“Yes, Mister,” shouted the boy, barely audible over the clatter-splash of the carriage wheels over the rough streets and their coating of thick mud.
“What’s yer plan if she’s there?”
“I’ll remove her to Orbital Industries headquarters under cover of night, with as many men as I can manage to provide a safe journey. Once there, we’ll be protected by my father’s own private security. We’ll cable her father to let him know she’s well.”
“And then what?”
“Well. . .” Jonathan felt his ears grow hot even in the sweltering carriage cabin. “Then perhaps she and I will wed.”
“And ye think she’ll just turn over her secret formula to ye?”
“Yes, of course! Why wouldn’t she? We’re in love.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, lad, but I can’t help but wonder if that love might be a bit one-sided.”
“And what do you know about it? Isn’t a pirate’s idea of love something that comes at a price in a Lagrange cathouse?”
Phinneas raised his hands in amused supplication. “Easy, now. First of all, there be some women in Lagrange who could put any Earth woman to shame. At least there used to be before the Albatross flew away to join Willy Wright. Second of all, I’ve seen yer French lass when she weren’t actin’ all sweet and demure. Ye’d best believe me when I say she’s a devious one. She might play at lovin’ ye, but I wouldn’t put it past her to kick ye out the airlock if she finds a better man.”
“A better man than the one who went beyond the moon and back to rescue her?” Jonathan tried to smile, but it just wouldn’t come. He’d been feeling a bit of doubt in the back of his mind, like an out-of-tune oboe in an orchestra, ever since she’d called out Phinneas’s name at the farm before being hauled away by her kidnappers, and the pirate’s reassurances had only been temporary. And his explanation about the kiss they’d shared nagged at him too. If she’d thrown herself at him as a means to an end, could the same be said for what she’d done at the hotel back in Kansas City? He supposed he wouldn’t be able to settle his mind until he had her back in his arms again, and could ask her directly.
“It may be hard to believe, but there are men out there who are a wee bit older, wiser, and richer than ye.”
“Yes, and you were working for one of them, weren’t you?” Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “If Cecilie is not safe in the Tower, and we can prove she isn’t aboard the elevator car, that means MacPherson was a liar and your former employer becomes the prime suspect.”
“I’m no detective, but I’d wager that he’s still tryin’ to find out why his men aren’t back from the farm yet. No, I’m sure of it. Yer lady friend’s in the hands of those Arab bastards, wherever they might be.” The carriage slid to a halt, brakes squealing hard enough to dislodge Phinneas from his seat. “Bloody hell!”
Jonathan peered out the windows. He recognized the part of town they were in, but they were still a good mile or more from McKinley Tower. He grabbed the speaking tube once again. “Why have we stopped?”
“Can’t go any further, Mister. There’s a derry down in the road,” called the boy.
“Go around it.”
“There’s too many other carriages.”
Jonathan threw open the carriage door and leaned out to see. Carriages, both horse-drawn and steam-powered, were spread across the road in haphazard fashion, jammed together and facing in every direction. A huge cargo dirigible had come down, spread all the way across the road with its deflating bag draped across buildings on either side. The internal framework poked up through the fabric like tent poles, and the gondola was completely submerged beneath acres of the bag. Jonathan’s first instinct was to rush toward the crash to try to help the derry’s crew, who could very well be suffocating underneath the bag. But McKinley Tower rose up into the smog beyond, mocking him with its nearness.
The boy was standing on top of the driver’s bench, staring open-mouthed at the collapsing dirigible. Jonathan was about to order him to turn the carriage around, but when he glanced back, he realized they’d already been hemmed in by more traffic. Off to one side, two drivers were engaging in a rousing fistfight over a smashed fender and besmirched honor.
Jonathan stuck his head back inside the carriage. “We’re leaving. We’ll get the rest of the way on foot.”
“Bugger me.” Phinneas followed Jonathan out into the chaos of the street.
They ducked around a wagon, avoided the sudden kick of a spooked horse, and then encountered a cluster of four carriages crushed together with a crowd milling around it. Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He put his foot onto one fender and pulled himself up onto the driver’s bench, eliciting an angry shout from a sweating man in a stained homburg. Jonathan didn’t look back to see if Phinneas was keeping up or not, and ran across several carriage roofs, leaping across gaps between them like a Chinese acrobat.
“Slow down, damn ye, Orbital. I’m no spring chicken,” called Phinneas from behind him.
Jonathan slid down the rear slope of a taxicab and slipped into a cobblestone alleyway. He shoved his way through the crowd gathered at the alley’s mouth and then was in the clear with only stacks of crates and barrels and stray cats to impede his progress.
A thick forearm appeared out of nowhere from a doorway and caught Jonathan full in the face.
He slipped on wet cobblestones and staggered into some barrels, sending squalling cats in all directions. “Y’all look awful rich there, mister,” said the man who’d clotheslined him, displaying an ugly Bowie knife. “Lessee the color of yore money.”
The crowd at the alley mouth melted away from Phinneas, who had the shotgun out from under his coat and raised up to his cheek.
“Leave,” he said to the would-be mugger.
The chubby man dropped his Bowie knife and ran up the alley, away from the angry black man with the big gun.
Phinneas staggered over to Jonathan and offered him a hand up. Jonathan accepted it, dismayed at the blood dripping from his nose. He picked up the Bowie knife. “Shame that such a noble weapon had to fall into the hands of a louse like him. Do you want it? It’s an authentic Texas heirloom.”
Phinneas gasped for air. “Orbital, ye goddamned jackrabbit. If ye want my support on this rescue, ye’d best not go harin’ off like that again. Next time, I might not catch up so quick.”
Jonathan wiped his nose. “Sorry. I’m just in a hurry.”
“I see that.” Phinneas accepted the knife from Jonathan’s outstretched hand. “This pigsticker makes up for it. Now get yer head back on square. The bloody elevator’s already on its way up. Killin’ yerself gettin’ to the Tower’s won’t do us any good.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Jonathan. “Nevertheless, let’s hurry. If they’re not aboard the elevator, the quicker we discover that, the less of a head start they have upon us.”
Phinneas nodded. “Lead on, lad.”
By the time they arrived at McKinley Tower, both men’s trousers were damp and mud-stained up to the knees from having to cross a washed-out road. The stench of the mud seemed like it might cling even past repeated washings. Jonathan decided it would be simpler just to dispose of their clothing altogether and replace it at their earliest opportunity. Shopping would have to wait, though, because he had his love to rescue and a little bit of filth wasn’t going to keep him from her. Nor would the doubt that tickled in the back of his mind.
He shoved through the rotating brass-and-glass-pane door into the tower, Phinneas on his heels, and strode across the lobby toward the ticketing booth.
“Mister Orbital?” called one of the red-jacketed porters. “My, you’re a mess.”
Jonathan held up his hand to the man and banged his fist on the closed window.
“Open up!”
“We’re closed,” said a voice from behind the shutters. “Ticket sales for the next car begin Tuesday morning.”
Jonathan felt his entire body grow hot, as if he’d just walked into a burning building.
By God, he would open that window! He grabbed one of the brass-and-mahogany stanchions that held the clipped velvet rope.
“What are ye doin’, boy?” came Phinneas’ soft voice from behind him, but Jonathan paid the man no heed. He swung the post against the wooden shutters, which splintered apart in a satisfying crunch.
“What the hell are you—Mister Orbital?” The ticket clerk’s hands hung at his sides, clearly unsure of what to do.
“Jonathan,” said Phinneas.
He whirled around. “Either do something to help or stay the hell out of my way, Greaves.”
Phinneas raised his hands. “Suit yerself. Better you throw yer tantrum here than someplace with vacuum on the other side.” He strolled away through the lobby.
Jonathan turned back to the startled clerk. “Did you work the entire morning? Did you account for all tickets sold upon the car that just departed today?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Were there any Arabs aboard it?”
“Arabs, sir?”
“Yes, curse you, Arabs! Goddamn Arabs with scarves around their heads. They would have been wearing suits, and might have had a young lady with them a prisoner.”
The man visibly relaxed. “Yes, some men of that description did board, though I don’t recall a female passenger. Or at least one who stood out among the others.”
Jonathan wished he’d managed to keep one of the daguerreotypes of Cecilie so he could show the clerk. “The young lady, she would have been French. Raven-black curls. Gorgeous.”
The ticket clerk only shrugged and stared back, fear and uncertainty glazing his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Dammit!” Jonathan spun on his heel and realized Phinneas was standing a few yards away, clearly unwilling to approach closer with Jonathan’s temper raging. “I think we missed them. We better start searching train and air stations. We’ll never find them now.” His eyes fell upon one of the shoeshine men stood beside Phinneas, hat in his hand. “Who’s this?”
“Mister Roberts has something to say, if ye can stop thunderin’ about here like a boiler about to blow.” Phinneas didn’t raise a finger to scold Jonathan, but he may as well have. The few employees in the lobby were all staring open-mouthed at Jonathan, and the only sound that permeated the air was the nearly subsonic thrum of the reactor that drove the cable winch for the elevator.
Jonathan took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Please, tell me what you have to share, Mister Roberts.”
The shoeshine man glanced at Phinneas, who nodded and smiled. He looked back at Jonathan. “I seen some foreign fellers like you described. They was talkin’ in a language I didn’t understand, and they had a young lady with ‘em. One of ‘em bought tickets for the rest, and then he done left the Tower. The rest of ‘em, they got onto the elevator. Is that what y’all wanted to know, Mister Orbital?”
Jonathan could have kissed the man. Instead, he seized the shoeshiner’s hand and pumped it up and down in gratitude. “That’s exactly what I wanted to know, Mister Roberts.” He pressed twenty dollars into the surprised man’s palm and turned to Phinneas. “Let’s see if we can find Jefferson and then figure out our next move.”
“Your next move should be explaining to me why you’re tearing up my lobby . . . son,” said a familiar, gravelly voice.
Jonathan’s breath caught as he turned around to face the force of nature that was his father, Victor Orbital. He was a giant of a man, both in physical stature and presence. His shoulders were twice as broad as Jonathan’s from a lifetime of hard labor, and his belly was of prodigious girth from a lifetime of eating well. His silver hair needed the attention of a barber, as it usually did, and his jawline skirted the line between stubble and a beard, which meant he’d been working hard on some project. His trusty filtered cigarette jutted from the corner of his mouth, and a jovial grin turned up one corner of his mouth. Jonathan wondered if his father had worried at all about him, given that his only son had been on board his train when it was raided by pirates, but he doubted it. The worrying and doting had been his mother’s job, and she’d passed away five years ago. Victor didn’t take up that particular mantle in her stead, instead maintaining his usual friendly detachment, treating Jonathan more like a trusted colleague than a son. Not that Jonathan complained too much about that, especially as he’d needed the freedom and the resources to embark on this insane journey, but he wondered if he had now reached the limit of his father’s generosity in such matters.
He straightened up and mustered a smile. “Hello, Father. I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”
“Yes, well, you’ve been quite busy, haven’t you? You’d better come back to my office and tell me what all’s been going on.”
“Yes, sir.”
Victor looked Phinneas up and down, noting the shotgun held casually beneath the jacket, the ticking of his heart machine, and the spacer’s build. “You’d best come along as well, Mister.”
“Captain,” said Phinneas. “Phinneas Greaves, sir.”
“Greaves. I’m sure I’ve heard that name before somewhere.” Victor’s smile suggested to Jonathan that his father knew exactly who Phinneas Greaves was, but he made no move to summon security to haul away the pirate responsible for causing the CR so much damage. The man was too shrewd for that. He would sooner hear Phinneas out and see if he could benefit from him in some way first, and then send him to the dogs if need be.
They went back to Victor’s office and Jonathan explained as quickly as he dared what was going on and why it was so imperative that they got up to Roosevelt Station as soon as the elevator returned. “Miss Renault’s life is surely at stake,” said Jonathan. “And the secret of petroleum refining technology has huge implications.”
“Indeed,” said Victor, lighting another cigarette from the stub of his first. “And could be worth millions, too.” He took a long drag and blew the smoke toward a large map of southern Texas upon the wall. “We’ve got quite a bit of petroleum under our land out here.”
“And quite a lot of farmers who can’t grow enough food, not to mention coal smoke choking folks half to death. Oil could be the solution for these problems and many others,” said Phinneas. “Even a spacer like me can see there’s a lot of folks scratchin’ in the dirt down here.”
Victor turned to him. “So what’s your angle on this then, pirate? Are you and my son working as a team now?”
To Jonathan’s astonishment, Phinneas squirmed a little under the older man’s gaze. “In a manner of speakin’. I was originally charged to bring the French lass to a businessman who hired me, but that deal went south once I reached the Sargasso. I want to help yer boy recover Miss Renault in order to help pay a debt I owe to someone I care for.”
“Money?”
“Nay. Me life.”
Victor nodded. “That seems honorable. Now I have a deal for you. See to it my son doesn’t get himself killed, and I’ll consider the debt you owe me for the destruction you caused on my train canceled and there will be no trouble from the authorities. If anything happens to him, I will hold you directly responsible and bring the full weight of my resources down on your head. Does that seem fair to you?”
Phinneas grimaced a little, and Jonathan wanted to balk at being treated like a childish pawn, but now wasn’t the time to anger the man who was essentially financing this operation. “Yes, sir, that’d be plenty fair.”
“Good. So you’re in a hurry to get up to Roosevelt, eh? What if I told you, Jonathan, that I had a way to get you there not in hours, but in minutes?”
“I don’t understand,” said Jonathan. “Even with a middleman and a Fulton already waiting in orbit, it would still take at least four hours to reach Roosevelt that way.”
“Bloody hell,” said Phinneas. “Ye’ve got a rocket!”
“Come with me.” Victor led the men out of the tower altogether to a waiting car. “To the Guggenheim facility please, Clarence,” he told the driver. “I haven’t told you about this project, because, well, it�
�s rather delicate. Since the War, the Army has been worried about how to deliver their atomic weapons to enemy targets. The problem with dirigibles is that they’re slow and big. Any gunner worth his salt can hit one.” Victor lit a fresh cigarette. “Somebody in the Army thought that maybe firing rockets from space at ground-based targets might be the best solution. And since I’m more or less the foremost authority on space-based construction, they contacted me.”
“But, Father, you don’t know anything about rockets,” said Jonathan.
“I’m getting to that. No, I don’t know rockets, but I do know people, and I sent a letter to Konstantin Tsiolkovsky in Moscow and offered him a modern launch and construction facility along with a hand-picked crew and a sizable retainer. Now he’s building rockets for us, and someday we’ll be able to give our customers the choice of speed or comfort to reach orbit.”
They arrived shortly at a broad field with a high chain-link fence around it. Unlike most airports, the entire surface was covered with cement, with not so much as a stand of trees to break up the miserable gray plain. The security guards at the gate waved them on through and the driver took them to a cluster of buildings around an impressive tower. As they approached closer, Jonathan realized the tower was a gantry supporting a one-hundred-foot-tall brilliant white needle with bronze heat shielding and the Orbital logo prominently painted along one side.
“It really is a rocket,” said Jonathan. “I know Tsiolkovsky was building them, but nothing in scale like this.”
“Bloody hell,” said Phinneas, also pressing his nose against the car’s glass. “Don’t tell me that bugger’s solid fuel.”
Victor laughed. “No, Captain. This rocket runs on a mixture of liquid oxygen and kerosene. It’ll provide you all the thrust you need to reach orbit. Eight minutes, Konstantin tells me.”
“Great Willy Wright’s Ghost!” Phinneas’ skin looked ashen from what Jonathan presumed was fear.
“We’re going to fly in that thing? But I don’t know the first thing about rockets.”
“Never fear, Jonathan. You don’t need to. The rocket does all the work to get you into space. From there, the crew module runs on compressed carbon dioxide gas. I presume, Captain Greaves, that you’re able enough to fly it to Roosevelt?”
The Oilman's Daughter Page 23