Gravity Rising (The Parallel Multiverse Book 2)

by Ward Wagher

  The pilot looked at Winkleman. “I don’t know, Sir. It’s technically within range, but it’s outside of what the book calls for.”

  “I don’t think we have many choices left,” he replied.

  “Control, Palatinate One,” Abby called over the radio. “We are diverting to Terre Haute.”

  Abby began to turn the grasshopper when they slammed into an updraft. They were pinned in the seats as the little craft shot the uncontrolled rapids of the Indiana sky. Though it was afternoon, it was completely black outside of the cabin. There was another blinding flash of lightning followed by an enormous boom.

  Abby studied the instruments for a few moments. “I don’t believe I have ever been this high in one of these.”

  Arthur leaned over and looked at the altimeter. “That is one for the books, I believe.”

  And then they hit the downdraft. Everyone hung by their seat belts as-as the grasshopper plummeted. Maggie suddenly grabbed the bag from the seat pocket and began retching. Larry felt the vibrations as the fans came up to full power. Looking over the pilot’s shoulder, he could see power graphs moving into the red as Abby fed everything the accumulators could produce into the motors. And, still, they fell.

  With a solid thump, they flew out of the downdraft into relatively smooth air. A moment later they were into another updraft.

  “Next time,” Arthur said in his calm voice, “remind me to listen to you, Colonel Creitzman.”

  “Of course, Sir,” Abby responded in her pilot’s professional voice.

  Three times they battled the fierce currents of the storm. Finally, they burst into clear air and in the light of the afternoon sun. Winkleman leaned forward and scanned the horizon.

  “I would say that was enough of an adventure for today.”

  “Not quite, Sir,” Abby replied. “We are down to fifteen percent on the accumulators. We can’t make Terre Haute.”

  She pointed to indicators, blinking yellow. Arthur looked at her, then scanned the ground below again.

  “There,” he pointed. “There’s a farm. Set us down there.”

  “Right,” Abby said as the lowered the nose of the grasshopper.

  “Indianapolis Control, Palatinate One.”

  “Go one,” said Control Actual.

  “We are clear of the storm but have run the accumulators dry. We are setting down at a farm. Transmitting coordinates.”

  “Roger, One. Executing Plan Seven.”

  “Roger, Plan Seven, Control. Executing landing.”

  As they descended towards the farm, they would see a hooded figure marching across from the farmhouse to the barn. The farmer pushed the doors of the barn open and then stepped to the side. The farmer waved to them and pointed to the barn.

  “Now, how did he know we were coming?” Arthur asked.

  “She,” Abby said. “At this point, I’m not prepared to argue, Sir. We must get on the ground.”

  The pilot braked the craft hard to a hover and the power graphs for the accumulators began blinking red. She eased the grasshopper into the barn and set it down. Larry looked at the instruments.

  “I don’t believe you could have cut it much closer,” he said. “Five percent.”

  “I could not have cut it any closer.”

  “Indianapolis Control, Palatinate One.”

  “Go, One.”

  “We are on the ground and in shelter.”

  Confirm Palatinate One is on the ground. Say status.”

  “Control, One. Status nominal.”

  “Palatinate One, Indianapolis Control. Confirm One is on the ground and status nominal.”

  “One, out,” Abby said. She, then, shut down the systems.

  “Let’s greet our hostess,” Arthur said.

  He punched the button to open the doors. As they stepped out of the aircraft, the farmer dragged a power cable across the floor towards them.

  “I suppose you are going to need to recharge,” she said grumpily.

  Abby unlocked the hatch to the charging port and then plugged in the cable.

  “We’re delighted you were here and we appreciate you opening your barn to us,” Arthur said.

  “Humph!” she grunted. “We should get to the house before the storm hits. This is a bad one.”

  “Right,” Abby said.

  They walked out of the barn into the stiff wind. Maggie shivered. The farmer pulled the doors closed and turned to them.

  “Don’t stand there. The girl is getting chilled. You will be warm in the house.”

  She marched across the barnyard and on to the back porch. They followed her into a warm kitchen. The farmer removed her hood and turned around. Maggie and Larry felt the thrill of shock. It was Mrs. Willow.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Arthur Winkleman noticed the frightened look on Maggie’s face. “Why, my dear, whatever is the matter?”

  Maggie pointed to the woman who had led them to the farmhouse. “That’s Mrs. Willow.”

  Winkleman turned and looked curiously at the stocky woman.

  “My name is Mrs. Saule.” She chuckled slightly. “I think the girl has confused me for someone else.”

  Maggie visibly shook herself. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Saule. It’s just that you look so much like someone we know in Boston.”

  “I have heard that we all have a twin somewhere in the world,” she said. “But, it is clear that I am from nowhere near Boston.”

  “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves,” Arthur said. “I am Arthur Winkleman. This is Abby Creitzman, our pilot. And this is Lawrence Berthold and Margaret Bosstic.”

  “I am delighted to have you as guests,” Mrs. Saule said. “Although, I understand your choices were limited. It is fortunate I happened to be out and saw you.”

  “We very much appreciate the hospitality,” Arthur said. “That is a violent storm.”

  “I am happy to assist distressed travelers,” the woman said. “I have plenty of room, so there is no problem with you staying the night. By tomorrow your aircraft will be charged and you can continue your journey.”

  “Perhaps I should call Indianapolis and tell them to suspend Plan Seven,” Abby said.

  “That would be a very good idea,” Arthur said. “We do not need people out in this kind of weather.”

  “You will be quite safe here,” Mrs. Saule said. “The house is very solid.”

  They could now hear the wind buffeting the house, but it seemed subdued. Maggie thought the house would be shaking. But, from the way the evergreen trees along the fence line were bent over, the wind was considerable. As the clouds billowed, flashes of lightning shifted the shadows around. Snow blew around the house as the afternoon darkened.

  “I wonder if we might be wise to retreat to the basement,” Winkleman suggested.

  Mrs. Saule smiled at him. “Not necessary, Sir. We are quite safe.”

  “This is the Paladin, you know,” Abby said.

  Mrs. Saule turned to him. “Your secret is safe with me, Sir.”

  Winkleman laughed heartily. “I think I like you.”

  “Let me show you your rooms,” she said. “There is plenty of hot water, so feel free to take long hot showers. I will have a supper on the table in a couple of hours. You look as though you are in need of rest and refreshment.”

  “Might I have a glass of water?” Maggie asked.

  “Of course, Child. You look pale.”

  “The ride I just had was not kind to my stomach.”

  “Oh, you poor child,” the woman said. “Come over here and sit down at the table. Allow me to get you something to drink.”

  She sat Maggie down at the kitchen table and quickly walked over to the sink. She took a clean glass from the cupboard and filled it from the faucet. After setting it on the table in front of Maggie, she turned to the others.

  “I will take her to her room later. Please allow me to show you yours now.

  They followed the old woman through the lower floor of the farmhouse. The furnishings
were clean and neat, but still about what could be expected of a modest farm family. She turned and marched up the stairs, hand on the rail. The old lady was of indeterminate age but clearly had yet to slow down. She was waiting for them at the top of the staircase and was not breathing hard. Winkleman wheezed slightly when he arrived.

  The house seemed quiet against the muted background of the storm. She walked into the front bedroom, and they could see the storm in its full fury through the windows.

  “This will be your bedroom, Mr. Winkleman.” And, she marched out again, leaving the others to follow.

  “And this room will be for you, Colonel,” she said to Abby. “I think you will find it comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Abby said.

  “And you, Mr. Berthold, can sleep here,” she said, pointing to a nook-sized room. “I know it is small, but you should find it comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” Larry responded. “I know it’s better than sleeping in a snow drift somewhere.”

  “Just so. And this room at the back is for Margaret.”

  Larry glanced into the room. It was pink-painted and decorated for a small girl. He wondered where the other occupants of the house were at that moment. And, if the old bag really wasn’t Mrs. Willow. They trooped back downstairs with Mrs. Saule, who declared that she would make a supper for her guests.

  Abby was in the living room watching through the front windows as the snow blew past horizontally. Larry walked over to her.

  “Are you okay, Mags?”

  “I think so. Things just moved too fast this afternoon. I need to get my feet on the ground.”

  “It was exciting,” he said.

  Mrs. Saule had disappeared into the kitchen. Abby and Winkleman stood in a corner of the small dining room and talked quietly.

  “Saule means willow in French, you know,” Maggie said.

  “You caught that, too, huh?” Larry said. “I mean, it has got to be a coincidence. How could it be otherwise?”

  “I know. We get caught in the storm and bounce around for a while, and then we come down at this farm. How could anyone know where we would eventually land? That’s just too much.”

  “And she knows stuff,” Larry said. “She called Abby Colonel. None of us called her that in Mrs. Saule’s hearing.”

  Larry looked thoughtful. “I didn’t catch that. I wonder if Arthur did.”

  “I don’t want to ask him,” Maggie said. “He probably already thinks we’re crazy.”

  “And, he’s too polite to say anything.”

  “I hope we can get out of here tomorrow. This is a nice place, and all, but it’s really spooky.”

  “I know what you mean. We will just have to stay on our toes.”

  Winkleman and Abby walked back into the parlor and seated themselves.

  “Come on,” he said, “have a seat. There is not much else to do, so we can chat.”

  Winkleman spent the afternoon recounting his adventures from his trips around the globe. He was peripatetic when younger. He was an engaging conversationalist and held their attention. This was in spite of frequent interruptions to take phone calls. After one such call, he returned his chair.

  “Business never seems to stop, whether I am immediately available or not,” he said with a smile.

  “Business business or Palatinate business?” Maggie asked.

  “Some of both. I have made my money in manufacturing. Now that I am in the latter stages of my life, I am working on distributing my estate in ways that will most benefit the Palatinate.”

  “Is something wrong?” Maggie asked, and then quickly continued. “I don’t mean to pry, or anything.”

  “Oh, no,” Winkleman chuckled. “I am disgustingly healthy, as my doctor keeps telling me. The only chronic condition I have is hypochondria. Every new pain that crops up has me asking, is this it. I am eighty years old. Our medical researchers tell me that within a few decades, eighty will be considered early middle age. My doc seems to think I’m good for another twenty years.”

  “I would never have guessed you were eighty,” Larry said. “I would have thought maybe mid-sixties.”

  “Thank you for that, young man,” he said. “I think part of keeping old age at bay is to enjoy what you are doing. I am having more fun than I think I have ever had in my life.”

  “I am glad not to have to ferry a grouchy old man around the Palatinate,” Abby commented.

  “You have been sharpening your knives again, Abby,” Winkleman said with his small smile.

  “Not at all, Sir.”

  Winkleman looked at Maggie and sighed. “It is difficult to find good help, these days.”

  “I completely understand, Sir,” she said while pointedly staring at Larry.

  “Hey!” Larry complained.

  “How far away have you been?” Maggie asked Winkleman.

  The old man folded his arms across his chest as he thought. “Most of my trips were to central and South America. I did make it to England one time. The visit to London was interesting. There was snow on the ground in July. Those people are just barely hanging on. They grow all their food in greenhouses. They waited too long to replace their wind power with fusion generators. The only way to combat the winter is with energy and a lot of it.”

  “They have fusion now, don’t they?” Larry asked.

  “Oh, yes. I was involved in some of those projects,” Winkleman said. Their wind power was falling apart, and they did not have the money or expertise to repair it.”

  “How did they afford a fusion plant, then?” Larry asked.

  “They very nearly had to beggar themselves to accomplish it. There is a loan from Bank of Indianapolis, some of the banks in the Carolinas stepped up. And I think the King emptied the treasury to get it done. Which means there was no money left to invest in industrialization. The Brits will not advance without a manufacturing base.”

  “What will they do, then?” Maggie asked.

  “I created a joint venture and built a small steel mill near London. There is no shortage of scrap metal, as you know. The mill puts out good quality steel roll.”

  “And when you need more scrap, you tear down another building,” Larry said.

  “Exactly,” Winkleman agreed. “I do not suppose we will be doing much mining for iron ore for quite a while.”

  Mrs. Saule moved into the dining room and began laying out plates and utensils for the meal. The wind continued its rush outside the farmhouse and in the deepening twilight, it was easy to see the growing drifts.

  Winkleman nodded towards the windows. “It will not be a fit night for man or beast, out there, I think.”

  “It will not break until morning,” Mrs. Saule said. She had moved over and stood in the doorway from the dining room. “I am in the process of setting dinner on the table. You can go ahead and find your places.”

  An enormous pot roast occupied the center of the table as king surveying his carrot, broccoli and potato minions. The aroma suffused the room.

  “Oh, this smells wonderful, Mrs. Saule,” Maggie said.

  “I would venture that after today’s events, anything would smell good,” the old lady said.

  Soon everyone’s plates were loaded, and they began eating. Maggie closed her eyes in bliss.

  “Mrs. Saule, this is wonderful. I don’t think I’ve had a roast this good.”

  The hostess harrumphed and walked back to the kitchen and left them to eat.

  “I have to agree with Margaret,” Winkleman said. “This must be the best roast I have experienced.”

  “No argument, there,” Abby said. “The gravy is amazing.”

  Larry said nothing, however, he quickly worked his way through the food on his plate, and then refilled it. Maggie ate her supper nearly as quickly but did not take seconds. She stood up.

  “I think I’ll grab the shower first,” she said. “This has been a long day and I am beat.”

  “I trust you will rest well tonight,” Winkleman said.
>
  “Thanks, Arthur,” Maggie replied.

  “Your bedroom is at the back,” Mrs. Saule said from the kitchen. “It is the one with the pink paint.”

  Maggie walked through the living room to the staircase, and then climbed to the upper floor. She wondered what she was missing as she climbed. Then she stopped midway towards the second floor. The stairs did not creak. The oak risers looked as old and weathered as the rest of the house, but they were as solid as concrete. She shook her head and resumed her trip upstairs.

  She first looked at her assigned bedroom held her hand to her chest. “I don’t believe this,” she said to herself.

  Maggie slipped across the small hallway and into the front bedroom. The floors didn’t creak, either. She began easing open drawers to the dresser in the room. The dresser was filled with old lady clothes. She looked up and jumped – Winkleman was standing in the doorway watching her.

  “There are mysteries in this house,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Did you tell Mrs. Saule that Abby is a colonel?”

  “I did not. And, I caught that, too. There are things that one would not expect Mrs. Saule to know.”

  “So, it’s not just me, then.”

  Winkleman smiled. “No, Margaret, I did not think you were crazy. I spent time in my youth learning to listen carefully and pay attention. That has helped immensely in my business interests.”

  “The bedroom I am using tonight is identical to the one where I grew up,” she said. “I do not understand what is going on, here.”

  “Is that so? After we leave tomorrow, we can have a conversation about things. I do not think it would be wise to discuss it tonight.”

  She nodded. He turned and walked down the steps. Maggie walked into the bathroom and locked the door. The old lady was right, there was plenty of hot water. After finishing in the bathroom, she retreated to the pink bedroom and crawled into bed. Her curiosity about the farmhouse and the old lady who just had to be Mrs. Willow did not succeed in keeping her awake. She toppled off the cliff into oblivion and did not awaken until morning light was beginning to creep through the window.

  CHAPTER TWENTY