by Wolfe, Gene
The witch said, “I do,” and slipped off a delicate little dial ringed with brilliants. She smiled at the young man in the flight jacket. “Already it does not keep good time, so perhaps I should wear it, no? Perhaps your magnetism would mend it for me?”
He smiled back and managed to touch her hand as he took the watch. “I doubt it, Ma‘am. It’s probably better you leave it with me.” He glanced at the watch’s tiny face, then at the chronometer on his wrist. “Twenty-four hundred. It’s not so far off, Ma’am.”
“And when shall you arrive to take us to solid ground again, Captain?” The witch had risen from her seat.
“It’s Colonel, Ma’am,” the young man told her. “I’m an Army Air Force officer, a Lieutenant Colonel, not a Pan Am pilot. We’ll come for you when they tell us to.”
Candy asked, “Do most people stay long?”
“Not most of them, no, Ma’am. Usually it’s just a few hours. But not very many go up there, and we never take some of them down.”
“Ahhh!” The witch breathed the word with a note of moaning wind. “Perhaps they come down without your assistance?” She made a pushing gesture.
“I doubt that, Ma’am. Now if you folks will just go up. We’ve already lost a little more time than we should have.”
Barnes and Stubb looked at each other, then at the airy metal stair. “I want to help Candy up,” Stubb said.
Barnes nodded, smiled at the two women, and went up briskly.
“I go next,” the witch said. “Oh, I am not brave! I only fear I will not go at all. Candy, can you climb them? With myself before and Mr. Stubb behind?”
“I’m cold sober. Of course I can.”
“I wish a kiss first, Colonel,” the witch said suddenly. “After all, it may be the last. And because I did not know of your rank.”
For an instant she smiled, and there was something so bewitching in her smile that it seemed strange she did it so seldom. She might, the young man thought, have conquered the whole world with that smile; he tended to think in such terms.
Then she threw her arms about him and kissed him. “You do not object?” she asked, still clinging to him.
“Why, no, Ma’am.”
“My breath is not sweet, perhaps. It is so late, and it has been so long since I have eaten. I cannot even recall the last time now. I am very tired, and yet I must do more tonight, and I cannot say how much more.”
The young man said, “Your breath is just as sweet, as—as a breeze in April.”
“Good.” She kissed him again. “I see you like it as well as I, but now I must go. You have been so kind. I would not wish to entangle you in difficulties with your superiors.”
She looked around. Stubb had started up the stair, reaching behind him to extend a hand to Candy. Because he was two steps higher than she, their eyes were at a level.
The young man said, “Uh, Ma’am, would you like a sandwich? I’ve got one up front.”
“Oh! Very much!”
“Just a minute.” He ducked through the doorway. The sandwich, wrapped in waxed paper, was Spam on dark rye. He handed it to the witch, who kissed him again, then started after the groaning Candy. When the witch was halfway up, she turned, took a dainty bite of bread and meat, and blew him a kiss.
He blew one in return and stood watching until the slender figure in dark fur and black lace had disappeared into the darkness of the gigantic aircraft above. Then he pushed the folding stairway up, relocked the hatch, and after a minute spent staring idly around the now-vacant plane, went into the cockpit.
A Navy officer waited there, leaning back in the pilot’s seat, his hands behind his head. He asked, “All finished, Bob?”
“Yep.” The young man sat down in the copilot’s seat.
“Took you long enough.”
“I guess.”
The Navy officer threw a switch on the control panel. Instantly they were dropping, then swooping downward in a long glide.
“Where are we?”
“Eighties. Pretty far up. Four of them?”
“Right. Two men, two women.”
The old Fortress swung into a wide, easy bank. “What were they like?”
The young man considered. “Spies,” he said.
“Spies?”
“That’s what I’d say. You know, sometimes they look like diplomats, sometimes millionaires or politicians or whatever. Right, compadre? Well, these were spies. Not Army Intelligence. OSS, I guess.”
“How ’bout that. False whiskers?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. One had a mustache.”
“Come on, what were they like?”
“Okay. Seedy-looking guy with one eye. Face beat up, like he’d been in a fight. Average height or a little under, too old for the draft. Looked like he could be anything as long as it wasn’t too honest, maybe a bookie, something like that.”
“A pimp.”
“Maybe, if he had a little more scratch. Kind of good-looking, shiny black hair, Clark Gable mustache. He was the first one up the steps, and if it scared him he didn’t let it show much.”
“The other guy?”
“Jockey size. Thick glasses, trenchcoat.”
“What about his face?”
“I don’t remember—just the glasses. That was the whole thing about him. He was one of those guys nobody notices. Know what I mean?”
“I suppose. I didn’t see him.”
“Neither did I. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Okay, now the good part. What about the women? You said there were two.”
“Yep. One you had to notice. If you flew over the county fair and got a picture of the crowd and she was in it, she’d be the first one.”
“Nice looking?”
“I guess if she lost a couple of hundred pounds she might have been. Blond, must have been close to six feet.”
“That where you got the lipstick, Bob?”
“Huh?” The young man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You kidding me?”
“How’d I know? You got lipstick all over you. Want to borrow my handkerchief?”
“I’ve got one.”
“You figure this fat girl went around hiding behind doors and romancing generals? Over and above the light colonels, I mean.”
“It wasn’t her, it was the other one. Anyway, the fat girl was a nurse, and she looked like she’d been through hell getting here. Her coat up covered most of it, but the top of her uniform was ripped up, and the skirt was gone. I forgot to say the little guy was second up the steps. Now, he would be great at hiding behind doors or anything else. You’d never spot him. He was worried about the fat nurse and kept turning around trying to give her a hand.”
“Quit stalling, Bob. Get to the other one.”
“You want to be filled in or don’t you? Dark and pretty. Heck, not pretty, but she’d make a pretty girl look like something from the dime store. Beautiful. Like the Dragon Lady—foreign looking, with a little bit of cute accent. Around five six. Lots of neat little curves.”
“Russian?”
“She looked awfully dark for a Russian. Maybe Rumanian or something.”
The Navy pilot glanced at his altimeter. “Bob, what the hell do you know about Rumanians?”
“Nothing, I guess. Count Dracula—wasn’t he supposed to be Rumanian?”
“Hungarian, I think. She bit your neck, huh?”
“No, she just talked kind of like that. She let me keep her watch for her.” The young man thrust his hand into the map pocket of his sheepskin flight jacket. “It’s gone!”
Chapter 57
LONELY AS A CLOUD
The room was large and well-furnished in the heavy, masculine style Barnes had always imagined prevailed at the Harvard Club. It held leather armchairs, a massive walnut table, and a globe; the walls were paneled in walnut and hung with black-and-white photographs of battleships and parades. There was no sound of engines beyond a slight vibration, unchanging as the stale air, that shook even t
he heavy table ever so slightly. Only a few feeble yellow lights in the trembling chandelier seemed alive, ringed by dead companions.
He went to the globe and spun it. India was pink; so was one side of Africa, and the bottom. Had there really been such a green country as French West Africa? He had never heard of it, and yet it seemed to occupy half the continent.
The crown of Stubb’s balding head appeared in the hatch, then his forehead and the glasses whose opacity reminded Barnes of sunglasses, though they were without tint.
Then came Candy’s red, straining face, bedewed with sweat despite the cold, and the shoulders of her dark blue coat. It occurred to Barnes that it had been unfair to take his new clothes and give him back his old ones while letting Candy keep what must have been a stolen coat and the stolen nurse’s uniform.
He wanted to sit in one of the big leather chairs and welcome Stubb and Candy with a few well-chosen remarks, but he also wanted to search for Little Ozzie, though he knew he could not possibly be here. Torn between the two, he went to the hatch and helped Candy up the last two steps, then assisted the witch (who had just blown a kiss) in the same way.
“Thank you, Ozzie,” she said. “Those were a bit difficult with heels so high.”
She was holding a sandwich, and she held it as if it would turn pumpkins to coaches. At its wave the hatch closed, leaving only a smooth, inlaid floor.
“But what kind of place is this? A club for men, is it not? But where is the bar?”
Stubb had been looking around too. “On the other side of those doors, I’ll bet. Whoever lives here wouldn’t want to mix their own drinks, and they wouldn’t want the bartender to hear what they’re talking over. He brings‘em in, gives ’em out, and goes.”
Candy had sunk into a chair nearly wide enough to hold her. “Nobody here,” she gasped.
Barnes said, “Not when I came up either. They must be someplace else.”
Candy shook her head, fanning herself feebly with one hand. “Nobody. At all. Anywhere.”
The witch stared at her for a moment, then pressed her fingers to her temples.
When she let her hands fall to her sides again, Stubb asked, “Madame S.?”
“I do not know—it is difficult because you three are here too. Ghosts, yes. Perhaps someone also who is not a ghost, but much, much of the afterworld.”
Barnes objected, “Somebody told those people on the ground to send us up here.”
The witch nodded. “So they said, at least; but many have been telephoned by the dead. Who can say?”
“I can.” Candy stopped fanning herself and waved feebly at the other chairs, the table, and the globe.
Stubb said, “This isn’t all there is to it. It can’t be.”
“But it’s where they meet them,” Candy panted. “Who comes up here? Big shots. President—senators. They meet them here. So they’d think of meeting us—have somebody with a gun, like down below and in the plane. There’s nobody here, so there’s nobody here.”
Barnes objected, “Somebody has to fly this—this whatever it is.”
“They can fly themselves, if you want them to, with a computer or something.”
Stubb was peering through a doorway. “Not locked,” he said. “Little hall with lots of narrow doors.”
Barnes followed him as he opened one. The flare of a match showed a desk and chair, a map of Europe tacked to a wall of unpainted plywood. With both of them inside, there was barely room to turn around.
Barnes said, “When I was a kid, my dad took me with him when he went to see some lawyer. He had a chair like this.”
Stubb blew out the match, lit another, and picked up a letter from the desk. “Office of War Mobilization,” he said. “Ever hear of it?”
Barnes shook his head.
“Me neither. The date is June seventeenth, nineteen forty-three.”
“That’s crazy,” Barnes told him.
“I know.” Stubb blew out the match. “I’ve been telling myself that for the past couple hours.”
Candy looked in, filling the doorway and blotting out what little light spilled from the paneled room. “You guys find the bar yet?”
“Not yet,” Stubb told her.
“Let me know, okay? I’ve still got a headache. A couple shots would do me a world of good.”
From the end of the hall, the witch called, “I have found something. Two somethings. Come and see!”
The first was a stairwell, at the top of which one of the faint yellow lights still burned. The cramped steps wound on high risers through the ceiling to end before a door as narrow as the cubbyhole office’s and considerably lower. The second was a window about a foot across. The witch was staring through it as they arrived. She moved aside to let Stubb look.
He remained only a moment or two, whispered, “Jesus Christ,” and turned away. Then it was Barnes’s turn.
Without moon or stars, light streamed up from below. They flew, as it seemed, over an endless milky sea. Above them spread a vast dark that eclipsed the sky. Cowled engines hung on pylons suspended from that darkness like crowding stalactites.
Behind him, Barnes heard Candy say, “I’m not going up that. Forget it.”
He knew she was talking about the steps, but he did not turn around. He said, “This has been here almost fifty years. Flying,” and did not know he had spoken aloud until Stubb answered him.
“Look at those props.”
“I am,” Barnes whispered. “Most of them aren’t turning.”
Stubb seemed not to have heard him. “They refuel it. They have to. Refuel it the same way they brought us up. Or somebody does because they’re still taking orders from up here. You know about the jetstream?”
Barnes nodded, then realized Stubb was talking to Candy. “It blows west to east and makes it quicker to go from L.A. to New York than the other way, even in a jet. I guess it blows two or three hundred miles an hour. You could glide a hell of a long way in a two-hundred-mile-an-hour wind. If you had a few engines to help out when you needed them, maybe you could glide forever.”
Barnes said, “Radar—” and Candy, “Pilots—” almost together.
“This whole thing is wood. Didn’t you hear what the guy down on the ground said about the Spruce Goose? It wouldn’t give much more trace on radar than a flock of geese. About the pilots—I don’t know. Yeah, it seems like they’d see it every once in a while.”
The witch said, “The pilots of airplanes see many strange things. They have learned not to speak of what they see if they wish to remain pilots.”
“This isn’t a flying saucer,” Barnes objected.
“Who spoke of them? Let us call them unidentified flying objects. Some are lenticular, yes. Some are not. We do not know what they may be; that is what unidentified means.”
Barnes nodded and turned away, looking out the port again and half expecting that everything would be changed, as things change in a dream. Far below, tiny yet unmistakably huge, he saw their racing shadow spread-eagled on the clouds, a rippling cross of black.
“In the old sailing-ship days,” the witch continued, “it was said to bring evil fortune to see the sea serpent. Captains who saw it could not obtain another command. That was when the captains were so much nearer the water and watched the water and the sky always. Now they watch their instruments and are more fortunate.”
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Stubb announced, “but I’m going up these steps. That door must lead out into the wing, and I want to see it.”
They watched him climb the narrow stair, the toes of his shoes making a hollow, thumping sound on each. The door was so small that a man of average height would have had to duck to enter it. Stubb would not have had to, but he ducked anyway, ducked to be seen, Barnes thought. The little door swung closed behind him.
“Well?” asked the witch. “Shall we wait for him? Or explore?”
Candy said, “They must have had grub on here. There might be something left.”
�
��On the level above, I should think. Here they received their visitors, as we have seen. Here also were their desks and papers, for they might need something while they conversed, some fact or document. But there are two levels at least. Perhaps three. Above this they would eat and sleep, I suppose.”
“You mean I’ve got to climb those things?”
“No. You may stay here, if you like. Mr. Stubb will be so happy to find you awaiting him. Perhaps Ozzie and I will bring you the food you crave, and some whiskey too, if we remember to do it.”
“I’m not staying alone in this spooky place.”
“As you wish. Ozzie, please go first. These steps are so very steep, and I should not like to have you peeping up my dress.”
Something in her tone told Barnes she had known of the hole he had made in the wall of Free’s house—that she had known and had posed for him, dressing again or turning out her light when she did not want him to see more. He stared at her.
“If we were alone, it might be otherwise. Now go up.”
He shook his head and mounted the little stair, finding it more difficult in the oxygen-poor air than he would have thought possible and hearing the witch’s laughter in the click of her heels behind him.
A narrow landing held the door through which Stubb had gone and another, larger, door that had been hidden by the ceiling when they had stood on the level below.
Beyond it was a wide room with a score or more of chairs and sofas, a dry fountain, and basins and boxes filled with dead, dry earth. Overhead spread a dome of tinted panes that dyed the moonlight.
“Here they took their ease,” the witch said, “surrounded by precious things. They were very clever, these men, very cunning, though not wise.”
Barnes was examining one of the chairs. Its fabric had torn under the pressure of its stuffing. When he touched it, it tore again, rotten with age. “This place is in a lot worse shape than the other one,” he said. “I don’t see anything precious here.”
“They are gone,” the witch told him. “And the suns of many years have done the damage you see. But water played in that fountain once, streaming from the horn held by the undine. I shall not trouble to explain the symbolism of horns or undines to you now, but here, so far above the seas and lakes of Earth, water was a precious thing. Fools would have said, ‘We must drink it, use it to make breathable the air, and so we will hide it in tanks.’ These men said, ‘We will put it in a fountain for our pleasure. Then it will make breathable our air, and we may drink it when we choose.’ There were flowers here as well, and flowers too are precious things.” She laughed. “The visitors saw the gracious room, the little offices, and thought those here lived spartan lives. They knew that when the structure is so large, mere space costs very little. It is the load, not the emptiness, that brings down the airplane. Is it not so?”