Lost Things

by Graham, Jo

  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 grinned, 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.

  "We may as well relax," Mitch said, pouring himself another glass of wine. "Davenport's on the Ile de France, and there's nothing we can do until we get into Paris. So we might as well enjoy the flight."

  "There's a lot we can do," Jerry said. "We have to figure out what we're going to do once we catch him. That's the big thing. Isn't it, Al?"

  "Humm? Yes," Alma answered half attentively. She was still glancing around the room. The nicest tables by the observation windows were the big spenders, and the reporters were the ones by the kitchen doors. She didn't see Henry anywhere, which seemed odd, but perhaps he was staying in the cockpit for this first part of the flight of his new airship. She would be.

  "Do we have to do that now?" Mitch asked. "Jerry, we're all dog tired. We'd do better off getting a good night's sleep and tackling it in the morning. We've got all day tomorrow and all tomorrow night to figure it out. Let's get some rest tonight."

  "We could go over…." Jerry began.

  "No," Alma said firmly. "We can't. Lewis and I are going to bed. Good night." She stood up and took Lewis' arm as he scrambled politely to his feet.

  Their cabin was tiny, more like the cabin in a Pullman car rather than the cabin of an ocean liner, with upper and lower bunks and a small built in dressing table that you could sit at if you perched on the lower berth. Lewis took off his jacket and hung it neatly while Alma surveyed the room.

  "We could close the upper bunk up," she said. "And just share the lower. If you don't mind being close." There was something about the way the stars moved outside the tiny window, warm with friendship and a good bottle of wine. She sat down to unfasten her stockings. "I don't travel like this," Alma said, rolling the left stocking down carefully so as not to snag the silk. "I'm not used to luxury. Would it be terrible for us to enjoy it a little? There's something romantic about this. About sleeping in the air with neither of us having to worry."

  Lewis nodded, unfastening his tie and taking off his shirt. He hung it neatly with his coat in the tiny wardrobe, probably to wear again before washing, given the limited choices they had with them. He frowned. "Don't you think you were a little hard on Jerry back there?"

  "Jerry wants to sit up half the night chewing over every classical reference he can think of," Alma said. "Which we can do in the morning." She rolled the right stocking off and shook it out, then stood up to unhook her garter belt.

  Lewis was still frowning. "I mean making it so obvious that you were going to bed with me," he said. "I mean, given his feelings…. It just seems like rubbing his nose in it."

  "I share a bed with you all the time," Alma said confusedly. "Jerry knows that perfectly well."

  "I know he knows," Lewis said, standing there in undershirt and trousers, his brows knit. "And he's a good sport. He's a nice guy, Alma. But you can't expect him not to be hurt considering."

  Alma blinked. "Considering what?"

  "Considering how he feels about you." Lewis swallowed. "I know you don’t feel the same, and I'm not saying you should. I'm glad you don't. But it's still got to be hard on him."

  Alma blinked again. Lewis ran one hand through his hair, mussing the pomade, and suddenly what he was saying made sense, in a completely confused way. "Oh Lewis," she said, standing up and putting her arms around him. "You're so kind. But there isn't anything to worry about. Really. Jerry and I are friends. I promise you he's not in love with me."

  Lewis met her eyes, but the worry didn't leave his. "I don't know how you can say that," he said. "The way he is about you…. Al, there's something there. You can't deny that."

  Alma took a deep breath. She'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, though she supposed that was a forlorn hope. It would eventually. Gently, she put her hand against his stubbled cheek. "Lewis, Jerry has never been in love with me. Jerry was Gil's lover."

  Lewis looked utterly thunderstruck. "What?"

  "Jerry and Gil were lovers for a long time. Jerry's very protective of me. He doesn’t want me to get hurt. But he's not in love with me and never has been."

  "But you…. But Gil…." Lewis seemed to be searching for words.

  "It wasn't a sham marriage if that's what you're thinking," she said. His cheek was warm beneath her hand. "I loved Gil passionately and he loved me. But he also loved Jerry."

  "And you approved of this?"

  Alma met his eyes. "Jerry and Gil were together long before I met Gil. Jerry approved of me."

  Lewis shook his head like a fighter who'd taken one too many punch. "I can't believe that you…."

  "Jerry thought I was good for Gil. And I was." Alma swallowed. She would not let herself choke up, not like someone too weak to talk about it. "Jerry had a career that was going to take him all over the world, working at one dig and another, getting home a few months out of the year. And Gil and I…. We wanted to build something together. I'd spent my whole life running from one post to another. I wanted to go home. And Gil wanted a home. We wanted children. That never happened, but…." Alma swallowed again. "But it might have. And then there was Jerry's leg and Gil got sick and…." Her voice cracked, so she stopped.

  Lewis was looking at her, a curiously blank expression on his face. "Why would you do something like that?"

  "Why would I choose freedom and flying and going home to Colorado and to share my life with two wonderful, fascinating men? Why wouldn't I?" She willed him to understand, searched for words. "I wish I could show it to you the way it w
as to me. I wish I could make you see. I know it's strange, but you know I'm an odd duck. I've never wanted an ordinary life."

  Lewis swallowed, his eyes searching her face like he was looking for the right words too. "But Gil…. Everybody says that he was a great pilot. That he was so good. And Jerry. He's brave and…."

  "And you like him and can't imagine that he could be a brave man and a good officer and queer?" Alma's voice was a little harsher than she meant it to be.

  "Jerry's not effeminate. I mean, even with the books and the Latin…."

  "Nor was Gil," Alma said tartly. "I promise you he was perfectly capable. I certainly never had any cause for complaint."

  Lewis swallowed again. "And you were ok with this? With Gil and Jerry?"

  Alma took a deep breath, finding a smile. "I was very happy. Truly I was. When Jerry lost his leg, Gil and I took care of him, and when Gil was sick, it was me and Jerry. It was harder on him than me, I think. I could mourn and everyone respected that. Jerry had to act like he was just a good friend. And I have the planes and the company and Jerry doesn't have any of the things he wanted, not even Gil. It's not anyone's fault of course – his leg, the war. But it's been hard on him. And hard on him to see me with you when he's alone."

  Lewis took a step back, as though he would step out of her arms, but the edge of the berth was at his back. "It's a lot to think about, Al."

  "I know." She looked away, blinking at the irony. "When Gil told me about Jerry long before we were married he expected me to drop him like a stone. But I told him I had to think about it. That I didn't have enough data to make a decision." Gil had been taken aback by that, steeled for the blow, not expecting quirky curiosity, a bevy of questions about exactly what he and Jerry did. A key turned. Something suddenly made sense. "I don't suppose I understood it then. What he was trying to tell me about different kinds of love. You and Gil are so very different, such different men, and yet…." She was skating perilously close to words she had not said. "I would never want you to be just like Gil. You're you, and he was himself. There are so many different shades of love, Lewis. If he were alive, I don't know how I would choose." If Gil were alive and she'd met Lewis…. Alma shook her head. Gil would have to suck it up. She'd told him in the beginning that she believed in Free Love. And he'd not have a leg to stand on, not with Jerry for eleven years. He'd abide by her choice. More than anything else, they'd always been fair to one another.