Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (116 page)

That was answer enough. "Definitely Hellenistic, if this is even marginally accurate. Relatively early, too — yes, I'm interested."

"Good. I'll have Miss Walters draw up a new contract, then, on the same terms as before."

Jerry nodded, and Hutcheson looked down at his hands.

"Of course, this means your next check will be the last from this job, and of course there's no bonus since there's no purchase."

"Of course." And that, Jerry thought, was a casual swipe from Merrill — or else an attempt to cut off funds, drive him out of New York so that he couldn't interfere with the sale. Thank God Iskinder was still in town.

"But I've talked them into having the new contract start January 15."

Rather than in February, Jerry knew. He nodded again. "I was going back to Colorado for Christmas anyway. That shouldn't be a problem." For a moment, he wanted to complain: one job pulled out from under him, another dangled like bait to keep him quiet, with no raise in pay, no bonus, nothing to make it any easier to meet his expenses. But then, he had the chance of a job, and that was more than far too many people had these days. He would still be able to afford to eat at the automat, and not a soup kitchen.

"Ah. Yes, that's excellent." Hutcheson shuffled his papers again. "Now, with Judson in a hurry — would you be able to pack up the collection for us?"

Jerry paused. "I'm sorry, Hutcheson, I had appointments today. I had to shuffle things already when you called me, and I don't want to be any later than I am already."

As he'd expected, Hutcheson frowned. "I don't really have anyone competent to take care of it."

"The folder with the list is on my desk," Jerry said. "Look, I can pull down the boxes, and surely one of the graduate students can wrap everything up again."

"Yes, I suppose so." Hutcheson sighed. "I'm sorry it's worked out this way, Ballard. And I appreciate your understanding."

"Boards make mistakes," Jerry said, and let himself out.

He unlocked his office door and stood for a moment, staring blindly at the familiar clutter. He hated to leave even this job, something any newly-minted professor could have done and paying far less than it was worth, and it was worse knowing that the artifacts were going back to Rosenthal's agent — even without the medallion to consider, it was a shame to see some of the pieces vanish into private collections. He tossed his hat onto the desk, and ran his hand through his hair. He needed to talk to Iskinder, that much was obvious, and he also needed to delay the collection getting back to Judson. First Iskinder, he thought, and picked up the telephone.

The Met's operator put him through to the operator at the Astoria, and she put him through to Iskinder's room. To Jerry's relief, Iskinder picked up on the fifth ring.

"Yes?"

"Iskinder, it's Jerry."

"Ah." Iskinder's voice sharpened. "Is anything wrong?"

"There's been a — change of plan," Jerry said carefully, mindful of the operators. "I need to speak to you, rather urgently. Can I come over?"

There was a pause. "I have a meeting now, but I'll be free in two hours. Is that soon enough?"

"Yes."

"Come to the hotel, then," Iskinder said. "I'll tell the front desk to show you up if I'm not back yet."

"Thanks," Jerry said, and put the receiver down. That was a start: Iskinder had money and influence, should be able to put in a preemptive bid for the medallion that even Pelley couldn't match. Surely. He shoved that thought aside, and concentrated on the office. Delay was what he needed, confusion and delay, and he reached behind him to lock the office door. He could sow confusion, make it as difficult as possible for the museum staff to pack up Rosenthal's collection, and for a moment, he felt guilty, but suppressed the concern.

He found the Rosenthal folder, opened it to expose the collection's master list. Something to scramble it, to make it hard for anyone to get a handle on what it contained, that was what was needed, and he reached into his desk drawer to pull out a length of string salvaged from a package. He closed his eyes, centering himself, then made the Kabbalistic cross, murmuring the invocation under his breath. He could feel the protection on the medallion now, a gentle veil, the desire to avert his eyes, and put that aside. He lifted the string, twisting and looping it, knot upon knot. Each one was another reason to look away, an item sliding from the list, dropping out of the corner of one's eye; it was interruption and confusion, counting three times and getting four answers, no ink for the pen and the pencil that snapped just as it was needed. When he'd reached the end, the string wound into a snarled mess, he tossed it onto the list and focused his will.

"As this string, so the mind. As this string, so the hand. Confusion cloud them and happenstance hinder those who come to pack this, from this moment until tomorrow's dawn. So mote it be."

He felt the spell catch and hold, saw the typing waver on Judson's fine bond paper. He took a breath and collected the string, slipped it back into the desk drawer, positioning it so that it would lie directly beneath the folder. And that was all he could do here.

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."

I
t 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 flying 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."