Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  They took a taxi to Municipal Field in the thinning light, the sun not yet up, but the eastern sky glowing behind the last of the previous day’s clouds. It had taken four telephone calls and a good deal of pleading, but Henry’s manager had gone to bat for them, and the controller had grudgingly agreed to let them take off before sunrise, provided they didn’t require field lights, and would pay the overtime for the fuel boy. Alma had winced and agreed, and the manager — currying favor with Henry, Mitch guessed — offered to supervise getting the plane gassed and ready. They pulled up at the hangar, and the manager sent a mechanic to help load the baggage, while Mitch made his walk-around and Alma collected the latest weather reports. She came back shrugging, handed him the sheaf of flimsies, and Lewis came to look over his shoulder.

  “Not bad,” he said, and Mitch shrugged.

  “Could be worse.” They were both whistling in the dark, and knew it: the storms that had gone through Chicago the night before were still ahead of them, not building, but not diminishing any, either. It would be a rough ride all the way, even if they didn’t overtake the front. At least they’d gotten what passed for a decent night’s sleep on this trip. Mitch stretched a final time, and touched the sore place on the back of his head. It was a lot better this morning, and only hurt when he actually pressed on it, but he’d seen stars when he’d hit the wall, all right. He’d been a little worried there for a moment.

  Alma and the manager were talking about something — probably the flight plan, Mitch thought, but before he could join them, Alma had turned back toward the plane.

  “We’re fueled up and they’re ready,” she said. “And I think the controller wants us out of here as soon as possible.”

  Mitch nodded. “We’re just — there he is.”

  Jerry was limping toward them, a paper bag in his hand. “Breakfast,” he said, and hauled himself into the cabin.

  “Thanks,” Mitch said, and followed him aboard. He settled himself in the cockpit, and looked up in mild surprise as Lewis took the co-pilot’s seat.

  “Alma and Jerry are talking about what to do once we catch the thing,” Lewis said, and Mitch nodded.

  They ran through the last checklist, flipped the ignition and adjusted the choke until the big radials were humming nicely. The flagman was waiting for them, waved them onto the field ahead of a big Ford with Powers Air Transport stenciled on its tail. Lewis grinned.

  “Nice to have pull.”

  “Henry’s name counts for something,” Mitch said.

  The Terrier was sluggish with the supplemental tank, and took most of the length of the field before it rose reluctantly into the air. Mitch kept the throttles open for a long while, letting the power build, and finally leveled out just above the patchy cloud cover. He could see a heavier wall of clouds ahead, and hoped the winds would keep pushing it ahead of them. They’d be cutting it close, impossibly close, but if everything went right, they might just be able to catch the liner. He ran the numbers again in his head, calculating. Maybe, maybe if he pushed it, if everything went just right, they could make it without stopping…. If they could take the shortest route, if they decided not to worry where they crossed the Alleghenies, didn’t bother staying in range of emergency fields, if they didn’t hit headwinds: it was so close, just on the edge of impossible. He glanced out the window, seeing Lake Michigan beneath the wing, blue flashing in and out of the spotty clouds. He didn’t have to commit to anything until they were over Ohio, and that was a couple hours’ flying. He’d see how it went, and decide then.

  An hour and a half in the air, and he was pretty sure they weren’t going to make it without a stop. And if they stopped, they weren’t going to make the liner. The clouds had closed in, and he’d dropped down to 3000 feet to get under them, the Terrier bouncing and leaping in the unsteady air. He was pretty sure they were burning fuel faster than he’d planned, but they were running on the supplemental tank, and there was no gauge to check. He looked out the window again, looking for the grain silos outside of Fostoria. In the right-hand seat, Lewis looked up from the clipboard.

  “What about Canton? I’ve got a listing for McKinley Field.”

  Mitch considered. Land at Canton, top up the wing tanks without filling the supplement tank, that would save time — no, if they were going to do that, better to press on further, burn a bit more fuel. “What’s beyond that? Is there something at Altoona? Allentown?”

  Lewis reached for the Rand-McNally with its listings of roads and airfields. The Terrier rocked again, and Mitch tightened his grip on the controls. The weather was getting worse as they closed on the front, the clouds dropping lower ahead of them, heavy with rain.

  “Towanda Legion Airport,” Lewis announced, and grabbed for the clipboard as the Terrier dropped. “Full fuel service, grass field. North and west of Scranton.”

  “Ok,” Mitch said, and adjusted his grip on the controls.

  Half an hour more, and the rain began. Mitch lifted the Terrier, looking for clear air above the clouds, but they gained a thousand feet, and they were still in broken cloud, thunderheads towering to the east. Mitch swore under his breath, then louder as he fought the controls. There was a series of thumps from the cabin, one of Jerry’s books gotten loose, and a moment later Alma fought her way to the cockpit door.

  “How’s it looking?”

  “See for yourself,” Mitch answered.

  “Damn it to hell.” She clung to the doorframe as the Terrier lurched and fell off to the left. “It’s no good, is it?”

  “Cleveland,” Mitch said, grimly. “I’m putting us down at Cleveland.” He couldn’t risk taking his eyes off the controls, but he knew she heard the regret in his voice. “I’m sorry, Al.”

  The air was a little easier to the north, but it took most of his strength to muscle the Terrier down onto the grass. It was raining hard still as he taxied onto the verge, and he sat for a moment in silence after he’d shut down the engines. Lewis scrambled out of the other seat, back into the cabin to let down the steps, and a moment later Mitch saw him and Alma running across the grass toward the administration building, Lewis’s jacket held over their heads in lieu of an umbrella. It didn’t make any difference, Mitch thought. They weren’t going to make it in time — they’d have to catch another ship, figure out some other way to get to Paris, and then start the whole lousy process all over again. And in the meantime, Davenport, or the thing that rode him, it would have all the time in the world to do whatever it pleased. Jerry had talked about Jack the Ripper, the dry pedantic voice not quite able to quell the horror. Mitch had seen something like it once, behind the lines, a girl — not a nice girl, maybe, sharp and demanding, and expensive, too, but she hadn’t deserved to die like that, gutted like a fish in her little second-floor apartment, the sheets and mattress so soaked in blood that they’d thought for a moment they were red satin. And the girl, so carved up he hadn’t registered her as human at first, and then had thought it had been a bomb, artillery, even though it couldn’t have been, the rest of the room untouched, except for the blood. They’d caught the guy — he’d been eager to confess, to explain why he had to do it — and they’d tried and hanged him, but it wasn’t something Mitch could ever get out of his mind.

  If he hadn’t lost Davenport in Chicago — if he’d had the sense to think that it would use its powers, would try to distract them, they wouldn’t be in this mess. They could be on the train, almost to New York already, with plenty of time to get tickets and get on board without him seeing them. But, no, he’d fucked it up again, and people were going to pay for it. Just like they always did.

  “Mitch?” Jerry spoke from the cockpit door, balancing himself carefully. “Take a break, why don’t you?”

  Mitch sighed, untangling himself from the controls, and Jerry stepped back to give him room. “What now?”

  “We regroup,” Jerry said. “We refuel, we fly on to New York, we buy tickets on the next ship out. And who knows, maybe the Ile de France will have be
en delayed.”

  Mitch glared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing, and Jerry gave a shrug.

  “What else can we do?”

  Mitch shook his head, but he knew the other was right. “Yeah. I suppose you never know.”

  They were on the ground for almost two hours before they could get clearance to take off again, stuck behind the commercial flights that had been delayed by the same storms. At least the front had moved on, and weakened as it went; the air was rough, but the ceiling was higher, and they rode easily over the Alleghenies, and came down at last into Flushing Airport a little before three. There was tie-down space behind the middle hangar, and Lewis and Mitch secured the Terrier while Alma disappeared into the administration building. She came back shaking her head, squinting in the returning sunlight.

  “It’s gone. Sailed on time.”

  “Damn it,” Mitch said, and dug his toe into the grass.

  “I’m going to call Henry.” Alma’s voice wasn’t quite steady, and Lewis put out a hand, then let it drop as though he’d thought better of it. “I’ll let him know what happened, and then — then we’ll figure out what to do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alma disappeared into the hangar, Lewis at her heels, and Mitch reached for his cigarettes, and lit one as though it would help. Jerry took one, too, squinting against the smoke. He looked for a moment as though he was going to say something, but there was nothing to say, and instead he lowered himself awkwardly onto the plane’s steps.

  “You Ok?” Mitch asked, and Jerry nodded.

  There was still nothing to say. Mitch leaned back against the fuselage, the metal warming as the sun came out, finished his cigarette and ground it out on the wet grass. And then Alma was back, hurrying now, Lewis at her heels with an amazed grin on his face.

  “I talked to Henry,” Alma called. “We’re going on the Independence.”

  “What?” Mitch pulled himself upright, and Jerry looked up sharply.

  “He’s got space for us?”

  “Apparently. He was in a hurry, there must be a million things to do,” Alma said. “But he said if we were at the Fort Tilden air station by seven, he’d have two cabins for us.”

  “We’ll get there ahead of Davenport,” Jerry said. He smiled slowly. “We’ll maybe even have time to prepare something, some place to hold him, a good way to deal with this thing.”

  Lewis said, “It’s on the other side of Queens, they said, Fort Tilden, about an hour by taxi. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Damn,” Mitch said. He shook his head. “It’s nice to catch a break for a change.”

  Lewis nodded.

  “Do we know if there’s a weight limit?” Jerry asked. He was thinking of the books, Mitch guessed, and Alma shrugged.

  “Henry didn’t say.”

  “It’s a luxury liner,” Mitch said. “They must expect people to bring luggage.”

  “I can prioritize,” Jerry said, struggling to his feet.

  Alma ran both hands through her hair. If she was trying to tidy it, Mitch thought, she wasn’t succeeding. “All right,” she said. “Be at the hangar by seven. For the first flight of a luxury transatlantic airship. Oh, my God.” She shook her head. “I haven’t a thing to wear.”

  Jerry snickered. Lewis gave her a startled look, as though he’d never expected to hear such a comment cross her lips. And he probably hadn’t, Mitch thought. That wasn’t Alma’s style at all.

  “I’m serious,” Alma said. She looked at her watch. “My God. There’s just no time.”

  “You’ve got that blue dress,” Lewis said, carefully. “It’s very nice.”

  “It’s not nice enough,” Alma said. “You’re lucky, you can wear your suit the whole time —”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Mitch said, before they could start another quarrel. “There was this girl I used to know….” Easy Edie, they’d called her back home, before she’d run, first to Charlestown and then to Baltimore and finally New York City, her mother trying valiantly to put a good face on it, saying she was an actress…. It was easy not to think of how he’d found her, a perfect bottle-blonde Ziegfield girl, cynical and cheerful and frankly mercenary. “She was a, um, a dancer, in the Follies. She came from my home town, and when we were demobbed, I came home through New York and I looked her up. I spent a couple of weeks squiring her and her girlfriends around town, and I remember there was a shop here in Queens — there’s a good chance you might find something there.”

  “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.”

  They 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 he
r 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.