Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  He limped back down Fifth Avenue to a deli with cheap coffee, downed two cups before it was late enough to meet Iskinder. As promised, the front desk was expecting him, and Iskinder himself answered the suite's door.

  "Trouble," he said, as he closed the door behind them, and waved a hand toward the coffee service that stood on the sideboard. "There's coffee if you want it."

  Jerry shook his head. "Thanks, I've had more than enough. And, yes, there's trouble. The Met isn't going to buy Rosenthal's collection after all. They've turned it down and the agent wants it back." He ran through what Hutcheson had told him, watching Iskinder's expression change, calm concern turning to real worry.

  "I'm morally certain Pelley's planning to buy it," he finished, "and the only thing I can think of that'll keep it out of his hands is for someone to make Judson a better offer. So I thought of you."

  Iskinder gave a little half-smile. "Yes, I see your point. And if I buy it and let it be known that it's come back to Ethiopia with me — well, he can't precisely follow me there."

  "That also crossed my mind," Jerry said. "But — Pelley has money."

  "I have more," Iskinder said. "And I think you'll forgive me if I take a certain pleasure in rubbing his nose in it."

  "How can I help?"

  "Give me three other artifacts in the collection, whatever details are relevant — other Ptolemaic objects, I think, I can plausibly say I collect them. And then I'll call my agent."

  "All right." Jerry crossed to the desk to pull out a sheet of hotel stationary. He pulled out his pen, and began neatly to list the best of the Ptolemaic objects. The statue of an African girl was an obvious choice, a lovely piece, very nearly intact except for the feet; a tiny glass vial, iridescent blue with a gold lip, was unusual, and not perhaps terribly valuable, but it spoke of its world in a way that larger pieces didn't. And then one of the other medallions, he decided, either the later copy of an Alexander triumph or perhaps the one that showed the Pharos in all its glory. He turned to hand the list to Iskinder. "These would be my choices."

  Iskinder nodded. "Yes. We can work with this. Let me call Barstow and have him contact Rosenthal's man."

  "Thank you." There weren't really words for this, not for the kind of help that Iskinder was providing, and Jerry hoped his tone conveyed at least some of what he felt.

  Iskinder touched his shoulder. "Don't worry. At least not yet. Alma arrives this afternoon, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "Meet her as planned," Iskinder said. "With any luck, I'll have some news by then."

  It had been a good flight, two days of clear, calm weather, as though the Dude was riding in a bubble of golden light. She'd put down in Terre Haute for the night, staying at a boarding house not far from Dresser Field that was used to taking in pilots, then took off again not long after sunrise, boring east into the sun. Eight hours yesterday, another eight hours today, and then a couple of days in New York to collect everyone and recover before they headed back. She had reservations at what sounded like a decent hotel for single women at a better than reasonable price, and as long as the weather held, she couldn't see any problem retracing her route. Of course, the weather was always tricky in the winter, with the forecasts only accurate for a day or so in advance, and not always then, but the forecast had been for a decent dry spell. A week of dry weather would be ideal. There was always a chance.

  The Dude was a delight to fly, responsive without being touchy, easy on the arms and back — if it was a horse, she'd call it well-mannered. It was fast, too, compared to the Terrier, and she was happy with the fuel consumption so far. In fact… she smiled to herself. She could see why Lewis had claimed it for his own.

  She brought the Dude down through the broken clouds at three thousand feet, leveled out to reach for the clipboard that had the frequency for Floyd Bennett Field. The last time they'd flown into New York, they'd landed at Flushing, but the route books all said that the new field at Floyd Bennett was a much better choice. It had paved runways and electric lights, a tower manned all hours with a radio operator on duty: a good deal better than she was used to, much as she hated to admit it. She adjusted the radio, turning the dials to the listed frequency, and lifted the microphone from its hook.

  "Gilchrist Aviation calling Floyd Bennett Tower. Gilchrist Aviation calling Floyd Bennett Tower. Come in, Tower."

  There was a moment of silence, static sputtering in her ears, the engine's steady roar filling the cockpit, and then a scratchy voice spoke in her ear.

  "Gilchrist, this is Floyd Bennett Tower. We read you loud and clear, over."

  "Tower, this is Gilchrist," Alma answered. "I'm approaching on heading 255, request permission to land. Over."

  "Gilchrist, this is Floyd Bennett Tower. You're an unscheduled flight?"

  "That's correct, Tower. We're a private charter." Alma waited. She'd tried to time her arrival so that she'd miss the scheduled flights and the most likely times for the semi-scheduled ones, and in spite of herself she glanced at her watch. It was a little past three o'clock. Surely she'd be ahead of the evening traffic.

  "Roger that, Gilchrist. Continue your approach on 255, we'll radio when we have a visual. Tower out."

  "Continue approach on 255 and wait for your visual," Alma repeated. "Confirmed. Gilchrist out."

  She slipped the microphone onto its hook, scanning the instruments to be sure everything was in order. It was still amazing how far aviation had come in the last few years, even in the last year. They'd flown the Great Passenger Derby without any radio at all in the Terrier, and never really missed it; now Henry was pushing add-on radios for all his older planes, and new ones like the Dude — and even the standard version of the Frontiersman — came with it already installed. Partly, she supposed, it was just that there were so many more planes in the air, and so many more full service fields. You needed radio to keep track of all the traffic.

  There was her landmark, Floyd Bennett Field and a pointing arrow painted on the roof of a long low building, and she brought the Dude down to two thousand feet, scanning the sky for the airport beacon. And there it was, brilliant even in the bright afternoon, and a moment later the radio crackled.

  "Gilchrist, this is Floyd Bennett Tower. We have you on visual."

  Alma waggled her wings to confirm, and reached for the radio. "Roger that, Tower."

  "The field is clear," the Tower reported. "Hold your heading to land on runway 15-33. You're good to land, Gilchrist."

  "Roger," Alma said again. "And thank you, Tower. Gilchrist out."

  She could see the runways clearly now, a cross-cross of concrete over grass, the bright blue of the river beyond. By the windsock, she was landing into the wind, and she let the Dude gently down, shedding altitude and speed until she was nearly stalling, the wheels just skimming the concrete. She dumped the last lift, and the Dude kissed the pavement, bounced once, and settled. She throttled back, looking for a flagman, and the radio crackled again.

  "Gilchrist, this is Floyd Bennett Tower. Reverse direction on the taxiway, and proceed to Hangar Two, second from the left."

  Alma looked around again, found the taxiway and the line of hangars. "Roger, Tower. Proceeding to Hangar Two."

  Hangar Two was new and well-lit and capacious, and the manager recognized the Gilchrist name and professed himself happy to take a company check for fees and fuel. Alma thanked him and let one of the mechanics haul her suitcase out of the cargo compartment for her. The ladies room in the main terminal was large enough to have a changing room, and she tipped the attendant to bring her a washcloth and towel. There wasn't much she could do about her hair, crimped out of shape by the weight of the headphones, but she changed into her second-best suit and tucked her hair under the matching cloche, then settled the mink coat Jerry had won for her during the Great Passenger Race over her shoulders. At least she would look respectable, though fashionable was probably out of her reach until she'd had a chance for a real bath.

  She tucked her flyin
g clothes back into the suitcase, checked it at Left Luggage, and went to find a pay phone. Jerry had said to call him at the Harvard Club, and she gave the number to the operator, wiggling a little on the narrow wooden seat as she waited for the call to go through.

  "Mrs. Segura?" That was the operator at the Club. "I'm putting you through."

  "Thank you."

  More clicks and static, and then Jerry's voice came through, startlingly clear. "Alma! Did you have a good flight?"

  "An easy one," Alma answered. "I'm at Floyd Bennett Field right now. I thought I'd catch a taxi into the city, get myself settled, and then meet you."

  "Sure." Jerry sounded oddly abstracted, and Alma frowned. "Where are you staying?"

  "A place called the Taft. I don't think it's far from you."

  "The Taft!" There was definitely something wrong there, and Alma's frown deepened. "Wait, Iskinder's here, and he wants to say hello."

  "Jerry, what on earth —" She realized she was speaking to empty air and stopped.

  "Alma," Iskinder said, his voice instantly recognizable despite the years. "Welcome to New York. By any chance is Mr. Segura with you?"

  "He had to stay in Colorado, unfortunately," Alma answered. "Why —"

  "That's too bad. I'd made arrangements for you to stay at the Astoria — a late wedding present, if Mr. Segura was here, but you might as well enjoy it. Why don't you come straight to the club, and we can have tea before we get you settled? I'm sure you must be starving."

  What's wrong with the Taft? Alma swallowed the words, not wanting to ask in front of the listening operator. "That does sound good," she admitted. "All right, I'll take a cab and see you soon."

  There were no cabs at the Terminal building — the manager explained apologetically that the airlines didn't land here, so there was no real need — but one appeared promptly in response to a telephone call. Alma let herself and her luggage be loaded into the cab and settled back for the ride.

  The cabbie took the shore route, past Coney Island and along the banks of the upper bay, and then eased into the lines of traffic making for the Brooklyn Bridge. Alma craned her neck like any tourist, staring at the massive double-arched pillars that held up the span, then peering through the windshield at the skyscrapers rising in Manhattan. The traffic was remarkable, cars filling the span, and when at last they crossed into Manhattan, they were in an early twilight, the westering sun cut off by the towering buildings.

  The sidewalks were just as busy, crowds on every corner as the cab picked its way slowly uptown. Alma couldn't help staring, amazed at the sheer number of people. Men in neat topcoats and well-brushed hats rubbed shoulders with deliverymen and errand boys in flat caps and men in jackets that looked too thin for the cold wind. The women were just as various, secretaries in cheap smart coats and thin stockings, here and there another fur, once a woman in a neat maid's uniform with two little girls in velvet coats, one on each hand. Alma's hand flattened for an instant against her stomach, but she refused to let the thought take form. Down a side street, a line snaked up the sidewalk from the door of a church, mostly men, hands in their pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold; outside an apartment building, a gold-braided doorman whistled for a cab, while a woman in an enormous fur clutched a tiny dog to her bosom. And that was New York for you, a soup kitchen a block away from luxury, and each pretended the other couldn't see.

  The cab pulled to the curb outside the Harvard Club, where a crimson flag with a gold-bordered white H waved on equal footing with the stars and stripes, and the cabbie and the doorman freed her suitcase and carried it into the entrance hall. Alma tipped them both, hoping she looked like someone who did this every day, and the doorman promised to see her suitcase stored until she called for it. Dr. Ballard as in the hall, he added, with Ras Iskinder.

  Alma thanked him and followed the crimson runner to the main lobby. A fire was lit in the oversized fireplace, a cheerful crackle and the scent of woodsmoke; the paneled walls glowed in the soft electric light, and a pair of old men sat in armchairs barricaded behind identical newspapers. She hesitated, and Jerry rose from another chair and came to meet her, Iskinder at his heels.

  "Al. It's good to see you."

  Alma embraced them both, and only then wondered if that had been wise. The old men lowered their newspapers for a startled instant, then retreated again. "Oh, it's so good to see you both — especially you, Iskinder. You look wonderful."

  "Thank you. So do you." Iskinder smiled down at her. "Is that the coat Jerry told me about?"

  Alma stroked the collar. "It is. He won it fair and square."

  "And it's not as though I had a use for it," Jerry said.

  "And I certainly do," Alma finished, laughing. Except that it wasn't so funny when the gossip columnists tried to make a scandal of it, receiving presents from a man who lived in her house but definitely wasn't her husband.

  "It's very beautiful," Iskinder said. He glanced past her and smiled. "And I believe our table is ready."

  A punctilious headwaiter settled them at a corner table, not so private as to be questionable, but far enough from the others that they could talk freely, and Jerry placed their order, tea and sandwiches and a chocolate cake that the waiter promised was a particular specialty. That finished, he checked his watch and pushed himself away from the table.

  "If you'll excuse me for a minute, I have to make a quick phone call."

  "Of course," Alma said, but she was frowning as she watched him go. "Is everything all right?"

  "Museum business," Iskinder said. "You're looking very well. I don't have to ask if you're happy."

  Alma shook her head. "I've been incredibly lucky," she said. "Lewis — he's nothing like Gil, nothing at all, but he's an amazing pilot and a good man and —" She knew she was blushing, but forged on anyway. "And I love him. I can't believe I've been this lucky twice."

  "Gil would have wanted you to be happy," Iskinder said. "He wanted you happy when he was alive."

  "I know." And she did know that. If Gil had lived — well, they would have made it work, somehow, changed the bedrooms around again and moved on. For a moment, she could almost see the hospital room outside Venice, watery sunlight filtering through the curtains, the spotless sheets folded just so around Gil's emaciated body. Jerry had been gone by then, sent back to the States, his last words echoing in her ears: take care of him, Al, and write me… Write me when he's gone, Jerry had meant, and she'd just nodded, not able to trust herself to speak. But then Gil had rallied, and the nursing staff was about to be sent home as well, and Mitch and Iskinder had showed up grinning, chaplain in tow, papers in hand, and a pair of plain gold rings in Iskinder's pocket. She'd gone from Alma Sullivan to Alma Gilchrist with a whisper and a pair of shaky signatures, and never regretted it for an instant. She wouldn't regret Lewis, either, no matter what Diana demanded of him. "I'm just — I've been so lucky."

  "I can see. I'm sorry not to have the chance to meet him."

  "I'd have liked to have him along," Alma answered. "It's a long flight. But —" She lowered her voice. "The problem that we're having — I don't know how much Jerry told you?"

  "Dr. Tesla and his death ray," Iskinder said, equally quietly. "Which, by the way, he's already tried to sell to my government."

  "I can't believe it's a death ray," Alma said. "That's not the sort of thing Dr. Tesla did. But, whatever it is, it's been causing enough problems that we decided Lewis and Mitch had to stay behind in case the Reserves were called out again. You have to have two people for search and rescue."

  Iskinder nodded. "Jerry said there had been crashes."

  "Three so far. The terrain's bad enough, but the weather's been dicey. Lewis — he's a clairvoyant, working with us now, and he's been able to find the crash sites."

  "That's good. It's good to share the work."

  "Amen."

  Iskinder's gaze shifted, and Alma glanced over her shoulder to see Jerry limping toward them, his face drawn into a scowl.
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  "Anything?" Iskinder asked, and Jerry shook his head.

  "No word."

  Alma looked from one to the other. "Out with it. What's wrong?"

  "Problems at the Met," Jerry said. "They've decided not to buy the collection I was supposed to appraise —"

  "Oh, Jerry!" Alma swallowed any more sympathy, knowing it wouldn't be welcome. But it wasn't fair to take this job away from him just when he was starting to get back on his feet.

  "That's not the worst of it, actually," Jerry said. "The item that Miss Rostov's friends were looking for was part of the collection, and I think this is another attempt to get hold of it."

  "Damn it." Alma winced, knowing she needed to be more ladylike, but Iskinder nodded in agreement.

  "I am attempting to put in a bid of my own, but so far my man hasn't been able to speak with Rosenthal's agent in New York. I hope it's merely the press of business so close to the holidays —"

  "But we can't count on that," Jerry said.

  "What is this thing?" Alma asked. "You said a medallion?"

  Jerry nodded, then stopped as the headwaiter led another quartet to the table next to theirs. "I'll give you the full story later, if you don't mind."

  "Of course," Alma answered, though she could have kicked the headwaiter. "All right, answer me this, then. What's wrong with the Taft?"

  Jerry grinned, and Iskinder said, "It's — it has an unfortunate reputation."

  "A lot of hookers work the lobby there," Jerry said. "It's even a pick-up line — 'staying at the Taft, dearie?'" His voice rose in mimicry and Alma laughed.

  "Oh, dear. No, that would never do."

  "Not after all those pictures in the paper," Iskinder said. "During the race, I mean."

  "No, indeed," Alma agreed. "Thank you for rescuing me, Iskinder. It's really sweet of you."

  "It's very much my pleasure," Iskinder answered, with the slightest of bows. "We'll finish our tea, and then get you settled. I've also reserved a room for dinner, if that's all right with you."