The Doomsday Vault (24 page)

Mr. D. had me put on one set of my new clothes—they itched a little—and we got into a cab. I thought we were going back to the . . . back to where I work now. But we went a different way.

London is like Boston in some ways, Gramps. They're both busy all the time. The streets are crowded with people and horses and wagons and carriages. The smells change every few feet—bread or manure or cloth or flowers or just people. Voices shout and yell. Vendors sell anything you need, and there are lots of
offering up—Oh, come on! Gramps lived in the part of Boston his whole life! He knows what a
is.

Fine. Anyway, half the city is being built up to the sky, and the other half is being dug down under the ground. Everything is dust or rain or mud. It's depressing. And the fog! You can slice it up and eat it for dinner.

Something happier to talk about: They gave me a piece of my salary, but I don't need much because I live at work, so I'm sending you some. You can buy medicine. And get Ma a new dress, all right? Or maybe you can send Patrick to school with some of it. Tell him his big brother is still watching over him.

Anyway, I was saying that Mr. D. had the cabbie drive us to his men's club for lunch.

I've never been in a club. I tried to act as if I knew everything, but to tell the truth, I was scared I'd make a mistake and they'd throw me out. The club looks like an ordinary brownstone house, except on the door hangs a brass plaque that reads THE E CONSTANT CLUB. Mr. D. says the name is a joke, but I don't get it.

We went inside. It was red wallpaper and rugs with designs and heavy furniture and bookshelves and big rooms with men smoking everywhere. Mr. D. introduced me around, then took me to the dining room. The tables were set with crystal and china and silver. I was really nervous now. I'd never eaten in such a fine place. Mr. D. ordered food for both of us, and then a little trolley walked up to our table with a champagne bottle in a silver ice bucket on it. Two mechanical arms from the trolley popped the bottle and poured us each a glass.

“We have to celebrate,” Mr. D. said.

I thought he meant we had to celebrate me joining
, and I felt kind of excited—I'd never had champagne before, or anything worth drinking champagne about—but instead, Mr. D. raised his glass and said, “May you live a hundred years, Gavin, with one extra year to repent!”

And then I remembered it was my eighteenth birthday. I'd completely forgotten. I would have made airman today. The entire crew would have made a double line on deck beneath the envelope, and I would have run down the middle while they swatted me with wooden paddles. Captain Naismith and Pilot would have greeted me at the end of the line, pulled off my cabin boy leathers and boots, and thrown them overboard. Then I would have had to climb the netting, barefoot and in my underwear, to the highest part of the envelope, where the newest airman—that would have been Tom—would be waiting with my new boots and leathers, the ones with wings on the lapel. Once I put them on, I would have climbed back down to the rest of the crew, who would cheer and feed me bread, salt, and beer. “Go up a boy; come down a man.” Then there would be a party.

Instead, I was sitting in a strange club with a man I'd met only a few hours before, holding a glass of champagne, and seeing my shock reflected in a cold bucket made of silver. I wondered if they had champagne in heaven for Tom and Captain Naismith. It wouldn't be fair if I had it and they didn't.

Mr. D. must have seen my face, because he put his glass down. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Is your birthday a bad thing?”

“No,” I hurried to say. “I'm sorry. Thank you.” I raised my glass to him and sipped. It was like drinking sour air. “It'd just slipped away from me, with all that's happened. I'm fine.”

“We'll get some food in you and you'll be right as rain, eh?” Mr. D. said cheerfully. He didn't want to see me upset, and I didn't want to look upset. So I nodded.

Our lunch arrived. It was some kind of chopped chicken with vegetables over mashed potatoes, but done up fancy. For dessert, the waiter brought ice cream and a small chocolate cake. I liked that and thanked Mr. D. , and he looked happy.

“Once you're more established, we'll have to sponsor you for membership here,” he said.

“Do you think Miss A. has a club?” I blurted out.

“I wouldn't know.” He lit a cigar and offered me one, but I thought about Captain Naismith and turned it down. “You have your eye on her, do you?”

“Um . . .” was all I could say.

He muttered something that sounded like “
” around his cigar. “We can't force her to join us, you know.”

“I know. I was just surprised she didn't.” I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “I think I have training soon. Should we go?”

“Of course, of course.” Mr. D. signed the check and we left. A few minutes later, we were back at headquarters, and I was in combat class, learning how to fight and trying not to think about Miss A.

P. teaches the combat class herself. I guess she used to teach a lot of classes, but now that she's a
, she only has time for combat.

I have to tell you, Gramps, P. may be a woman, but she scares the
out of me. She has only one
, and she wears a special
on her
, and she has this way of looking at you as if you had no skin.