Below them, the ground was wooded, hilly. The race route suggested following a state highway, but there was no sign of it, no obvious break in the woods. Mitch looked at the compass again, making sure he was on the right line, then back at the ground. Still nothing.
“I don’t see the highway,” he said.
“I don’t either,” Alma answered.
The choice was obvious: cast around for the landmark or follow the compass bearings and hope for the best. “We’ll pick it up later,” Mitch said, and hoped it was true.
The trees crawled past beneath the wing. Now and then a field appeared, pale between the groves, a mule straining against the traces of an old plow.
“There,” Alma said, and pointed.
Dust rose between two stands of trees, trailing behind a battered Model A.
“You think that’s our road?” Mitch asked. The bearing looked all right, but…
“Yes,” Alma said, with a firmness that Mitch suspected hid an uncertainty that matched his own. Still, it was the best bet they had, and he banked the Terrier to line up on the narrow strip of gravel.
An hour passed, the road snaking beneath them, still on the right bearing for Little Rock. Another ten minutes, and Alma pointed ahead, where a clump of buildings rose out of the trees.
“Arkadelphia.”
Mitch glanced at the fuel gauges again, turning the numbers over in his head. They were making better time than he’d expected, had more fuel left than he’d thought, and he advanced the throttle another notch. For a second, he thought Alma was going to scold, but instead she nodded.
“Now’s the time,” she said, and he let it out another notch. The sound of the engines changed, deepened, and he watched their airspeed creep up again.
And then at last they saw it, the first buildings on the city’s western edge. The field was on the eastern side; Mitch put them into a slow descent, and Alma squirmed in her seat, scanning the sky with the binoculars.
“I don’t see anything,” she said. “But there’s the tower.”
"Yeah.” Mitch banked the Terrier, bringing her in low and steady to circle the field, wagging his wings to request the landing. A flagman broke from the tower, ran toward the longest of the grass-covered strips. Behind him, Mitch caught of glimpse of stands, not quite full, but certainly occupied, and then the flagman was waving them down. The windsock hung limp on the tower, barely twitching; he lined up in that general direction, centered on the landing strip, and let the Terrier find her own way down.
The flagman steered them off the landing strip — not toward the hangars, Mitch realized, but toward the terminal and the waiting grandstand. Behind him, the cockpit door opened, and Lewis leaned in, bracing himself on the door frame.
“There’s nobody on the leader board.”
Alma grinned, crossing her fingers, and the flagman waved them to a stop. Mitch set the brakes, and cut the engines, and in the sudden silence there was a noise he identified after a moment as cheering from the crowd. Lewis disappeared again, and there was the rattle of the stairs going down. Alma hauled herself out of her seat, and Mitch followed, blinking in the relative dark of the cabin. Lewis stepped back, letting Alma out first, and there was another cheer from the crowd. Mitch worked his shoulders, suddenly aware of the work he’d put in, the stiffness in his back and belly, and climbed after her, Lewis and Jerry trailing behind. A man in a race referee’s blazer beamed at them from the edge of the paved area beside the terminal.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Segura, gentlemen! You’re first in!”
Mitch glanced over his shoulder, automatically checking the sky, but there was no sign of another plane. They’d done it, then, thanks to Alma.
The referee was rattling on, “And you’re likely to be the only ones in for a while. TWA left Dallas at noon, and Texarkana just phoned to say someone buzzed the tower. They couldn’t quite make out the markings, I’m afraid —” He broke off as a boy came running with a slip of paper, took it and scanned the penciled scribble. “But they do say they have Harvard in sight and coming in to land.”
Mitch closed his eyes. They were going to come out in first, that was the main thing; even if it was TWA who were passing Texarkana, they were still more than an hour out, more like an hour and a half. Gilchrist had started the day only forty minutes behind the leader. Alma’s grin was blinding.
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Segura,” the referee said, “I know the folks in the stands — and the boys from the papers — would like a few words from you.”
Alma’s smile was fierce. “We’d be delighted.”
Mitch dredged up a smile of his own, and followed.
Chapter Eleven
It was roulette again, another giant wheel turned by girls in pretty dresses, though this time they wore demure white ball gowns and diamanté clips in their determinedly waved hair. The ballroom was hung with swags of red and white, pinned with bright blue rosettes, and the women passengers had been given matching blue corsages. Jerry and Jed Pelletier had been given scarlet boutonnieres, and Pelletier fingered his warily when he thought no one was looking. Probably he hadn’t worn flowers since his wedding, Jerry thought. If then.
He was feeling a bit light-headed himself. They’d won the stage by just over two hours, for a net lead of fifty-two minutes, and that had meant two hours for the reporters to swarm them, bombarding them all with questions about the supplemental tank and how in the world Alma had thought of it. Some of it had been genuinely admiring, and some had been barbed, none-too-subtle hints that this was close to cheating. Alma had handled it all admirably, Lewis glowering at her side but smart enough not to say anything in complaint, but this was one time Henry’s jovial presence would actually have done some good. Except Henry had gone on to New Orleans along with most of the other sponsors, and the teams were left to fend for themselves. He was just glad that this stop didn’t involve another trivia contest.
On the other hand, the organizers in Little Rock had been determined to make it more than a contest of mere luck. Each space on the wheel held a prize donated by a local business — a cabinet radio from O.K. Houck, a fur coat, a jewelry set, a fancy wristwatch, plus cash amounts ranging from ten dollars up to a hundred dollars — as well as a hidden time bonus; if you didn’t like what you’d gotten, you could swap your prize with someone else’s. The catch was that the time wouldn’t be revealed until everyone had had their turn, and all the trades were made.
At least there were two fewer teams to worry about now. Both Consolidated and Bestways had had engine problems that dropped them back with United; Alma thought Bestways had an outside chance to make up the time, but Consolidated was more than three hours back, and had proved to have the shortest range of any of the competitors. Everyone else was still in the running, but Comanche was out of its regular territory, and had managed to stray off course. They were back in sixth place now, and Lewis was looking palpably relieved.
Jerry frowned at the wheel. The prizes weren’t the real issue, the main thing was to keep Miss Ruby Lee of TWA from getting the one big fifteen minute bonus that was hidden somewhere on the wheel — beneath the radio, he thought. If the reporters wanted cheating, well, this probably was it, but he was determined to do his part to keep Gilchrist solidly in the lead. He’d always had a knack for games of chance, and Gil had taught him how to manipulate them on the fly — it was just a matter of concentration and focus. He could do this.
It was May Saltonstall’s turn — Harvard had managed to vault to fourth, on the strength of McIsaac’s piloting — and she stepped up to the wheel with a determined look.
“Give it a good spin, Miss Saltonstall,” the master of ceremonies urged. He was the president of the local Chamber of Commerce, a handsome, well-spoken man named Jewell, who was sweating under the twin obligations of keeping the competition moving and getting the prize donors’ names on the radio as often as possible.
May obliged, and the wheel spun, clicking loudly, to settle at last on
a picture of a lady’s wristwatch. She smiled with what looked like genuine enthusiasm, and the two ball-gowned girls clapped politely.
“Congratulations,” Jewell said, leaning close to the nearest microphone. “That’s a beautiful lady’s watch, platinum set with real diamonds, from the Elgin Company, courtesy of Pfeiffer’s Department Store, Sixth and Main, right here in Little Rock!”
Ten minutes, Jerry thought. He was pretty sure the watch carried a ten minute bonus, and that was all right.
“Miss Laura Bainbridge of United!” Jewell announced. “Step right up, please, Miss Bainbridge. There are still some nice prizes left — that fine mink coat, courtesy of Gus Blass Company, or how ‘bout that radio, from O.K. Houck?”
The mink was five minutes, and so was the ladies’ dresser set, Jerry thought; the money all carried ten minutes. It was the radio they had to worry about. He focused his will as the blonde reached for the wheel, and Pelletier nudged him in the ribs.
“Not bad, huh?”
Jerry winced, concentration broken, and forced a smile. “Not bad, no.”
The wheel clicked to a stop on the radio.
“And that’s the cabinet radio from O.K. Houck — don’t worry, Miss Bainbridge, Houck ships nationwide!” Jewell waved for a helper to trundle the radio forward, three feet of polished maple inlay on elegant clawed feet. “But, if you’d like, there’s always the chance to trade. Look around, see if there’s something out there that you like better.”
Miss Bainbridge made a production of looking up and down then line, then shook her head. “Thank you, Mr. Jewell, but I quite like what I have. It’s a lovely piece.”
“Huh,” Pelletier said, with a sideways grin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stuck on the Harvard girl.”
“Miss Saltonstall is very nice,” Jerry said, his voice prim. Inwardly, he was seething. All right, it wasn’t so bad that United had the time, but there was still room to trade…
“From Transcontinental and Western Air, Miss Ruby Lee!” Jewell waved her forward, and she posed for a moment beside the wheel before reaching for the lever. The wheel spun, and it seemed to take forever before it began to slow. It clicked toward a stop, past ten dollars, twenty, and settled at last on the mink coat.
“A beautiful mahogany mink coat cut to the latest fashion,” Jewell announced, as another assistant brought out the gleaming fur and laid it gently in Miss Lee’s arms. “From Gus Blass, in the 300 block, Main Street. It’s a gorgeous coat, Miss Lee, but — you always have the chance to trade it for something better. Will you keep it, or will you trade?”
Miss Lee stroked it, looking up and down the line, and then leaned close to the microphone. “It is beautiful, Mr. Jewell, but — I’m a California girl.”
Not the radio, Jerry thought. Not the radio.
Miss Lee stopped in front of May Salstonstall. “Sorry, honey,” she said, “but I sure like that watch a lot.”
“A trade!” Jewell announced, as the women exchanged items to a smattering of applause. “Miss Lee takes the watch, and Miss Saltonstall gets the mink. I don’t think anyone loses there.”
“And last but not least — last because he’s first — Dr. Jerry Ballard. Let’s have a hand for Gilchrist Aviation!”
Jewell beckoned, and Jerry managed a smile, leaning on his cane as he stopped beside the wheel.
“Go right ahead, Dr. Ballard, give it a whirl.”
Jerry took a last look at the wheel. The hundred dollar prize was still there, and it carried a ten minute bonus. He focused his will, and pulled the lever hard. The wheel spun noisily, slowed, and settled onto the hundred-dollar space.
“One hundred dollars!” Jewell said. “One hundred dollars and a time bonus! But before we find out just how much time our contestants receive, we have one last round of trades. Ladies — and gentlemen — are you satisfied with what you have?”
There was a moment of silence, everyone looking to see what the others would do, and then Miss Saltonstall stepped forward.
“I want to trade, Mr. Jewell.”
“Miss Saltsonstall wants to trade.” Jewell looked up and down the line. “Anyone else?”
Mrs. Jezek was biting her lip, teetering on the edge of a decision, and Jerry couldn’t resist. Just a little push, he thought. Just a nudge toward the extra time, which would help Corsair and not hurt them. Pick the radio. Choose the radio.
“Yes,” Mrs. Jezek said. “Yes, I would like to trade.”
“And Mrs. Jezek wants to trade,” Jewell repeated. “Anyone else? No one? All right, then. By the rules of this contest, the lowest ranking team chooses first, so that’s you, Mrs. Jezek.”
“Thank you.” She took a deep breath. “I would like the cabinet radio, Mr. Jewell.”
She held out the money she’d won to Laura Bainbridge, who took it cheerfully enough, and one of the assistants pushed the radio over to her. The audience applauded happily.
“And you, Miss Salstonstall?” Jewell asked. “What would you like instead of that gorgeous mink?”
Miss Saltonstall’s grin was utterly mischievous. “One hundred dollars, Mr. Jewell.”
Before Jerry could react, she was holding out the coat. He took it, helplessly, the audience laughing and clapping. Miss Saltonstall took the hundred dollars and the envelope with the time bonus and returned to her place, her heels snapping on the wooden stage.
“And that’s today’s modern woman, folks,” Jewell said, to more laughter. “Entirely practical! And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the time. You’ll each find an envelope attached to your prize. Have you all got it? Everyone? Then it’s time. Open your envelopes, please!”
Jerry wrestled the heavy fur into the crook of his arm — God, it was an awkward bundle — and used both hands to tear open his envelope. As he had expected, the slip read “five minutes” and he held it up to the audience. The others did the same, Mrs. Jezek with a little bounce of pleasure as she showed fifteen minutes, and Jerry couldn’t help smiling. It didn’t hurt him, and Corsair could use all the help it could get.
After that, the contest wrapped up quickly, Jewell urging everyone to come out to the field to watch the take-off in the morning. Jerry hoisted the unwieldy coat onto his shoulder and levered himself down the stairs to the tiled lobby. It was crowded, even this late at night, and he recognized several of the reporters who had been following the race. Beyond them, Alma and Lewis stood by the doorway of the hotel’s restaurant, obviously waiting for a table, and Jerry started toward them.
“Dr. Ballard!”
Jerry turned to see Winchell’s stringer Carmichael grinning up at him, notebook open in his hand.
“So, your wife is going to love that baby.”
“I’m not married,” Jerry said. There was no good place this conversation could go, and it took all his willpower to hold a pleasant smile.
“That’s probably good enough to get you engaged,” Carmichael said. “That’s one expensive fur. Got a lady-friend you’re going to share it with?”
No good place, Jerry thought. He took a breath, looking for his best out, and saw Alma wave to him from the restaurant door. “This is all about the team, Mr. Carmichael,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me?”
He stepped around the smaller man, shifting the coat in his hands. The conversation had attracted attention from some of the other reporters, but he ignored them, smiling at Alma.
“I think this is yours,” he said, and set the coat on her shoulders. She blinked, surprised and then pleased, her hands going to the fur to stroke the collar. Lewis lifted an eyebrow, and Jerry shrugged. “What was I going to do with it?”
Flashbulbs popped, and Alma swore. Lewis glared at the photographers, his expression enough to discourage even the most persistent reporter’s questions, and Mitch came up beside him, looking from one to the other.
“What the hell?”
“Your table is ready, Mr. Segura,” the maitre d’ said from the door, and Jerry followed them i
nto the restaurant. Somewhere, he thought, Gil was laughing.
Lewis followed the others down the alley, Alma’s sleek new fur catching the light from the alley’s mouth. It was really too warm to need it, but it looked as though she wasn’t going to let it out of her hands until they got back to their room. Mitch had slipped the waiter a five-spot, and the man had let them out through the kitchen, directing them toward a “private club” two blocks from the hotel, and so far they seemed to have avoided the reporters. Not that Lewis cared if they were seen visiting a speak — who didn’t, really? — but he was thoroughly tired of the flashbulbs and the innuendos. The least they could do was take Alma seriously. She was the smartest pilot in the race, that much ought to be obvious to everyone.
They turned right onto Second Street, then left onto Louisiana, a streetcar rattling past in the distance. Lewis heard music, and then it was cut off as though a door had closed.
“There,” Mitch said.
Lewis looked where he was pointing, automatically offering Alma his arm as they crossed the street. It was an ordinary-looking storefront — no, not the storefront, but the steps that led down to a basement entrance, where imperfectly curtained windows let slivers of light onto the iron stairs.
Mitch led the way, and rapped briskly on the door. Lewis could hear music again, not quite stifled by the door and the heavy curtains, and after a moment, a peephole opened.
“Yeah?”
Mitch held up the card he had gotten from the hotel doorman, but the man shook his head.
“This is a private club, buddy.”
Mitch reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill, wrapped it around the card. “We’d like to become members.”
The doorkeeper snatched the card out of his hand. “Why didn’t you say so? Come on in, folks.”
Mitch signed the guestbook as “Smith” with an indeterminate squiggle for a first name; Lewis identified himself and Alma as Mr. and Mrs. John Jones, and drew a sardonic grin from the doorkeeper.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 51
