking the flight crew. Jeffries was on the manifest as a first class passenger. As we flew alongside the plane, Steph adjusted some of the side of the canopy field to transparency and stationed us about fifty feet outside the proper windows.
I'd thought there'd be some buffeting from the wind so close to the plane, but there wasn't. Steph shaped her fields to compensate somehow.
"There's Jeffries,” she said, pointing to one of the windows near the front.
"Let's give him a good, long look, then. Wave at him and smile and keep us precisely where we are in relation to the plane. The pilot may decide to veer away. Would you put me through to him, Steph? No video, just radio."
"Ready,” she said.
"Thanks, ma'am."
I said, “Hello, flight 949. We're the flitter by your right wing, and we thought you'd probably like to know why we're hanging around out here."
After a couple of moments the pilot's tense British voice said, “Yes. Indeed we would, flitter. Identify yourself, please."
"Um, well, we don't have a flight number, 949. We just wanted to have a look at something before you tried to land that thing. Everything's fine, though. No sweat."
"You thought something was wrong with my ship?"
"Well, no, not really. We just wanted to check something, that's all. Like I said, things are fine, 949. Nothing's leaking or flapping in the breeze or anything like that. Sorry we bothered you, but it seemed like a good idea to have a look. I'm one of those ‘better safe than sorry’ people. Bye. Over and out."
I waved at Jeffries, then said, “He's had his look. We can head for the airport now, Steph."
She lifted us well clear of the plane, then put us in stealth mode and shot us ahead of the jet. When we arrived at Tampa International airport, Steph took us into the parking garage and we stepped off the flitter, then she sent the flitter to hover just above the garage's rooftop parking area.
As we approached the security checkpoint, I slipped my belt knife out of its sheath and tucked it lengthwise under the back of my belt, then twisted it so that the blade rested against the belt, giving it a lateral profile.
When we reached the checkpoint, Stephie walked through without registering on any sensors except the guard's eyeballs, which tracked her progress until I coughed politely.
I tossed my keys in the bucket he held out to me, turned my pewter belt buckle so that it was edgewise against my jeans, just like my knife, and walked through the checkpoint without setting off the alarm.
The guard watched me straighten my belt buckle and said, “Done this before a few times, huh?"
I nodded. “Yeah. Doesn't always work, though. Sometimes I have to hold the buckle an inch or so higher to make it through. The fields in the booth walls are lateral, but they're at different heights, depending on the manufacturer."
"You saying our machines are no good?"
"Nope. No terrorist is going to chance waltzing through one of these gadgets with his hardware.” To change the subject, I asked, “Is flight 949 on the ground yet?"
As expected, the guard said, “I dunno. Check the monitors when you get to the concourse."
I set out walking ahead of Steph as we left the checkpoint so that she'd block the guard's view of me. While putting my wallet back in my pocket I palmed my knife out from under my belt and slipped it back into its sheath, then I slowed down to let her catch up with me.
Steph gave me an odd look as she came alongside me, but said nothing until we'd turned left onto the concourse to head for gate 41.
"Interesting,” she said. “You apparently learned a few things about fields before you met me."
"Ah, my dear, lovely Stephanie,” I said theatrically, “My whole life had merely been preparation for our meeting."
She laughed and said, “I could almost believe that sometimes.” With a grin, she added, “But only almost."
As we passed the airport lounge I felt someone watching me and glanced around. A thirtyish blonde woman at one of the small tables by the concourse let her eyes fall to something on her table.
There was a hubbub going on at gate 41 and three airport security people were quick-marching toward the gate. I stopped walking and looked at Steph, then pretended to adjust her collar as I spoke.
"I'll bet that's about our fly-by, Steph. If anyone but Jeffries sees us, we could wind up talking to security goons and bureaucrats all night. I'll step into the restroom and turn on my three suit. We can catch Jeffries when he comes out of the gate or tail him to the baggage area to make contact."
She nodded agreement and we headed for the restrooms. Steph dematerialized just inside the right-hand alcove entrance. I headed into the left alcove and said, “Option three on,” then turned around and reentered the concourse.
The blonde woman was frozen in the act of taking a sip of her drink, staring at the restroom alcoves. I realized that her angle of view would partially include the restroom doorway.
Oops. Did she see me—or part of me—disappear? She glanced around, then got up and moved a few tables away for a better look at the alcove. Yup. She'd seen it.
I walked over to watch her try to talk herself out of believing that she'd just seen someone disappear.
She simply stared at the alcove a little harder for a moment, then glanced at the drink in her hand and put it down on the tiny table before returning her gaze to the alcove.
The blonde then picked up a folded sheet of paper and studied it for a moment as she sipped her drink. I stepped quietly over to the table for a look at the paper. It was a computer-printed copy of my passport photo.
Interesting. She wasn't just an accidental observer. She was kind of cute, too. I studied her for a few moments. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, but didn't seem too disturbed about our disappearances as she returned her gaze to the alcove and sipped her drink.
Moderately amazing. She'd apparently almost instantly decided that she'd seen the impossible happen and then decided to simply roll with it. What were the odds of that?
She then folded the paper and put it back on the table. A few moments later, when she took a cigarette out of the pack on the table and reached for her lighter without taking her eyes off the alcove, I already had her lighter.
Her eyes narrowed as she glanced around the table for the lighter. I flicked it on about two feet from her face and held it toward her as I softly said, “Allow me."
Chapter Three
The field effect around my hand concealed the lighter itself, so to her it must have seemed as if a flame had sprung to life in mid-air above the table, and I'll give her full credit for not freaking out at all.
After a slight jerk of startlement, the woman simply sat there staring at the flame for a moment, then leaned forward to get a light. When she held out her hand for her lighter, I placed it on her open palm.
"Thank you,” she said as she watched the lighter appear and fall into her hand. “Are you a ghost or something?"
"Or something,” I said. “I just came over here to let you know that you aren't seeing things. Or rather, that you aren't not seeing things. Something like that, anyway."
She gave me a small smile as she said, “Thanks. I was beginning to wonder about that."
The bartender leaned toward them across the bar and asked, “Ready for another drink over there, ma'am?"
The woman turned to him and said, “No, thanks,” then she turned back to the table, giggled, and whispered, “I might start seeing things or something. Are you still there?"
I whispered back, “Yup. Are you waiting for
a flight?"
"No. I just got off one. I'm Marge. Who are you?"
"Name's Ed. Would you like a ride somewhere?"
Marge chuckled and asked, “Are you trying to pick me up? If so, you'll have a much better chance when I can see the merchandise."
"Stick around a while,” I said. “There's a guy who'll be getting off a plane soon. He's going to get a surprise. Then you'll see us both."
"Both? There are two of you?"
"Yup. Finish your drink and stay put if you're curious. Watch gate 41."
She nodded. “Yeah. Okay. This I gotta see."
"Okay, then. Back in a few. Bye."
Marge grinningly raised her glass slightly and said, “Bye."
As I approached the gate, Steph said, “Jeffries is coming up the gangway now, Ed. What are you going to do?"
"The flight crew and most of the passengers are already off. Let's see if he's going to wait here or head for the baggage area. When the crowd thins a bit, we'll make an appearance."
Jeffries seemed in no hurry to debark. As the last few people were leaving the gangway, he appeared wearing a double-pocket khaki shirt with epaulets and brown slacks over a pair of Nike sneakers. Very practical traveling clothes. In his left hand was a large brown briefcase.
He stepped to one side, looked around, then walked to the check-in desk and set his briefcase down between his leg and the desk. After another few moments of looking around, he took a cell phone out of his coat pocket and dialed a number. I reached to push the ‘off’ button.
"Save your dime, Mr. Jeffries,” I said. “Your ride is here."
Jeffries apparently wasn't the type to spook easily. He simply put the phone back in his pocket, then turned to face the sound of my voice as he examined his surroundings.
"You don't sound at all like George Wilmot,” he said. “And at the moment, you don't look very much like him."
He had a ‘veddy British’ accent and his imperturbability was considerably more than skin deep. Not much patience for games of any sort, betcha. Jeffries strongly reminded me of some of the Brit officers who'd worked with our mercenary units in Africa.
I quietly said, “Option three off,” and became visible as the field effect faded.
Jeffries’ once-over glance seemed more like a weapons and gig-line check than a casual evaluation of me.
"The name's Ed,” I said, extending a hand which Jeffries took rather mechanically. “My friend Stephanie's around here somewhere. Steph? Care to join us?"
She popped into being in front of the gate's check-in booth and also extended a hand to Jeffries.
As he took her hand, he gazed at her in frank appraisal and said, “You were the people aboard that flitter."
His flat gaze and tone made his words a statement that required no confirmation. Jeffries had not the smallest doubt. He also showed almost no signs of surprise or incredulity at Steph's abrupt appearance, which surprised me a bit.
I said, “George said you might have a question regarding our ownership of what we want to sell. I suggested that we pick you up and see if the ride to the office could answer that question for you."
Jeffries gave me a slight smile and said, “I'm also a pilot, sir. Fancy flying won't impress me. If you can convince me that what you offer is properly yours to sell we may continue from there."
I looked at Steph and asked, “Want to raise a cannon for Mr. Jeffries, Steph?"
She smiled and said, “I just happen to know where we can find one on short notice."
Jeffries raised a hand and said, “Ah, no, I'm sorry. I won't have time to accompany you on one of your expeditions. I have to be in London this weekend."
Steph asked, “Surely you can spare half an hour or so?"
That startled Jeffries where nothing else had.
"Half an hour?” he asked. “Is it in a swimming pool?"
"No,” said Steph. “It's at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, two hundred and nine miles from here. I'll inform Mr. Wilmot of our delay. Shall we get started?"
Jeffries looked at me as if for confirmation. I shrugged, then looked toward the bar and saw Marge looking our direction. When I waved, she waved back.
"We'll be stopping on the way,” I said. “We may be giving that lady a ride home."
Marge stood up somewhat nervously as we walked to the bar. I extended a hand to her as I said, “Hi, Marge. What's your last name, so I can introduce you?"
"Canton,” she said.
Okay,” I said, “Marge Canton, this is Stephanie Montgomery, Donald Jeffries, and as you already know, I'm Ed."
She grinned and asked, “Just Ed?"
"It's all I use unless I'm signing checks. What say, guys? Do we join her for a drink or get underway?"
Jeffries said, “It's early for me, thanks."
Marge said, “I don't need to finish this one,” then she picked up her purse and started to reach for her suitcases.
I walked around the table and took her bags, then said to Jeffries, “Why don't you find your baggage and meet us out front? Will you want some help?"
Jeffries shook his head, said, “Thanks, but there's only one bag and this, my carry-on case. I'll be right along,” then he turned to leave us.
Chapter Four
As we headed for the exit, Marge asked, “How did Mr. Jeffries take your ‘invisible man’ routine?"
"Rather well, I thought,” I said. “He just put his phone away and told me that I didn't sound like the guy he'd expected to pick him up."
Marge giggled softly and asked, “Unshakeable, huh? How do you do that, Ed?"
"Classified magic, ma'am."
"But not so classified that you couldn't stop by my table to light my cigarette while you were invisible?"
"Um. That's a point. Well, I guess it isn't all that classified, then, but if I explained it, would I be wasting my breath?"
"Oh, just tell me which button to push,” she said. “That's the limit of my understanding of most techie things."
"No buttons. No learning curve. It just works when I tell it to work."
"Oh, that's even better,” she said in a false bright tone. “Even I could handle something like that, I think."
I glanced at her somewhat sharply. “That's not what I meant, Marge. I'm just saying that there's nothing to understand. I say when and it happens."
She shook her head wryly.
"Sorry. I wasn't ... Never mind. I thought you were being condescending. Sorry."
We walked on in silence until we reached the main exit doors. Beyond them, hovering near the roof of the enclosed driveway, was the flitter. As we looked up from the sidewalk, Marge's eyes became those of an excited child.
"Look! It's one of those flitter-things!"
I glanced at Steph with a grin.
Steph smiled slightly and said, “So it is, Marge, and as soon as this car is out of the way, I'll bring it down."
Marge turned to ask, “You mean it's yours..?” but Steph had winked out of existence, leaving Marge with her mouth hanging open. She reappeared on the flitter as it maneuvered to descend to the curb. The motion caught Marge's attention and her mouth remained open as she spotted Steph standing by the flitter's console.
"No,” I said. “Not hers, Marge. It's mine."
As the flitter descended, Marge glanced at me and asked, “How did she..?"
"She'll tell you all about it,” I said, “Let's just get aboard and clear the driveway until Jeffries arrives. We don't want to draw a crowd or get a parking ticket."
Something tickled Marge and she laughed. “A ticket...? You really think they'd ticket a flitter?"
"Why find out?"
Looking around as I handed her aboard the flitter, Marge said, “There aren't any controls. How do you fly it?"
"There are controls,” I said. “See that egg on the console? That's a control."
Marge went to look closely at the egg and tried to pick it up, but couldn't. When she noticed that we were in motion, she quickly s
at down.
Once the flitter was again floating near the ceiling, I opened the cooler and said, “We have Dr Pepper, Ice House beer, or lemon tea in a can. What'll it be, Marge?"
She reached toward the cooler she couldn't see and stubbed her fingers on the side of it, then felt her way around the side and up to the open top.
"Uh ... Tea, please."
I opened a can and handed it to her, then pulled out an Ice House for myself. When I let the lid close, Marge cleared her throat and nodded slightly at Steph while giving me an 'Aren't you forgetting someone?' look.
"Steph,” I said, “Marge is worried that I may have neglected to offer you something from the cooler."
Marge turned to Steph.
Steph said, “Thank you, but I'm not thirsty, Marge."
I walked to the edge of the deck to watch for Jeffries. Sitting down, I swung my legs over the edge and sipped my beer as I watched people and cars come and go.
A guard inside the building seemed to shake off his momentary stupor at seeing the flitter and came around a pillar to the doors. He hesitated, then he stepped onto the sidewalk.
"Hey,” he said, pointing up at me, “You can't drink beer out here."
'Not worth the hassle,' I thought, then I said, “Option three on."
The guard's jaw dropped. After a moment, he looked around as if to see if anyone else had seen me disappear. Finding himself alone, he backed away toward the doors and inside the building.
I got up and moved to the pilot's seat, then said, “Option three off. Steph, how about a one-way canopy, please?"
In the front windshield of an approaching car I saw our reflection as our canopy instantly resembled stainless steel.
"Thank you, ma'am. Now I can drink my beer in peace."
Marge said, “Huh?” and looked around, apparently seeing no difference at first.
"Look for a slight graying of the air around us,” I said. “It's like a shell around the flitter. We can see out, but people can't see in."
I watched her as she examined the air around the flitter and located the zone of gray. She reached to touch it, then pulled her hand back and asked, “Is it all right to...?"
Book 4: 3rd World Products, Inc. Page 2
