Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (10 page)

At least two feet higher than the Roman street, and more like three, Jerry thought, stumping to the edge of the trench. And the sound of metal on stone was different. “Switch to trowels,” he said, wishing he could climb down and do it himself.

Hussein seemed to have read his thought, as he did so eagerly, smoothing away the dirt from the surface with his hands. There were no squared corners, no space between cobbles, just a rough, broken surface of granite, the slightly pinkish granite from Aswan that the Ptolemies had brought at great expense down the Nile for monuments and foundations.

“Something large,” Jerry said aloud. “A broken door frame or a lintel or…”

“…or a broken pylon,” Hussein said, looking up with a grin.

“Clear to the edges,” Jerry said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Let’s see if there’s a polished face with an inscription.”

It was late afternoon before they found an edge. By that time the general shape of the block had become apparent, a wedge of broken stone roughly three meters across, cracked along a natural fracture. Hussein had helped Jerry down into the trench, something he hated to ask for, but he hated far more to stand on the sidelines unable to touch his find. Hussein, for his part, had not commented on Jerry’s infirmity. He was a very polite young man, unlike the graduate students Jerry had supervised in Hawaii the previous summer who had been overbearing to the local workmen and dismissive of him.

He surveyed the broken surface, then wiped his forehead on a pristine handkerchief produced from his coat pocket. “What do you think broke the granite this way, Professor Ballard?”

“Earthquake, I should think,” Jerry said. He ran his hand over the rough stone, black and silver veins running through pink rock, a truly beautiful stone and difficult to cut because of its hardness. “There were several that damaged Alexandria in the late Roman period.”

“And of course the big one five hundred years ago that did such destruction.” Hussein nodded. “Very little survived that one.”

Including the lighthouse, which at that point had stood nearly two thousand years. Ptolemy’s architects had built to last.

“I expect this was one of the earlier ones,” Jerry said, brushing across to the emerging edge, a workman carefully clearing down the face with a trowel while he crouched in the narrow space between the granite and the edge of the trench. “And that the top part of the pylon was carted away for fill — either for the Arab walls or later buildings. I think what we have is the bottom meter or perhaps two of the original pylon.”

“Let us hope so!” Hussein said fervently. A very cosmopolitan boy, Jerry thought, to say that rather than inshallah.

He felt over the edge, the contrast between the rough stone and the smooth face crystal clear. And there were carvings, just as he’d expected. He could feel the shape of a worl, a sharp downstroke — he should resist the impulse to try to read them upside down and by feel. He should wait until the face was cleared, until there was space to get down in front of it. For it to be properly photographed… Where was Willi?

Jerry looked around distractedly. Willi was just returning, coming in through the open gate, haste in his step as he saw the cluster around trench three. Jerry straightened up in the trench and couldn’t resist announcing theatrically, “We have a pylon.”

There was no chance for Willi to tell him about Iskinder. There were simply too many people around, including by late afternoon, Bob Peavey, the Metropolitan’s usual man in Alexandria. He arrived just as the space had been enlarged enough for Willi to get in with a camera.

“Inscriptions, huh?” he said, taking a draw on a Turkish cigarette and surveying the site.

“Definitely,” Jerry said. “Demotic from the feel. Perhaps, like the Rosetta Stone, there was a section above with hieroglyphics and a lower one with the inscription in Demotic. I’ll send Dr. Radke off to your darkroom as soon as he’s done, if that’s ok with you.”

“Fine,” Peavey said. He didn’t take his eyes off the diggers. “This is a nice find, Ballard.”

“Thank you.” Jerry allowed satisfaction to creep into his voice.

“Very promising,” Peavey said. “Adds to our knowledge of the geography of the city.” At that his eyes met Jerry’s meaningfully. “We’ll have to talk about where you’ll dig next. Once you’re done here, of course.”

“Of course,” Jerry said. He couldn’t stop the rising tide of pride and happiness that curled up his back. A worthwhile find, and then… The next step on the trail — the Soma. If they could get permission to dig wherever it was. Close. Not so many blocks away, aligned to the same street grid…

“If it is the Pylon of Isis,” Peavey said. “Lots of pylons in Alexandria.”

“If it is,” Jerry agreed.

Peavey chewed on the stem of his pipe. “Tomorrow is Saturday.” he said thoughtfully. “And Monday is a holiday. So Tuesday we’ll see where we are.”

“That sounds good,” Jerry said.

December 29, 1935

T
he next morning dawned clear and cool, sky and sea both vivid blue as Alma let Mitch hand her into a taxi for the trip to the harbor. Tiny Foster folded himself sheepishly into the front seat, and Alma gave him a quick, assessing glance. He looked in good shape, tired, but not hungover, and she gave Mitch a satisfied smile.

“I’ve already had a couple of people express interest in the Cat, and Air Marshal Balbo said he wanted a ride, so let’s be ready. What else have we got scheduled?”

Mitch reached into the pocket of his leather jacket. They were all in their usual flying gear, even Alma in slacks and a neat blouse under her own well-worn jacket. It was a bit of a come-down from the night before, and she couldn’t repress a sigh.

“Today is supposed to be the big open house,” Mitch reported, unfolding several sheets of paper. “Tomorrow is our part of the show, eleven to three, and then things shift back to Boccadifalco. Also, I ran into Henry last night, and he’s sponsoring a cocktail party tonight and would love for us to attend. He said he’d send our invitations to the hotel.”

Alma nodded. There were easily a dozen events like Henry’s party — the official schedule alone listed a formal dinner hosted by several of the sponsoring companies, a jazz night at a local club, another cocktail party where local dignitaries could meet the famous flyers, and finally the closing ball on New Year’s Eve, which was supposed to finish with fireworks, and every manufacturer had a party or two of their own as well. There was no way Gilchrist could attend all of them, but she felt that they did owe Henry that much. And Henry’s guests would want to talk to Lewis about the Dart.

“It’s at our hotel,” Mitch said, misinterpreting her silence, and she nodded again.

“That makes it convenient. I agree, we ought to go. Just as long as he gets us the invitations!”

“His secretary’s pretty efficient.”

“And really nice,” Tiny said. Alma looked at him, and he blushed to the roots of his hair. “That’s Miss Patterson you’re talking about, right? She’s a real nice girl.”

Alma carefully didn’t meet Mitch’s eyes. She had no idea what Henry’s domestic arrangements currently were, but his secretaries in the past had tended to combine flexible morals with impeccable organizational skills.

“Reckon so,” Mitch said.

“We danced,” Tiny said. “Her and me. She’s a good dancer.”

Oh, dear. Alma cleared her throat. “Well, we’re not dancing today.”

The taxi let them out at the gate that led to the seaplane hangars. A crowd had already gathered, and it took a moment for them to reach the guards and be let through.

“Nice to see we’re popular,” Mitch said, glancing over his shoulder as they made their way down the broad dock.

“Yes.” Not that most of the people waiting for the gates to open were in any position to buy an airplane, Alma thought. Most of them couldn’t afford to ride in one even at an event like this. And even the ones that did buy a ticket for a fifteen minute ride around the harbor weren’t like to become flyers, at least not most of them. But some of them would. Some of them would be like her, the first time Gil took her up in the little two-seat open cockpit Jenny, thunderstruck at the possibilities. They’d find ways to learn, they always did, and she figured she owed her gawky younger self a few chances to see what it would be like.

The Catalina was docked by the hangar entrance, all the hatches buttoned up tight under the watchful eye of a junior harbormaster. He came bustling across to report a quiet night, and Alma exchanged news, letting him practice his English, while Mitch and Tiny got the main hatch open and the gangplank installed.

“Excuse me, Signora.” That was Signor Pozzi, the senior harbormaster, and his junior faded gracefully away. “If I might have a word?”

“Of course.” Alma maintained her place smile.

“I have just had a call from the Air Minister’s office. He wonders if you would be able to give him a test flight today.”

“I thought we were supposed to do all of those tomorrow,” Alma said, startled. She shook herself. “I mean, I have no objection, I just don’t want to cause anyone inconvenience.”

“Oh, no inconvenience at all, Signora,” Pozzi said, without conviction. “But the Air Minister’s schedule is… complex.”

“Of course.” Alma glanced past him at the bright water, but it was only moderately choppy, nothing the Cat couldn’t handle. “Did the Air Minister request a particular time?”

“He wondered if the afternoon would suit. At three-thirty?”

Just as the show closed. Of course. Though at least it gave them all day to show the plane and schedule passengers for the next day’s official display flights. Alma nodded. “How’s the weather supposed to be?”

“The wind is forecast to drop, which means the lanes will be calmer then.” Pozzi shrugged. “So they say.”

“As long as it’s not any worse than this, we’re fine,” Alma said. “Please tell the Air Minister we’ll be glad to have him aboard.”

“Very good, Signora.” He scribbled quickly. “I will confirm this, if you’ll excuse me, and then it will be settled. And they will open the gates in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks,” Alma said, and turned her attention to the Cat.

Mitch and Tiny had it well in order, the hatches open and the window curtains pulled back to let in as much light as possible. Tiny had started the auxiliary generator already, the engine chugging steadily, and as she stepped through the main hatch he was just securing the curtain that separated the entrance to the passenger section from the flight engineer’s station. This wasn’t at all like the Catalina they’d flown in Hawaii. That one had been all bare metal and rivet lines, a stripped down prototype that showed its military origins. This one was neatly finished, a lightweight inner skin laid between the ribs of the fuselage, everything painted in pale shades of blue to go with the blue-gray carpet and curtains.

“Should I start some coffee?” Tiny asked. The compact galley shared space with the flight engineer and the bunks for crew relief: not an ideal situation, Alma thought again, for the dozenth time, but that was something to bring up with Floyd later. This was mostly for show.

“Yeah, go ahead.” They couldn’t offer coffee to everyone, of course, but they could provide it for VIP guests, and the scent was a pleasant contrast to the smell of machine oil and salt water. She took a breath and began her own inspection, stepping through the stern hatch that led to the passenger compartment.

Floyd had designed this version of the Cat to carry fourteen passengers plus a six-man crew, and the stern had been divided into two compartments, the first with bench seats against the rear bulkhead that could convert to bunks, and two sets of four swivel chairs around a pair of fold-down tables. The tables were set for coffee, with starched tablecloths and real china cups and saucers painted with Consolidated’s logo. Everything was in place, and she checked the rear compartment — matching double-decker bunks like on a Pullman car, one set to each side, curtains pulled back and blankets tucked neatly under the mattresses — before heading forward again. It was important to give potential passengers an idea of the luxury that was possible, but the real sales would be made by what lay forward, in the crew compartments.

The coffee was starting to perk in the galley, and Tiny had climbed into the base of the Cabane strut that supported the wing, headset on one ear and off the other as he talked to Mitch in the cockpit, but he leaned down as she went by.

“Everything all right, Mrs. Segura?”

“It looks great. You did a good job.” She ducked through the forward hatch into the navigator’s compartment, checking to be sure that the chart table was clear and the radio equipment displayed to full advantage, then stepped up into the cockpit. “How’re we doing?”

“Fine.” Mitch gave her a sideways glance. “Tower says we’re giving the Air Marshal a ride later this afternoon?”

“That’s right.” Alma swung herself into the pilot’s seat, and reached for the headphones so that she could bring Tiny into the conversation. “Signor Pozzi said the he asked if we could take him today instead of tomorrow. Something about his schedule. Any reason we can’t?”

“We’ll need to gas up,” Tiny said.

Alma glanced at her own fuel indicators, each tank reading less than a quarter full. “So we will. Can you take care of that, Tiny?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m good,” Mitch said, and Alma checked her watch.

“Right. They’re opening the gates in five minutes.”

The rest of the day passed quickly, a steady stream of visitors passing through the hangar and onto the Catalina. Pozzi had assigned each plane a watchman to help control the traffic, and Alma waited just inside the hatch to greet the newcomers and keep count herself. Most of the visitors were ordinary civilians, come to gawk at the planes, but there were delegations from other teams, checking out the competition, and a trio of sober businessmen who asked careful questions about fuel and gross weights and examined the cabin fittings to see what they were made of. Duralumin, Alma repeated, duralumin and woven wicker, and was glad to usher the last of them off the ship. A bustling family took their place, a mustached man who held firmly to a boy of seven or eight who only needed a mustache of his own to be a perfect miniature of his father, followed by a plump wife and a pair of tired-looking daughters. Alma greeted them in Italian, receiving a curt nod from the man and a wide-eyed stare from the boy.