“Wow,” he said, and Alma grinned, twirled, the skirt flaring.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But —”
“Beads,” Miss Greenberg said, and Mrs. Feurzeig produced a tray. Alma reached for a strand of silver, but the other women shook their heads as one.
“Not with your skin, dear,” Miss Greenberg said.
Mrs. Feurzeig poked unhappily through the tray. “You really ought to take more care, you know. You can’t get away with neglecting yourself forever.”
“I’m a flyer,” Alma protested.
“You’re much too tall,” Mrs. Feurzeig said, but Miss Greenberg laughed.
“An aviatrix, dear, not a circus flyer. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, exactly,” Alma said.
Mrs. Feurzeig unearthed a string of ivory pearls that were interspersed with rhinestone-studded spheres. “Maybe these?”
Miss Greenberg nodded thoughtfully, and Alma turned again in front of the mirror.
“You look beautiful,” Lewis said. He wondered if she had dressed up for Gil. Alma turned full circle, the skirt swirling, and he saw a shadow cross her face, and guessed she was thinking of Gil, too.
Mrs. Feurzeig saw the same shift of expression. “Now, understand, it’s not silk, but you treat it like silk, it’ll go on looking like it. The appliqué is all hand-done, but there’s no need for alterations. Forty dollars, and we’ll throw in the beads.”
“Forty dollars,” Alma began, and Lewis stood up.
“We’ll take it,” he said. Alma looked at him, and he gave her his best smile. “You could always bill Henry for it.”
“As what?” She was trying to sound indignant, and failed.
“Travel expenses?”
She snorted. “I don’t think he’d buy it.”
“Ok, take it out of my pay.” Lewis grinned, and Alma leaned close.
“I’ll take it out of something,” she said softly, and disappeared into the back to change into slacks and blouse again.
Mrs. Feurzeig was smirking, and Lewis felt his face heat. She said nothing, however, just wrapped dress and necklace in tissue and brown papers. Alma reappeared, her ordinary self again, and took a deep breath as she opened her purse.
“It’s worth it,” Lewis said, and she smiled again.
“I hope so.”
They made it back to Flushing Airport in time to re-pack the suitcases, cramming in their new purchases, while Alma changed back into her old blue day dress. It was starting to look a little tired, Lewis thought, and was glad she’d had the chance to pick up something nice. Jerry sorted his books, picking a few he could leave behind — or, he said brightly, transfer to their suitcases. They wouldn’t be over the weight limit. Lewis gritted his teeth and took a couple of volumes, and the others did the same.
There was a surprising amount of traffic on the roads that led to the Rockaways, and on the last bridge it came to a near standstill. Searchlights swept the air in the distance, pale fingers of light against the purpling sky, and more lights hazed the air above the tree line. And then at last they turned into the Naval Air Station, and Mitch leaned out to give their names to the young sailor on duty at the gate. He consulted a harried-looking civilian, who consulted a clipboard, and waved them through. The Navy airship hangar loomed ahead, enormous and somehow flimsy, its walls crisscrossed with braces. More lights picked out “Fort Tilden” painted along the side, and a pale semi-circle of silver-gray poked out from behind it like a tarnished moon. It was almost unimaginably huge, Lewis thought. He’d hunted balloons, of course, a change of pace from aerial recon and then from escort duty, but those had been much smaller, pale and flabby, nothing like this streamlined monster.
They made their way toward a second makeshift barrier, where MPs and civilian cops held back a crowd of sightseers. There were reporters, too, photographers jostling for the best shots, and men with notebooks collecting man-on-the-street impressions. A couple of newsreel cameras had been set up, huge boxy things on tripods that looked too small for their weight, and a man with his cap on backwards was peering through the viewfinder of one as he turned its crank.
“Mrs. Gilchrist?”
Lewis turned with her to see a homely young man in a well-cut suit hurrying toward them. “I’m Joe Palmer,” he said. “Mr. Kershaw’s assistant for the flight. He wanted me to meet you, be sure you got aboard all right.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Alma said, offering her hand, and one of the reporters called, “Hey, Joe! Who’s the dame?”
Palmer gave Alma an apologetic glance. “Would you mind giving them a brief interview, Mrs. Gilchrist? It’s better if we can keep them happy.”
Keep them fed, Lewis thought, not liking the idea. But it was Alma’s call. She lifted her eyebrows, and he could almost see the thoughts chasing themselves across her face. In the long run, there was nothing bad about getting Gilchrist Aviation into the papers in conjunction with Henry Kershaw. “All right,” she said. “But, truly, brief —”
Palmer was already turning away, a practiced smile on his face. “This is Mrs. Alma Gilchrist, of Gilchrist Aviation, a colleague and a guest of Mr. Kershaw’s. Mrs. Gilchrist, this is Stu Mather, of the Daily Mirror.”
Alma’s eyelids flickered as she registered the tabloid’s name — even people from Colorado knew the Mirror’s reputation for racy reporting — but she smiled gamely.
“Friend of Mr. Kershaw’s?” Mather said, and she gave him a blank look.
“My late husband and I did a good deal of work for Mr. Kershaw.” She included Lewis and the others with a wave of her hand. “These gentlemen are some of our test pilots.”
“No offense, Mrs. Gilchrist,” Mather said, “but Kershaw’s got a woman running tests for him?”
“I have some of the finest pilots in the West working for me,” Alma said, and there was iron in her voice. “Lewis Segura, here, won the DSC in France. Mitchell Sorley is a decorated ace, with seven confirmed kills. We’re a small company, but Mr. Kershaw recognizes quality.”
“So what exactly are you doing for Kershaw?” Mather asked.
“I’m sorry,” Alma said. “I really can’t go into detail. I’m sure you understand.”
“And the last gentleman?” another reporter called, notebook ready.
Alma paused, gave a sudden, wholly mischievous smile. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I really can’t discuss Professor Ballard’s presence.”
That was one in Kershaw’s eye, Lewis thought, and hid a grin. Flashbulbs popped, and Alma turned to Palmer, poised as a movie star. He took her arm, shaking his head at the reporters.
“That’s all, boys, let the lady get on board.”
Once inside the barriers, stewards in white jackets hurried to take their luggage. Palmer had cabin tags for them, and once the bags had been weighed — Jerry’s was three pounds under the limit, Lewis noted — the stewards whisked them away. Here under the airship’s shadow, Lewis had to crane his neck to see it clearly, the silver-gray skin curving gracefully up into the sky. It was topped up and ready, he guessed; the mooring lines were taut, sailors from the station keeping a watchful eye on them, and there was another cluster of men at the top of the mooring mast, where the Independence’s round nose just met the tower. A hatch was open in the hull there, a crewman leaning out, arms folded on the edge of the opening: but of course the gas was held in internal cells, Lewis thought, not in the rigid hull.
He looked back along the ship’s enormous length, and picked out the engine nacelles jutting from the hull. They were silent still, the huge propellers unmoving. Each blade was as tall as a man, and elegantly curved. The gondola seemed very small to hold cabins and lounge and dining room, never mind the cockpit — bridge, he supposed it would be, on something like this, like on a ship. But then he saw the double row of windows let into the lower curve of the hull, and realized that at least some of that space had been moved into the frame. That meant that the gas cells would be above that; he wondered how many there
were, how much gas it took to lift a ship like this.
If you came in on it over the top — you’d have to take it in a dive, the gunners would be in the engine nacelles and in the gondola, maybe in the nose, but there’d be a window of vulnerability directly at the top of the frame where none of the guns would reach. Get up in the sun, dive as hard and steep as you can — and load with incendiaries, that was key — you’d only get one good shot, but it would probably be enough, one phosphorus bullet into the hydrogen cells should send it up like a Roman candle. The trick would be getting away afterward: side slipping was safer, but gave the gunners a chance; pull up too fast, and you’d tear your wings off. But the ship would burn. He could almost see it, tail pitching up, flames running eagerly up the tipping frame, fragments of canopy and burning bodies falling like tears of fire —
“You look like you’re figuring out how to light her up,” Mitch said, in his ear, and Lewis shook his head.
“I’m glad I never came up against one of these.” He could picture the machine gunners tucked in under the engine nacelles, hanging out the end of the gondola, and shook himself hard.
“Me too,” Mitch said.
A cluster of radio microphones had been set up by the rolling stairs that led up into the rear of the gondola, and Jerry paused for a moment, eyeing them. “I suppose it would be too much to expect Henry not to give a speech.”
“Yes,” Alma said. “It would.”
“This way,” Palmer said. He consulted another crewman waiting at the base of the steps. “You’re the last to board, except for Mr. Kershaw.”
“Then we’d best get moving,” Alma said. “Thanks for your help.”
“Oh, you’ll be seeing more of me,” Palmer said cheerfully. “I’m coming along for the ride, and Mr. Kershaw said I was to be sure you didn’t lack for anything.”
“That’s very nice,” Alma said, and started up the stairs.
Lewis followed, checked as they both realized that the Independence was moving. It wasn’t much, not more than a ship at the dock, but it was enough to shift the airship’s fold-down stairway back and forth along the platform. A crewman leaned out, ready to help, but Alma judged her moment, and stepped across without a wobble. Lewis followed, and heard Jerry swear. He glanced back, and saw the crewman hauling him aboard.
They found themselves in a glass-walled space at the very tail of the gondola, only a polished brass railing running at waist height and a few equally polished struts impeding the view. At the moment, the view was mostly of dirt and sailors, ready to manhandle the airship away from the tower, but at altitude, Lewis thought, it would be spectacular.
“Observation car, sir,” the crewman said, helpfully. “The stairs to the promenade are forward.”
“Thanks,” Lewis said, and followed the others.
The stairs were real stairs, not a glorified ladder, and Jerry pulled himself up without hesitation. Lewis allowed himself a sigh of relief, and looked around. The windows he’d seen from the outside ran along the wall here, offering a slanting view of the ground and a few sailors clutching ropes, while toward the center of the hull was a low wall upholstered in dark gold brocade. Behind it was a low platform set out with tables and chairs — all made of aluminum, Lewis saw — and already a dozen people had gathered there. An officer with a clipboard hurried toward them.
“Mrs. Gilchrist and party?”
“Yes,” Alma said.
“Welcome aboard.” He was a young man, but there were streaks of gray in his hair: another veteran, Lewis guessed. “I have your cabin numbers here, but we’ll be taking off directly, and you may want to watch? Hors d’oeuvres will be served, and there will be a champagne toast once we reach the three-mile limit.”
“Good for Henry,” Mitch said, and the officer grinned.
“We have a full cellar on board as well, sir.”
“That,” Jerry said, “is the best news I’ve heard today.”
“Second-best,” Mitch said, with a meaningful glance around the promenade, and Jerry sighed.
“All right, second-best. But it’s very close indeed.”
“Let’s find a table,” Alma said.
They took the last open table beside the low wall, and tugged the chairs around so that they could all see out the windows. It was odd, Lewis thought, to be able to shift furniture — strange that it wasn’t fastened down, strange that it wouldn’t affect the trim. But the Independence was simply too large for that to matter.
Jerry rested his cane against the wall, and stretched his leg cautiously. “I read somewhere that every passenger on board here could run to the same side of the lounge to see some passing sight, and the pilots wouldn’t even notice.”
“I wouldn’t have thought it,” Lewis said, looking around. “But now —” He stopped, looked quickly away from the tall red-head in the white lawn slip-dress. Not only was the fabric sheer enough that he suspected she was wearing next to nothing under it, but he thought he recognized her. “Isn’t that Celena Moore? The singer?”
Mitch glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows rising appreciatively. “Not to mention Miss Mary Holliday, the Sparkling Starlet.”
“You’ve been reading Winchell,” Jerry said, and ostentatiously refused to look.
“I read a while ago that Henry’d been seen with Mary Holliday,” Alma began, and broke off as a waiter appeared with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Instead of serving them, he set it on the table with a bow, and Lewis realized each of the tables had been served a similar dish.
“There’s coffee and soft drinks,” the waiter murmured deferentially, “and if the gentlemen would like something stronger —”
“Yes, and so would the lady,” Alma said, with a smile.
“Very good, ma’am.” The waiter backed away.
“Ah,” Jerry said, leaning forward. “Henry’s making his speech.”
Lewis craned his neck to look, and saw Henry and another man, obviously a reporter, talking cheerfully behind the microphones. Flashbulbs popped all around them, and then Henry lifted his hand in something between a wave and regal acknowledgement, and disappeared from view.
“We should be taking off soon,” Lewis said.
Even as he spoke, he felt the floor tremble faintly: the engines had come on, though he could hardly believe the giant machines made so little difference. Across the table, Alma met his eyes, and he stood up, holding out his hand.
“Come on. Let’s watch from the promenade.”
She nodded, and they hurried down the short flight of steps. At the very bottom of the row of windows, they could just see the heads of a few sailors, doing something out of sight — backing them off the mooring tower, Lewis guessed. The Independence was definitely moving now, moving backwards like a car in reverse, the ground slipping slowly past.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the waiter said, arriving with a tray. “Sir.”
Lewis took the drinks, cocktails in china cups, and as he handed one to Alma he realized that the airship was moving forward now. “Look,” he said, and the ground began to drop away from them, slowly at first, and then more quickly, picking up speed as the airship rose.
“We’re in the air,” Alma said, and shook her head. “We’ve taken off.”
Lewis looked down at his drink, the liquid steady in the cup, the deck solid underfoot. It didn’t seem real, didn’t seem possible, and as he looked up again he saw the same disbelief in Alma’s eyes. There was beach beneath them now, the bright flicker of surf, and then dark water, Independence rushing east into night. Further up the promenade, an older couple turned away from the windows with a sigh and a smile, and in the golden light of the lounge the Sparkling Starlet gave an effervescent laugh.
“This isn’t flying,” Lewis said. “Well, I mean — you know what I mean. It doesn’t seem real.”
Alma nodded. “It does feel like a flying carpet, doesn’t it? Like magic. But it is real, and it’s getting us to France three days ahead of Davenport.”
Lewis g
rinned, and lifted his cup to hers. “To magic.”
“To magic,” Alma echoed, and for a second there was a shadow on her face. “We’ll need it.”
Chapter Seventeen
The dining room of the airship was a mixture of Spanish Colonial and science fiction, sort of Mission meets Mars. It was absolutely hideous.
“Nice job, Henry,” Mitch muttered, looking around.
“Oh my God,” Jerry said.
Lewis blinked.
The combination of cowhide and aluminum was baffling. “The tickets were four hundred dollars apiece. It’s lovely,” Alma said in a low voice, pointedly waiting for Mitch to pull out her chair for her. “Henry’s comped us, and we appreciate it so very much.”
“Right.” Lewis pulled out her chair instead. His one suit needed pressing and looked distinctly out of place in the elegant dining room. But no one was looking at him. Alma had the distinct impression she was drawing eyes in a way she usually didn’t. It was the dress, she thought, ink blue and dancing with fireworks. Even Mitch was looking at her admiringly, and that was unusual.
Jerry settled into his own chair and unfolded his napkin. “It’s hideous and you know it. I don’t understand how good style can elude….”
“Jerry,” Mitch said. “Can it.”
To Alma’s surprise, Jerry did. He looked up almost cheerfully. “Ok then. How about some wine?” He glanced at Lewis. “International waters. They can break out the bottles.”
“Sounds good to me,” Mitch said.
The wine was good and the food what one would expect on a train, which was all the more remarkable for being prepared in the air. Though they weren’t seated in one of the prime locations beside the slanting windows, they could see the stars outside. The sense of motion was much smoother than in an airplane, but it still felt very strange to Alma – not being in the air, but being in the air while sitting at a table eating a late dinner with so much space around her. It was a little surreal, but by the end of dinner she thought she might be getting used to it.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 21
