Mitch leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "My ancestors came to this country two hundred years ago because they were religious dissenters thrown out of every decent country in Europe. Well, except for the ones who were transported because they were rebels, traitors and outlaws. I reckon I ain't got a leg to stand on as far as who's worthy to get in, and in my part of the state they valued hospitality and charity to those in need. Those are my American values, Mr. Pelley. I don't know what they taught where you grew up. Somewhere in New England, I'd guess from your accent."
The little smile vanished. "There are two Americas," Pelley said. "And right now they exist at the same time, at war with each other. But one or the other is going to win, Major Sorley." He glanced up at the enormous, tacky statues. "Hollywood. Or Asheville. New York or Colorado Springs. Which is the real America? Which one is the future? Which one is going to be ground down into the dust until its culture and way of life become extinct? You'd better decide which one you belong to. You can't keep two dogs from a fight when they both want to tangle."
"I don't reckon that has to be," Mitch said.
Pelley laughed. "Don't you? The whole world is squaring off, left against right, communists against socialists, Zionists against atheists. You think you're not going to have to choose? Men against women, white men against brown…."
Mitch put his wine glass down on the table. "I think we can help each other."
"You believe that Progressive twaddle about the white man's burden?" Pelley snorted.
"I believe in the United States of America as a government of the people, by the people, for the people," Mitch quoted. "Whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed, established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes." His accent was always stronger when he was angry, though his tone didn't change. "Those are my oaths, Mr. Pelley. And I stand by them. Now good day to you, sir."
Pelley took a step back. "I expect you'll regret that," he said mildly.
"Then I will," Mitch said. He could see Henry approaching across the dining room. "Henry, I hope everything's ok at home?"
"Fine," Henry said shortly, sitting down as Pelley beat a hasty retreat. "Just fine. Now Mitch, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."
"Hopefully not the same thing as your friend Pelley," Mitch said sharply.
"He's not my friend," Henry said, frowning.
"Isn't he in your Lodge?"
"Not my Lodge," Henry said. "He has his own group, working from teachings of the Ascended Masters. He keeps trying to get me to introduce him to people. Frankly he's been a pain in the ass since that near-death experience he had a few years ago. He's decided Jesus told him that he had to keep Stalin from taking over the world."
"I'm not big on the guy either," Mitch said.
"Yes, but you don't believe Jesus told you to fight him," Henry pointed out.
"Jesus and I don't chat that much." Mitch grinned. "I think I'm too far down the chain of command. 'Jesus, buddy….' I think you ought to at least call an angel 'sir', much less the boss himself."
"You can call him Emmanuel or Adonai all you want," Henry snapped. "That's the way your Lodge does it."
"As long as you call him for dinner."
Henry burst out laughing. "Don't let Jerry Ballard hear you say that!"
"Well, you know Jerry," Mitch said. "Why use one word when twenty will do?"
"Ah, Jerry's a good guy," Henry said. "You know I like him."
"I do," Mitch said.
"But there was something I wanted to talk to you about, Mitch." Henry's face sobered. "Let me start by saying I'd offer the same thing to Lewis but I know he'd never take it, and I understand that. He's Alma's husband, and of course she comes first with him. That's as it ought to be."
"You're asking me to marry you?" Mitch quipped.
Henry snorted. "No, you scrub! I'm offering you a job. I'd like you to come work for me as my number one test pilot. You'd be the top of the totem pole, my go-to guy on the new generation of Terriers and everything else coming along. You'd have significant supervisory leeway. You could do things your way, have the first dibs on every hot new plane. And I'm offering you eight thousand dollars a year."
"Eight thousand?" Mitch blinked. That was more than three times what Jerry had made as a high school teacher, as much money as Gilchrist Aviation took in per year all total, and that to pay the salary of four people and Joey Patterson part time, plus all the day-to-day expenses of keeping the planes in the air. He could afford to keep his share of Gilchrist on a salary like that, pay for another pilot to take his runs — hell, he could put real money into the business for a change.
"Eight thousand," Henry said. "Even in LA that's a lot of money. But you're worth it. Not just for the flying, but for the PR. But I know what you're worth in the air."
"I'd have to live in LA," Mitch said. LA, with its night clubs and speakeasies, its hot jazz and its top of the line machine shops, its beautiful weather all year and girls walking around wearing practically nothing. Movie stars and the Hollywood Hills, Henry's connections and Henry's Lodge and Henry's Legion post.
"Some people like LA," Henry said. "Lots of things going for it. Don't you think it's time to step on up? The number one test pilot for Republic…." He let his voice trail off.
Mitch took a deep breath. "I'll have to think about it, Henry."
"Take your time," Henry said. "No need to make a decision before the first of the year. Just take the holidays to think it over and let me know." He looked around the opulent dining room. "Colorado Springs is a nice little town. But it's a place people come from, not a place they go. This is where it's happening, Mitch."
"I appreciate it, Henry." Mitch picked up his glass again. "I'll think it over. Serious thought."
"Ok." Henry smiled. "That's fair. Now what do you suppose happened to Lewis?"
The flags were flying outside the doorway of New York's Harvard Club to honor Armistice Day, the stars and stripes to the left of the door, the scarlet banner with its plain white H to the right, the fabric vivid against the faded brick and gray stone of the faux Georgian facade. The lights were warm behind the long windows on the second floor, bright in the gathering dusk. Iskinder Yonas Negasi paid off his driver and made his way carefully across the sidewalk, avoiding the people hurrying away from work. The doorman saw him coming, hesitated for an instant, assessing the sober correct suit and the poppy in the buttonhole, weighing that against brown skin and African features, then recognized him and swung the door wide.
"Ras Iskinder." He touched his hat, and Iskinder nodded.
"Thank you, George." He left his hat and coat with the neatly-dressed coatcheck girl, careful not to notice her excellent legs, and made his way into the hall. He was staying at the Astoria this trip, as befitted his current role as unofficial representative of various important persons, but he had been a member of the Club for twenty years and still preferred its comforts. It was one of the few places he could entertain guests without fear of awkwardness.
Jerry Ballard was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, the evening paper discarded on the table at his elbow, and Iskinder couldn't repress a smile. It was good to see his old roommate — especially good to see him here, in New York, with a job in his proper field. The war had cost him too much, his leg and his dearest friend; it was a relief to see him almost happy again.
"Jerry! So good to see you."
"Iskinder." Jerry struggled to his feet, holding out his hand. And that was Jerry, too, so careful of propriety, and Iskinder gathered him into an exuberant embrace. For a second, Jerry's shoulders were stiff, and then he relaxed, returning the embrace with fervor. "How was the trip down?"
"Uneventful." It had been pleasant enough, first class from Springfield; a brief delay at New Haven, but nothing worth mentioning.
"And Mikael?"
As always when
his son was mentioned, Iskinder felt a surge of pride mixed with dread. He'd brought Mikael to the States in August to see him settled into his first year at Phillips Exeter, four years of boarding school that should ease his entrance to Harvard, and from Harvard to the wider world. He wanted his son to have all the education he himself had had, and an elite school in America was safer by far than tutors at home, especially for an only child. And his sister Miriam was right, he should think of a second marriage, but after Tenagne — He put that familiar grief aside, concentrating on the question. "He seems to be settling in."
"What are his roommates like?" Jerry asked.
Iskinder smirked. It was an old joke between them. Jerry Ballard, scholarship boy from St. Vincent's Male Orphan Asylum, had been assigned to share his freshman room because Jerry could hardly object to rooming with anyone, never mind an African — and Iskinder Yonas Negasi, whose father had insisted that his son should be treated like any other student, could hardly object to sharing a room with a scholarship boy. "One is a Persian prince and the other is a Vanderbilt."
"A much better class of roommate," Jerry said solemnly.
Iskinder chuckled. "Join me for a drink? Our table's at seven."
Jerry nodded, collecting his cane, and let himself be steered toward the elevator. "How does Mikael like this new system Exeter's adopted? I hear good and bad about it."
"Mikael likes it, but he's never been afraid to speak up. I don't know how I would have done — we were raised on the principle that children might occasionally be seen, but never heard."
Jerry smiled at that, and Iskinder claimed a corner table, pretending not to notice how long it took Jerry to settle himself. The white-jacketed waiter appeared at once — the usual, Ras Iskinder? And you, sir? — and returned in short order with their drinks in crystal tumblers. Iskinder took a careful sip of his cocktail, and nodded approval of the whiskey.
"I'm amazed that this is permitted."
"Technically, assuming that none of the liquor was purchased after 1920, it's not illegal to serve it in a private club," Jerry answered. He took a long swallow of his own drink. "And if it's not itemized on the tab, you can't prove they're selling it. Mind you, I'm sure the membership pays off all the relevant people, so I doubt it matters."
"True enough." Iskinder lifted his glass, suddenly serious. "Absent friends."
A shadow crossed Jerry's face, and he nodded. "Absent friends."
They touched glasses and drank, and Jerry shook his head. "Fourteen years."
"It doesn't seem that long." He hadn't actually been supposed to volunteer, no matter how much he wanted to follow his classmates' example: Ethiopia was neutral, or leaned to the Central Powers, not the Allies. And he'd been newly married, Tenagne just pregnant with their child. Perhaps if he'd stayed with her, not gone to war… But at the time it had seemed more important to prove that he could and would fight for his ideals, and he'd signed up along with the rest of them. And he had gained the Lodge, and those friendships, which he wouldn't trade for anything.
"Long enough," Jerry said. "How many poppies do you see here?"
"People have enough to worry about these days without dwelling on the past," Iskinder answered. And that was undeniably true, with unemployment claiming one man in five — the year before, Jerry had been teaching high school in Colorado, making less in a year than Iskinder had just spent on his son's tuition. If it hadn't been for that mad race, who knew if Jerry could have afforded to take this job? "Did you know that the Great Passenger Derby made the papers in Cairo?"
As he'd hoped, Jerry's expression lightened again. "No, really?"
"Indeed, it's true."
"Why in the world?"
"Maybe because it offered a chance to bet," Iskinder said, with a grin of his own. "But the papers did in fact post the results every day. It was exciting to follow."
"A little too exciting to be in," Jerry said. There was a note in his voice that Iskinder recognized, and he wasn't surprised when Jerry turned the subject. "What brings you to New York?"
"Well, first of all I want to be sure Mikael is going to be all right," Iskinder said, "but I don't want to hover. That would do him no favors. And I'd like to see him over the Christmas holidays. And in the meantime —" He lowered his voice in spite of himself. "Given our troubles with Italy, certain persons in the government have asked me to arrange the sale of a handful of artifacts, and possibly negotiate the loan of a few others."
"Loan?" Jerry looked over the top of his glasses.
"We'd like to stash them in a nice safe American museum for safe-keeping," Iskinder answered. "Only we'd like to get them back when things are settled."
"That's always the trick, isn't it?" Jerry said. "Look, I might know some people, depending on the artifact."
"That's one of the reasons I wanted to look you up," Iskinder said. "I trust your recommendations more than many." He hesitated, wondering if he could get away with offering a broker's fee, but decided that it was too early to try.
"Give me the details," Jerry said, "and I'll be glad to help." He shook his head. "You're not going to get the price you might have five years ago, I'll tell you that for free. Too many people are selling off their collections right now."
"The Depression?"
"And politics." Jerry's mouth tightened for an instant. "I don't remember how much I wrote you about this job, but basically I've been asked to put a value on Lothar Rosenthal's Ptolemaic collection."
"He's selling?" Iskinder began, and then shook his head. "To get out of Germany."
"Yeah." Jerry turned his glass in his hands, not meeting Iskinder's eyes. "The Met is interested, but not at the price asked. They've hired me to give an independent valuation."
Which would be expected to shade in favor of the Met, Iskinder thought, assuming Jerry wanted more jobs like this. And Jerry needed work. But there was nothing he could say to that, not now, not yet, and he raised a hand to signal the waiter for another round. "Which is why I very much want to talk to someone I trust," he said, and hoped it was the right answer.
It was good to be home, after the days in Los Angeles — nice to have the money in the bank, it wasn't that Lewis regretted that for an instant, but it was good to be back in Colorado Springs where the Legion met in Bob Slackmeyer's old barn and the only bar was somebody's hip flask. Where Alma was. Dinner was over and the washing up was done, and he put the last plates into the cabinet without looking toward the door. Alma and Mitch were listening to the news in the living room, the radio a comforting crackle too low for Lewis to make out the words.
Stasi gave him a little shrug and draped the dishcloth over the rack. "Ready?"
"Ready," Lewis said grimly. It had been his idea to have a teacher. He wanted to learn, and while Stasi might not be a very conventional teacher, there was no denying that she was good at what she did. Nor was there any denying that her clairvoyant talents were far closer to his than the talents of any of the others. Ostensibly it was one of the reasons Alma had hired her — she could teach Lewis. And yet he approached some of her lessons with deep-seated trepidation. Some of the things she did were things he'd been told as a child were of the devil, and even though he believed Alma when she said that it was the intent, not the tool, that made magic evil, he still found his palms sweating at the idea of using Stasi's tarot cards.
He followed her into the dining room anyway, flipping on the electric lights. Stasi sat down at the little-used table. They usually ate in the kitchen. She got the leather box off the sideboard, putting it squarely before her on the polished wood. "You don't have to do this," she said.
Lewis took his seat. "Yes, I do," he said. "I have to learn how to use my own gifts. I nearly got us all killed last spring because I couldn't understand my own mind. I kept seeing sailing ships and foul winds when we were crossing the Gulf of Mexico, and I couldn't figure it out. I didn't see until it was almost too late that what I was trying to tell myself was that we had a bad headwind and we were going
to run out of fuel fighting it. Because I didn't understand the symbols in my own mind."
Stasi made no move to open the box. "But you're scared of this."
Lewis sighed. "I guess I don't know what's going to come through them."
Her eyes were kind. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing is going to come through them. Nothing but you. They're not some kind of window into another dimension or voice for a demon. They're just a tool. They're a way of focusing your own abilities, just like using a screwdriver to put a screw in rather than turning it with your fingers."
"I don't understand."
Stasi took a deep breath, as though she were searching for the words. "Look, you were saying just now that you knew something was wrong when we were flying across the Gulf, but you couldn't understand the language your subconscious was using to tell you. The cards are a way of translating your feelings, your hunches, into a language you can read. That's all they are. There are no other entities involved, no demons or angels either. It's just a way of taking what's in your head and putting it down in front of you in a language that's easy to interpret."
"I thought you could tell the future," Lewis said.
"To a certain extent," Stasi said. She caressed the box almost lovingly. "True prophecy is rare, and 99% of the time you don't need it. What you need to know are the results of things that are already in motion, and for that plain old clairvoyance is as good or better than real prophecy. How would you find out whether it's going to snow tomorrow or not?"
Lewis blinked. "Um." He looked at the box. "Well, I wouldn't use those. I'd look at the wire from Salt Lake and see what was going on there and whether the pressure was stable or dropping there."
"Why?"
"Because most snow storms move in from the northwest," Lewis said. He couldn't quite see where this was going. "It's the prevailing weather pattern. Salt Lake usually gets snow before we do, something like ten to twenty four hours ahead. If they've got weather moving in or pressure dropping, we're probably going to get it later today or tomorrow."
"Because it's the pattern," Stasi said. "And that's predictable."
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 70