Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (119 page)

Alma nodded. "I haven't seen the effect myself. My husband said he thought it was more — well, liquid and sticky were the words he used."

"Interesting." Tesla reached into his jacket and pulled out his notebook. "St. Elmo's fire was always an unwanted side effect of the system, though I thought we'd resolved that. But do go on."

"That's really all we know," Alma said. "As soon as we went up to the mine, I recognized the device as one of yours, and I knew we needed to talk to you."

Tesla nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on his notebook.

"Jerry — Dr. Ballard said that your device could be turned on remotely, by a radio signal?"

"That's right." Tesla continued scribbling, frowning thoughtfully. "There may be more of an overlap between my cosmic ray research and wireless energy than I'd thought."

"But it can't be turned off that way," Alma said. She'd learned when she was nine that the only way to keep Dr. Tesla on track was to be persistent.

"Hmm? No, sadly not."

"And you couldn't give me a set of schematics?"

"I'm afraid not." Tesla gave a regretful smile. "Well, I could, and I daresay you could handle most of the problems that might arise, but — I really think it would be better if I handled it myself."

"Yes," Jerry said.

Alma gave him a stern look. "And we really appreciate your being willing to come with us, Dr. Tesla."

Tesla closed his notebook, focusing on her again. "I confess, I'm rather excited about a private flight, Mrs. Segura. It's very kind of you."

"It's my pleasure," Alma said. "How soon can you be ready? I don't like to hurry you, but the matter is urgent."

"As soon as you need me," Tesla answered. "Assuming, of course, that I can use your machine shop if I need it."

"Of course," Alma said. It was already too late to leave today, not unless she wanted to fly into one of the small Midwestern fields after dark, and she hadn't even begun to make her own preparations. "Could you be ready to leave tomorrow morning? Weather depending, of course."

"Yes, indeed." Tesla nodded. "I'll plan to travel light —"

"We can take up to fifty pounds of luggage," Alma said.

"That should be perfectly adequate," Tesla answered.

"Thank you." Alma rose to her feet and the others copied her. "We'll pick you up in the morning — I'll call you with the precise time, but certainly no earlier than nine."

"Earlier wouldn't be a problem," Tesla said. "I don't sleep much."

"I appreciate that," Alma said. "It depends on the weather and when the field can have the plane fueled and ready. But I'll let you know."

Tesla bowed them out the door, and they rode down to the lobby in silence, Alma pursing her lips as she began to make her mental lists. Weather reports, fuel, hangar space on the stopovers, all of which could best be done from Floyd Bennett —

"Al?"

She stopped, and Jerry put the mink around her shoulders again.

"We still have to do something about the medallion," he said.

"Damn. I did forget." Alma shook her head. "What's so important about it, anyway? It must be made of solid gold, to hear Stasi talk."

"Bronze," Jerry answered, "and it's not the monetary value. In fact, it looks like hundreds of other medallions — it's the sort of thing rich tourists bought, a souvenir of Alexandria."

Alma couldn't help grinning at the thought, imagining the Roman ladies she'd seen in Jerry's books picking out souvenirs the way that she would buy a model Statue of Liberty for Lewis. "So what's the big deal?"

"The back is different." Jerry kept his voice low, so that to anyone watching they might be talking about anything at all. "It's a relief of Alexandria's skyline done more or less to scale, including several buildings whose sites are known today." He lowered his voice even further. "And it shows the Soma — the tomb of Alexander the Great."

Alma waited, and Jerry scowled.

"The Soma's been lost for sixteen hundred years, give or take. To find it —"

Alma's eyes widened. "Oh."

Jerry nodded. "If it could be found, and I've never seen anything that looked like it gave us a better chance — it would be bigger than Tutankhamun, maybe bigger than Schliemann. I showed it to Hutcheson — I didn't have a choice, after those guys tried to take it, we had to at least get photographs — and he agrees that it's something the Met would almost have to sponsor. And I found it. They owe me a place on the dig."

"Oh, Jerry." Alma put a hand on his shoulder. She might not know the history, but she understood how much it mattered to him to get back into the field.

"It's a chance," he said, with a crooked smile. "They might not take me anyway, what with my leg, but — Hutcheson says they wouldn't be able to raise the money for a year or two, maybe longer, and if I can get another dig —" He broke off, shaking his head, and Alma tightened her grip.

"You'll find a way. I know you." She shook herself back to the problems at hand. "So why would Pelley go to all this trouble to get it? What does he want with it?"

"I don't know," Jerry said, "and I'm not sure that's smart to talk about here. But I don't think he's doing it for archeological glory."

"No."

"The thing is, I don't know if Iskinder can make the arrangements today," Jerry went on. "And I can't leave with it up in the air." He shook his head. "If worst comes to worst, you fly back with Tesla, and I'll take the train later."

"You already gave up your sleeper," Alma said.

"I'll be fine."

"No." Alma swallowed the rest of her protest. "Look, I don't even know what the weather is like west of us. Let's see where we are before we make any decisions. You talk to Iskinder, and I'll deal with the flight."

Jerry nodded, relaxing slightly. "All right. To the air field, then?"

"Back to the Astoria," Alma answered. "I have a bunch of calls to make."

T
here was no word from either Barstow or Iskinder until the middle of the afternoon, and then it was only a telephone call from Bartsow's assistant to report that Judson had professed himself willing to look at the bid.

"As well he ought," Iskinder said, hanging up the telephone in his suite, "considering that my opening offer is more than generous."

"Pelley has money," Jerry muttered. "He can make a pretty good offer himself."

"I have more," Iskinder said. "And I'm prepared to spend it. I agree with you, Pelley mustn't have this."

"He's dangerous," Jerry said flatly, and Iskinder nodded.

"I know."

It was an hour before the telephone rang again. This time it was Barstow himself, and Jerry held his breath for a moment before willing himself to breathe again.

"Very well," Iskinder said. "No, the medallion must be part of the package, I've taken a fancy to it. It completes my collection." He paused, listening, and his lips tightened. "Offer him another thousand, then. Yes, I said thousand. Yes, I meant it. And don't lose this deal by trying to save me a few hundred dollars. It's the artifacts that matter." He listened again, relaxing slightly, and nodded. "Keep me up to date, then. Yes, I will be at the hotel all evening. Don't hesitate to telephone."

He hung up the receiver at last, and Jerry looked up at him from the couch. "Well?"

"Pelley outbid us on the first round, but Barstow persuaded Judson to let him call me. And you heard, I'm prepared to go much higher. I doubt Pelley has that kind of money."

"You hope," Jerry muttered.

There was still no word from Barstow by the time they met Alma for dinner. She had changed from her tweeds to a white satin dress that Jerry hadn't seen before, with a plunging neck and an elegantly simple line that made the most of her figure. She was looking happy, he thought, her whole body softer, easier, than it had been before he left. Lewis was good for her, no question about it, and he couldn't help smiling as he kissed her cheek in greeting.

"You look very nice," he said, and she gave him an abstracted smile.

"Any news?"

"Not yet," Iskinder said. "I've asked the waiter to bring the phone to the table if I do get a call."

"What about you?" Jerry asked. The headwaiter brought them into a private room this time, held the chair while Alma settled herself, then busied himself taking orders for drinks. Jerry accepted the offer of "something stronger" and took the seat to Alma's left.

"We should plan to leave tomorrow or the day after at the latest," she answered. "After that, it looks as though there's weather moving in, and I'd rather let it pass."

"Surely we can manage that," Iskinder said, with more confidence than Jerry felt was entirely justified.

"How bad's the weather?" he asked.

Alma shrugged, her attention on the menu. "Right now, the forecast is for rain and maybe a little snow over Oklahoma. It looks as though the bulk of it is going south, so I'm looking at the northern route for us, through Chicago. Or thereabouts — the Chicago fields tend to be expensive. I think I'll have the pork chops. They look delicious." She folded the menu and set it aside, then reached for her purse. "Did you see the papers tonight?"

There was something in her tone that made Jerry give her a way glance. "No."

"You might want to look at this." She slid a clipping across the table toward him.

Jerry took it, wincing as he recognized Winchell's column. "I take it I'm going to pay for saying that."

Iskinder cocked his head in question, and Jerry sighed. "We're the third item. 'What high-flying professor has escaped the handcuffs promised at the end of the Great Race and is once again bach-ing it in New York City? Does the lovely Countess know she's been left at the altar? Could this have anything to do with the presence of Mrs. Alma Gilchrist Segura, flying solo herself this time? Oh, no, she's just here on business, boys — a flying visit, all for Science!'"

"Ouch," Iskinder said, but he was smiling. "This countess —"

"She's now Al's office help," Jerry said. "And she's less of a countess than I am."

"I don't think it's entirely fair to Stasi," Alma said.

"She didn't really think," Iskinder began, and shook his head. "You didn't say yes, Jerry, surely?"

"I most certainly did not," Jerry answered. "It was all her idea. She needed to get out of New Orleans fast, but — I'd never even seen her before! She latched onto me like a barnacle."

Alma snickered. "Some people would be flattered, you know."

"Well, I'm not," Jerry said. He shook his head, getting control of his annoyance. Sometimes the woman brought out the worst in him. "Frankly, I've been expecting her to dump me for months."

"I expect she was hoping people would just forget about it," Alma said.

"No such luck," Jerry muttered.

"There was a great deal of publicity," Iskinder said, which Jerry took as agreement.

"And so Pelley took it as reason to send her after me."

"She told them you were onto her and there was no way in hell you'd let her get close to anything you were working on any more." Alma smiled up at the waiter arriving with the soup, and Jerry looked down at his plate, embarrassed. Stasi Rostov — if either of those were really her name — was at the very least a talented medium, and a dedicated one. She had paid her debt to New Orleans' dead without complaint or hedging. Tough as nails, too, but — honorable. He blinked, startled by the word, but couldn't deny it. Not honest, not by a long shot, but in her own way honorable.

"She's all right," he said, and Alma smiled.

Before she could say anything, however, a second waiter appeared, and spoke quietly in Iskinder's ear. Iskinder nodded, and the waiter vanished, to return a moment later with a telephone. He plugged it in and set it next to Iskinder, who gave the others an apologetic glance. "You'll forgive me, I hope. It's Barstow."

"Of course," Alma said.

Jerry nodded, suddenly too nervous to speak. The thin corn bisque was suddenly tasteless, and he had to make an effort to breathe.

"Yes," Iskinder said. "Put him through, please." He listened for a long moment, his face expressionless, then heaved a sudden sigh. "Yes. Go as high as you need to — yes, if you must, that would be acceptable." He listened again, and finally smiled. "Very good. We'll see you tomorrow, then. And — very well done."

He put the phone aside and nodded for the waiter to remove it, then smiled across the table. "I think — Judson is holding an informal auction in his office tomorrow, but I believe we have a very good chance at it. Barstow says he thinks Pelley's man was at his limit."

"God willing," Alma said.

Jerry let out his breath in a long sigh. "That is good news. But we can't leave tomorrow, Al."

"No." Alma narrowed her eyes, calculating. "If we leave first thing the day after, though, we should be all right."

Iskinder lifted his drink. "Then let's enjoy ourselves. And hope for continued luck in the morning."

"Amen," Jerry said, and touched glasses with the others.

I
skinder gave his tie a final gentle tug and contemplated the overall effect in the Astoria's opulent mirror. He had chosen his most conservative Savile Row suit for the meeting, an indigo worsted so dark as to be almost black; his collar and cuffs showed palest cream, and the tie was a neat rep stripe, faultlessly sober. Only the signet on his left hand was out of the ordinary, bright soft gold, nearly pure, with lions' heads on the shanks and an intricately carved ruby for the seal. It was, he hoped, his most effective presentation, wealth and exoticism equally in play, a reminder both that he could afford to indulge his whims and that he and Rosenthal had a certain kinship.

The Astoria's admirably efficient staff had removed the remnants of his breakfast but left the coffee service as he'd requested. He poured himself another cup, methodically adding cream and sugar, then crossed to the window, pulling aside the curtain to stare down into the busy street. So many people, and so many of them hustling for every nickel — yes, there was an apple seller, box slung uncomfortably across his shoulder. It felt vaguely dirty to have so much money when so many were struggling, and he let the curtain fall again. All he could really do was try to be a good steward, to help where he could and serve the light. Stopping Pelley certainly fell into that category, no matter how much personal satisfaction if brought. And if Jerry was right, if this medallion was the key to Alexander's tomb — He shook his head, remembering again the glimpse of golden air. It was more than the find of the century.