Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (26 page)

“Really?” Alma gave him a wary glance. “I don’t have a whole lot of cash left.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he said. “Edie was always — careful.”

T
hey rode the streetcar down to the bridge, and got off among old-fashioned buildings with signs in Yiddish as well as English. The neighborhood had the same closed, faintly exotic feeling as the streets where Lewis had grown up, where everybody had a secret language and you turned a dumb immigrant mask to the outside world. It was odd to be a stranger, to be on the outside, and he knew they were being watched as they made their way along the sidewalks. They were looking for the Misses Greenberg’s, Mitch said, and he found it quickly enough. It was a street-level storefront, with an arrangement of what looked like expensive hats in the window, and a severe and lanky woman presiding over the showroom. She gave them a comprehensively disapproving glare, and Mitch put on his best smile.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Feurzeig. I know you won’t remember me, but I’m a friend of Edie Goodwin — Edie Goode, she is now.”

She blinked at him from behind glasses as gold as Jerry’s, but the name and the soft accent earned a grudging nod.

“Edie always said that if a person needed nice clothes on short notice, this was the place to come,” Mitch went on. “My friend Mrs. Gilchrist, here, she needs an evening frock, something suitable for ocean travel. For tonight.”

“Tonight?” Mrs. Feurzeig looked dismayed.

“We’re leaving on the Independence — the new airship — tonight at seven,” Alma said. “I didn’t bring anything appropriate.”

Mrs. Feurzeig gave them a reproachful look — she was clearly used to improvident men — and stepped back behind the counter. “Miss Greenberg!”

Miss Greenberg was as round as Mrs. Feurzeig was skinny, a sweet-faced, graying woman in an old-fashioned high-necked blouse. Mrs. Feurzeig explained the situation, and they both turned to study Alma.

“Stand up straight, dear,” Miss Greenberg said, not unkindly, and Mrs. Feurzeig tipped her head to one side.

“She’s very tall.”

“I like her that way,” Lewis said, in spite of himself, and surprised an elfin grin from Mrs. Feurzeig.

“Yes, but hems still aren’t that short, Mr. — Gilchrist, is it?”

“Segura,” Lewis said, and hoped he wouldn’t blush.

Neither woman seemed taken aback, but then, if they made clothes for Ziegfield Girls, they’d probably seen everything. Lewis relaxed, and saw Alma’s frown ease.

“Right,” Mitch said. “We need some things, too. Jerry, why don’t you and I take care of that?”

“Yes,” Jerry said, shaking himself out of what looked like fascinated contemplation. “Let’s do that.”

The bell above the door jangled as they left, and Lewis turned his attention back to the women.

“Shoes,” Mrs. Feurzeig said, and Miss Greenberg shook her head.

“I doubt we have anything that would fit. Pity.”

“What do you have with you?” Mrs. Feurzeig asked, and Alma blinked.

“Black pumps.”

Mrs. Feurzeig gave a martyred sigh, but Miss Greenberg said cheerfully, “Better than brown, anyway.”

“The eau de nile?” Mrs. Feurzeig began, and Miss Greenberg shook her head.

“No green, not with her skin.”

“But not blue —”

“Not baby blue,” Miss Greenberg corrected. “But midnight —”

“Ink,” Mrs. Feurzeig said. She gave her partner a look of triumph. “The slip with the silver starburst.”

“Yes.” Miss Greenberg nodded decisively, and Mrs. Feurzeig disappeared into the back of the shop.

“Starburst?” Alma said, looking over her shoulder. “God, I hope Mitch was right. I really don’t have that much cash left.”

“I have some, too,” Lewis said, and hoped it would be enough. He’d never been in this position before, Alma’s acknowledged lover, and it felt strange. Strange, but good, and he dared to pat her shoulder.

Mrs. Feurzeig returned with an armful of royal blue fabric which she shook like a conjuror’s handkerchief so that it became a narrow slip with a darker band around the hips. In the center of the band was a beaded and sequined shape like an exploding firework, and more beads scattered across the skirt.

“Oh,” Alma said. Lewis glanced at her, startled, and surprised a look almost of longing on her face.

“Ah,” Miss Greenberg said, tipping her head from side to side. “All right, dear, let’s try it on.”

The two women herded Alma into the back, and Lewis settled into the armchair that was obviously reserved for husbands and protectors. He remembered other men talking about the tedium of waiting while their wives tried on dresses, or laughed at the folly of women’s fashions, but he thought he wouldn’t mind. Not when Alma had that look on her face, like she was getting an unexpected treat. And in that dress, her slim legs naked except for stockings …. He set his hat carefully in his lap, and tried to think of something else. Mitch was busy buying socks and underwear. He just hoped they’d think to buy him a spare undershirt, too.

Alma appeared more quickly than he would have expected, and Lewis gave a soft whistle. There weren’t a lot of reasons to dress up in Colorado Springs, and he and Alma had never bothered to make occasions. He’d seen her in nice dresses at Easter and at Thanksgiving, a well-cut tweed suit for business, but never anything like this. The royal blue — exactly the color of Schaeffer Ink — flattered her tanned skin and golden hair, and the narrow cut made the most of her height and curves. The starburst caught the light, heavy silver sparkling at the center of her hips. On some women, probably most of the ones who shopped here, it would have been blatant advertisement; on Alma, it was … challenge? And one he’d be glad to meet. Victoria would never have worn such a thing, but on Alma it looked entirely right. The neck scooped low, revealing a hint of lace.

“Wow,” he said, and Alma grinned, twirled, the skirt flaring.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But —”

“Beads,” Miss Greenberg said, and Mrs. Feurzeig produced a tray. Alma reached for a strand of silver, but the other women shook their heads as one.

“Not with your skin, dear,” Miss Greenberg said.

Mrs. Feurzeig poked unhappily through the tray. “You really ought to take more care, you know. You can’t get away with neglecting yourself forever.”

“I’m a flyer,” Alma protested.

“You’re much too tall,” Mrs. Feurzeig said, but Miss Greenberg laughed.

“An aviatrix, dear, not a circus flyer. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, exactly,” Alma said.

Mrs. Feurzeig unearthed a string of ivory pearls that were interspersed with rhinestone-studded spheres. “Maybe these?”

Miss Greenberg nodded thoughtfully, and Alma turned again in front of the mirror.

“You look beautiful,” Lewis said. He wondered if she had dressed up for Gil. Alma turned full circle, the skirt swirling, and he saw a shadow cross her face, and guessed she was thinking of Gil, too.

Mrs. Feurzeig saw the same shift of expression. “Now, understand, it’s not silk, but you treat it like silk, it’ll go on looking like it. The appliqué is all hand-done, but there’s no need for alterations. Forty dollars, and we’ll throw in the beads.”

“Forty dollars,” Alma began, and Lewis stood up.

“We’ll take it,” he said. Alma looked at him, and he gave her his best smile. “You could always bill Henry for it.”

“As what?” She was trying to sound indignant, and failed.

“Travel expenses?”

She snorted. “I don’t think he’d buy it.”

“Ok, take it out of my pay.” Lewis grinned, and Alma leaned close.

“I’ll take it out of something,” she said softly, and disappeared into the back to change into slacks and blouse again.

Mrs. Feurzeig was smirking, and Lewis felt his face heat. She said nothing, however, just wrapped dress and necklace in tissue and brown papers. Alma reappeared, her ordinary self again, and took a deep breath as she opened her purse.

“It’s worth it,” Lewis said, and she smiled again.

“I hope so.”

T
hey made it back to Flushing Airport in time to re-pack the suitcases, cramming in their new purchases, while Alma changed back into her old blue day dress. It was starting to look a little tired, Lewis thought, and was glad she’d had the chance to pick up something nice. Jerry sorted his books, picking a few he could leave behind — or, he said brightly, transfer to their suitcases. They wouldn’t be over the weight limit. Lewis gritted his teeth and took a couple of volumes, and the others did the same.

There was a surprising amount of traffic on the roads that led to the Rockaways, and on the last bridge it came to a near standstill. Searchlights swept the air in the distance, pale fingers of light against the purpling sky, and more lights hazed the air above the tree line. And then at last they turned into the Naval Air Station, and Mitch leaned out to give their names to the young sailor on duty at the gate. He consulted a harried-looking civilian, who consulted a clipboard, and waved them through. The Navy airship hangar loomed ahead, enormous and somehow flimsy, its walls crisscrossed with braces. More lights picked out “Fort Tilden” painted along the side, and a pale semi-circle of silver-gray poked out from behind it like a tarnished moon. It was almost unimaginably huge, Lewis thought. He’d hunted balloons, of course, a change of pace from aerial recon and then from escort duty, but those had been much smaller, pale and flabby, nothing like this streamlined monster.

They made their way toward a second makeshift barrier, where MPs and civilian cops held back a crowd of sightseers. There were reporters, too, photographers jostling for the best shots, and men with notebooks collecting man-on-the-street impressions. A couple of newsreel cameras had been set up, huge boxy things on tripods that looked too small for their weight, and a man with his cap on backwards was peering through the viewfinder of one as he turned its crank.

“Mrs. Gilchrist?”

Lewis turned with her to see a homely young man in a well-cut suit hurrying toward them. “I’m Joe Palmer,” he said. “Mr. Kershaw’s assistant for the flight. He wanted me to meet you, be sure you got aboard all right.”

“That’s very kind of him,” Alma said, offering her hand, and one of the reporters called, “Hey, Joe! Who’s the dame?”

Palmer gave Alma an apologetic glance. “Would you mind giving them a brief interview, Mrs. Gilchrist? It’s better if we can keep them happy.”

Keep them fed, Lewis thought, not liking the idea. But it was Alma’s call. She lifted her eyebrows, and he could almost see the thoughts chasing themselves across her face. In the long run, there was nothing bad about getting Gilchrist Aviation into the papers in conjunction with Henry Kershaw. “All right,” she said. “But, truly, brief —”

Palmer was already turning away, a practiced smile on his face. “This is Mrs. Alma Gilchrist, of Gilchrist Aviation, a colleague and a guest of Mr. Kershaw’s. Mrs. Gilchrist, this is Stu Mather, of the Daily Mirror.”

Alma’s eyelids flickered as she registered the tabloid’s name — even people from Colorado knew the Mirror’s reputation for racy reporting — but she smiled gamely.

“Friend of Mr. Kershaw’s?” Mather said, and she gave him a blank look.

“My late husband and I did a good deal of work for Mr. Kershaw.” She included Lewis and the others with a wave of her hand. “These gentlemen are some of our test pilots.”

“No offense, Mrs. Gilchrist,” Mather said, “but Kershaw’s got a woman running tests for him?”

“I have some of the finest pilots in the West working for me,” Alma said, and there was iron in her voice. “Lewis Segura, here, won the DSC in France. Mitchell Sorley is a decorated ace, with seven confirmed kills. We’re a small company, but Mr. Kershaw recognizes quality.”

“So what exactly are you doing for Kershaw?” Mather asked.

“I’m sorry,” Alma said. “I really can’t go into detail. I’m sure you understand.”

“And the last gentleman?” another reporter called, notebook ready.

Alma paused, gave a sudden, wholly mischievous smile. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I really can’t discuss Professor Ballard’s presence.”

That was one in Kershaw’s eye, Lewis thought, and hid a grin. Flashbulbs popped, and Alma turned to Palmer, poised as a movie star. He took her arm, shaking his head at the reporters.

“That’s all, boys, let the lady get on board.”

Once inside the barriers, stewards in white jackets hurried to take their luggage. Palmer had cabin tags for them, and once the bags had been weighed — Jerry’s was three pounds under the limit, Lewis noted — the stewards whisked them away. Here under the airship’s shadow, Lewis had to crane his neck to see it clearly, the silver-gray skin curving gracefully up into the sky. It was topped up and ready, he guessed; the mooring lines were taut, sailors from the station keeping a watchful eye on them, and there was another cluster of men at the top of the mooring mast, where the Independence’s round nose just met the tower. A hatch was open in the hull there, a crewman leaning out, arms folded on the edge of the opening: but of course the gas was held in internal cells, Lewis thought, not in the rigid hull.

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 —