"Well, yeah." Lewis put his head to the side. "I mean, it's not like upper level winds just randomly change. They may vary in logical ways, but if Salt Lake has a storm coming in, it's pretty sure we're going to get it."
"So with your experience you can look at the pattern and make a prediction that you rely on to be fairly accurate," Stasi said.
"Yeah."
She tapped the box. "That's what I do too. You're saying that the weather pattern is already established and predictable. It's not likely to change much in half a day or a day. It may not be snowing here yet, but if the pattern is in motion you can be reasonably sure that it will play through."
Lewis nodded. "So somehow you're looking at patterns?"
Stasi gave him a brilliant smile. "Exactly, darling! If it were a hundred years ago, 1832, and you asked me if it were going to snow tomorrow, I would be reading the same pattern -- only without the wire from Salt Lake because that didn't exist yet. But the pattern did. Before the wire existed, it was still just as likely it would snow here tomorrow if it was snowing in Salt Lake."
And that made sense. "Right," Lewis said slowly. "The weather pattern was there before we could measure it or communicate it by telegraph. This is more of that scientific magic stuff."
"And when we were flying over the Gulf last spring, the wind was a problem whether or not the plane could measure it. You were just a more sensitive instrument than the Terrier." Stasi patted the box cheerfully. "This is a sensitive instrument. That's all it is. It's a way of looking at the patterns and translating them into symbols you can understand, just like the wire from Salt Lake turns the weather into a pattern you can read on a little piece of paper!" She opened the box. "So let's take a look." Stasi turned the cards right side up and fanned them out, bright colored pictures on rectangles of cardboard, beautiful and oddly compelling.
He dredged something out of childhood memory. "Don't people tell fortunes with playing cards?"
"These are easier," Stasi said, spreading them out. "Each picture tells a story. All you have to do is read the story." She fished one out and handed it to him. "Like this one. What do you think this one means?"
A woman in medieval robes stood in a garden surrounded by golden pentacles while trees and flowers grew around her. She was smiling at a tame bird that sat on her hand while blue sky arched above her.
"Um," Lewis said.
"Just tell me a story about it. Who is she? What's she doing?"
"Well," Lewis looked at it again. "She's rich. She's dressed like a duchess or something, and it looks like there's a big house off in the corner here. She looks happy. I guess everything is going well for her. She's got her garden and her pet bird and all this gold."
Stasi rewarded him with a brilliant smile. "Exactly, darling! That's what it means. The nine of pentacles means prosperity and wealth, and enjoying the good things in life by oneself. It means being happy with the riches you have and having fun with solitary pursuits."
"Oh." Lewis blinked. "It's that easy?"
"A lot of them are that easy," Stasi said. "You just have to learn the stories. And once you do, it's easy to read them when they come up for someone."
"Yeah, that part…."
"That's where the skill comes in, darling. Anybody can learn the stories. But being able to lay them out so that they reveal the pattern is what requires talent. That's the hard part. That's the part that's focusing your gift, and either you can learn it or you can't." She put her head to the side like a bird. "I suppose it's like wind. Before you can interpret what the wind pattern means you have to first be able to feel it."
He nodded slowly. "And if you can't feel it, then learning what a wind from the northwest means is pointless."
"But that's not your problem, darling. You can feel the wind. You just don't know how to interpret it." She patted the cards. "And that's what these are for." Stasi scooped them up and shuffled. "Now, there's a thing called a spread. That's just positions that mean things, like the future or the past. Once you get used to it, you can create your own spreads as long as you're clear on what you mean, because you have to arrange the cards subconsciously using your gift. So it's easiest to start with one simple spread. I generally don't ask people what their question is. I just ask them to think about what they want to know."
Lewis frowned. "But what if what I want to know is really complicated?"
Stasi sighed. "It's not about complicated. It's about variables. Look, if you ask me to read on the weather tomorrow, that's easy."
"Because you've seen the wire?"
"But I haven't, darling," Stasi said patiently. "No, it's easy because the weather pattern is already established. As you said, it may vary a little, but it's not going to change much. What's going to happen is predictable because there aren't many variables. There aren't many things that are going to divert a snow storm between here and Salt Lake City!"
"There aren't any," Lewis said. "If it's a storm. It's not going to just go away. It can't change that much."
"Yes. So if you asked me to read on the weather tomorrow, that's easy because it's not going to change much. The conditions already exist, and there are very few variables."
"That makes sense," Lewis said.
"But if you ask me if you can drive to Denver safely tomorrow, I can't answer that."
He nodded slowly. "Because there are too many variables. I make too many decisions when I drive."
"Not just you, darling. But hundreds of other drivers you might or might not encounter on the road from here to Denver!" She sat up straighter, still cheerfully shuffling. "Let's say you drive to Denver tomorrow, and you're following a sheep truck up a grade when the truck brakes and the sheep all fall back against the tailgate and the gate springs open and a sheep falls out. You swerve to avoid the sheep and hit a tree."
Lewis grinned. "Ok. I'll play. So variables. I might not hit the tree. I might hit the sheep. The sheep might not fall out. The sheep might fall in the other lane. The truck might not brake on the grade so the sheep might not land on the tailgate."
"Or you might not be behind the sheep truck at all. You might be a quarter of a mile ahead of the sheep truck when the sheep falls out. Or you might be half a mile behind. There are thousands of variables, darling. I can't possibly read on them and neither can anyone else."
"But a sheep probably won't fall on me," Lewis said.
"True. And if you ask me to read, that's what you'll get. The probability. The probability is that you will drive to Denver without sheeply misadventures. But there's no guarantee. It's not a prophecy. Just a probability." Stasi shuffled again. "But you don't need me to tell you that. That's a pointless reading."
Alma stuck her head around the kitchen door. "How's it going?"
Stasi gathered all the cards up and was shuffling again. "Lewis is going to read for me," she said. "His very first reading."
"That sounds interesting," Alma said. "Do you mind if I watch?"
"Not if Lewis doesn't," Stasi said.
"Sure. Great. If you want." Lewis got up and pulled out a chair for her. "Sit down."
Alma sat down. "So what are you reading on?"
"I'm not going to tell him the question," Stasi said. "I always read blind."
Alma's brow twitched. "And that's a mark of a very confident clairvoyant," she said to Lewis. "I always need to know the question."
"Do you read?"
"I'm terrible at it," Alma said cheerfully. "I've tried, but it's not at all my medium. I dowse." She shrugged. "Different skills."
"Oh yes." Stasi handed Lewis the shuffled deck with a smile. "Now, what I want you to do is shuffle the cards while I think about the question."
"This doesn't have sheep trucks in it, right?"
"I promise it's a fair question," Stasi said. She gave him an insouciant grin. "About things that are, not probabilities."
"Ok."
"What I do is close my eyes while I shuffle, or let them defocus a little, and just think about the pe
rson asking. I don't try to guess what their question is. I don't try to make the cards do anything. I just open a conduit. I think about them. I repeat their name over and over in my head while holding as clear a mental picture of them as I can."
"I can do that." Lewis closed his eyes, feeling the cards slick in his hands. Warm. Were they supposed to be warm? They were paper. How could they be warm? Stasi. Concentrate. Stasi. Stasi Stasi Stasi. Was that her real name? Would it work if he didn't use her real name? Stasi. Stasi Stasi Stasi. Put Stasi in the cards. Put the thing she was asking in the cards. Stasi. Stasi. Try to see her in his mind. Put her in the cards. Stasi. Stasi.
"I think you have it," she said.
He opened his eyes. The deck was warm in his hands. "It feels hot," he said.
She nodded. "Good. That's good. Lots of people perceive energy as heat. Go ahead and turn the first one over. It's the central issue, the heart of the matter."
Lewis turned the card and put it down. "Ok, that's weird." A man hung upside down from a tree, suspended by one ankle with his hands tied behind him, a halo around his head. A story. A story about it. "Like St. Peter?" he said. "Upside down on a cross?"
"Sacrifice," Stasi said. "To be or have been the sacrifice. That's the Hanged Man."
Alma stirred in her chair. "This is a Rider-Waite deck, coming out of the Golden Dawn, the same lodge tradition we follow. The poet W.B. Yeats, who did belong to the Golden Dawn, by the way, connected the Hanged Man to the story of the Fisher King, the Grail King. I think that symbolism is inherent in this deck."
"I would agree," Stasi said. She didn't look at Alma.
"I don't know that story," Lewis said.
"Turn the card, darling. Turn the next one and put it across. That's the challenge to the situation."
"Ok." Lewis tensed, expecting something awful. But it wasn't. A woman sat enthroned in profile, a sword in her hands upraised before her as if to prevent anyone from coming too close, while behind her clouds roiled and birds soared.
"Queen of Swords," Alma said.
"You know them?" Lewis asked. "I thought you didn't do this."
"I can't read them," Alma said. "I know the symbols from years of working as a Hermeticist. But I can't actually do the reading." She tapped the card with one finger. "The Queen of Swords, a woman of intelligence and courage, perhaps a widow or a woman who has lost her child, quick on her feet and keen as a blade. The Lady of Air, storm and sunrise and all things that soar."
"That's beautiful," Lewis said.
From the living room there was the sudden ringing of the telephone cutting across everything.
"Who would be calling at this time of night?" Alma wondered.
"I don't know," Lewis said, glancing at his watch. "It's nearly nine."
There was the sound of Mitch's voice answering, a rumble he couldn't quite make out over the radio. A long conversation, it sounded like. Apprehension uncurled, winding its way down Lewis' back. He got to his feet, putting the deck down on the table in front of Stasi. He went down the hall and hovered in the doorway.
Mitch was frowning into the phone. "Yes, of course," he said. "We can be there by midnight. We'll follow 501 South on the Beaver Creek side to Pueblo. And then 50 out to Florence."
"Who's going to Pueblo?" Al asked.
Mitch was scribbling notes with a pencil on the back of the newspaper. "And then back up on the other side of Beaver Creek to Cheyenne Mountain. Got it."
A grid, Lewis thought. An air grid for search and rescue. Adrenaline shot through his body, and the next words confirmed it.
"We've got it, Colonel Sampson," Mitch said. "Yes, sir." He hung up.
"What happened?" Alma asked.
Mitch straightened up. "That was Colonel Sampson with the Reserves in Denver," he said. "There's a plane missing. It was on its way from Flagstaff to Denver and it's six hours overdue. Nobody's called, nobody's seen it. So we have to assume it's down." He looked at Lewis. "We're called as reservists. I've got our section of the grid going south from Colorado Springs and working our way west."
"Will you be able to see in the dark?" Stasi asked. "How are you going to see in the dark?"
"The moon's two days past full," Mitch said. "And there's snowcover in the mountains. We'll be able to see." He looked at Lewis. "You game?"
"Of course," Lewis said. "Let me run upstairs and put on heavier clothes."
"Me too," Mitch said. "It's going to be a little chilly."
"It's twenty degrees out there!" Stasi said. "And the middle of the night!"
"That's why we need to find them," Mitch said. He looked at Lewis, worry written all over him. "We know them. It's a Comanche Air plane. Paul Rayburn's the pilot."
"Oh crap," Lewis said. Rayburn was a good pilot, he'd proved that in the Great Passenger Derby, and if he was six hours late something had gone pear shaped. "Let's go get them," he said. He didn't add, and hope they're still in one piece to get.
Lewis left the front of his padded flying suit unzipped as they drove out to the field, crowded shoulder to shoulder in the front of Alma's truck. His breath frosted the inside of the windshield, and he leaned forward to scrub it clear with the edge of his sleeve. Alma slowed for the turnoff to the field, just ruts in the snow, the hangar's walls clear for an instant in the swing of the headlights. The truck lurched over the ruts, Alma gearing down to gain the best traction. They hadn't plowed the road or the runway since the last snow — only a couple of inches, Lewis thought, but enough to complicate things. The light on the tower swung in its endless circle, the white light slicing across the cloudless sky, drowning everything but the moon.
The door at the base of the tower opened, light spilling onto the dirty snow, and Cory Lincoln, who owned the field itself, stepped out.
"Mrs. Gilchrist! I figured they'd call you."
"They've called out the Reserves," Alma answered, her voice just a fraction tight, and Lewis worked himself out of the truck, wincing as the wind hit him. Mitch hunched his shoulders and pulled his scarf up over his chin, and Lewis zipped his flying suit closed, fingers clumsy in his heavy gloves.
"I heard," Lincoln answered. "The power's on in the hangar, and I just stoked up the furnace. I'll get the lights on as soon as the generator warms up."
"Thanks," Alma said, and they ducked through the small door into the hangar's cavernous space.
As promised, the worklights came on a moment later, though the air was still cold enough to see their breath. Alma's Jenny was bundled under tarps, motor drained and winterized: nobody wanted to be flying an open cockpit plane in the Colorado winter. It sat toward the back of the hangar, dwarfed by the Terrier, the three-engine passenger plane that was the mainstay of their business. The rest of the space was taken by equipment, and by their third plane, the one they'd bought from Henry Kershaw with part of the prize money from the race. It was a Deluxe Frontiersman, Republic's brand-new runabout, the lights glittering from the oversized cabin windows. Like all Kershaw's planes, it was designed to do a variety of jobs, and, unlike many compromise aircraft, the Frontiersman did most of them well.
"Guess we'd better take the Dude," Mitch said, and Alma nodded.
"Good thing you've already got the skis on her."
Lewis winced at the nickname — there was nothing dude-like about the Frontiersman; all the equipment was strictly utilitarian, even if it was top of the line — and began his walk-around, checking the cables that held the skis in position. They were a new design, with a cut-out notch in the ski itself so that the wheels could actually touch the ground. The idea was that the plane could land on a plowed runway or on ice, but Lewis hadn't had as much time as he would like to get used to the new system. With any luck, it would just be a matter of dropping a few flares, maybe the supply pack that Mitch was now manhandling into the back of the plane, and then back to base. And it if wasn't — well, he'd cross that bridge when he got there.
It took forty-five minutes to get the Frontiersman's tanks packed with fuel and t
o finish the preflight, but Lewis had the engines warmed and ready by the time Mitch climbed into the cabin behind him, dogging the hatch behind him. Lewis glanced over his shoulder, ready to give up the seat, but Mitch shook his head.
"You take her." He held up a set of binoculars. "I'll spot."
"Ok."
Alma hauled back the big hangar doors, letting in a swirl of snow. She'd lined up the truck so that the headlights pointed down the field, supplementing the field's lights. They'd never been intended for more than an emergency, and every little bit extra was a help. Lewis advanced the throttle, taxiing the Frontiersman out onto the plowed tarmac. Behind him, Mitch rolled down a cabin window, and Lewis flinched at the blast of cold air.
"Anything more?" Mitch shouted, and Lewis saw the pompom on Alma's hat bob wildly as she shook her head.
"Nothing. Good luck!"
Lewis lifted his hand in answer, and turned the Frontiersman into the wind. The engine noise changed as Mitch rolled up the window, and Mitch settled himself into the copilot's seat.
"I've got our part of the grid once we're up," he said, and Lewis nodded, opening the throttle.
He let the Frontiersman take its time getting airborne, the skis chattering just above the tarmac, then circled once over the field, getting his bearings. Mitch leaned forward to give him the heading and the radio frequency. Lewis brought the Frontiersman around, banking easily onto the new course, then reached for his headphones. He still wasn't used to flying with radio, but the Frontiersman was equipped with all the latest devices. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mitch fiddling with his own headset, pushing one earpiece back so that he could hear the plane, and carefully copied him.
Midnight, Mitch had said, and that was just about right. Lewis spotted the fine line of the state highway, barely a break in the trees, at five minutes of, and throttled back to the Frontiersman's slowest cruising speed. The air was relatively calm, a thin layer of cloud at 10,000 feet, fraying to wisps in a wind that didn't reach the lower altitudes. The moonlight gleamed off the snowpack beneath the wings, bright on the tops of the trees and the higher slopes above the treeline, but there was no sign of a crash. Static hissed in his ears, broken occasionally by snatches of voices as the other pilots conferred with Colonel Sampson back in Denver, but there was still no word of Rayburn's plane.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 71
