Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  He pushed the Frontiersman's nose down, leveled out again at a thousand feet, the snow unreeling pristine beneath him. Rayburn was a good pilot. Must have been a mechanical problem, Lewis thought. There was nothing about the weather that would bring Rayburn down.

  Mitch leaned close to shout over the noise of the engine. "We're in the flats now."

  "Ought to be easier to see if they're down," Lewis shouted back, and checked his heading again.

  There was nothing, though, just the line of the road and, once, the headlights of a truck, looking almost dirty against the reflected moonlight. Probably a bootlegger, Lewis thought, or a rustler, but that wasn't their problem. His hands were icy in spite of his fur-lined gloves; the cabin heater was on full blast, but it didn't seem to be doing much good.

  There were lights ahead at last, the outskirts of Pueblo, and Mitch reached across for the microphone, reporting that they'd finished their first leg and were turning back. Lewis banked west, following State 501 toward Florence, and Mitch shifted so that he could see out the opposite window.

  "I wish we had some coffee," Lewis called, after a while, and Mitch nodded.

  "Yeah."

  This was not the time of year to have something break, to have to put down even on the relatively flat land between Pueblo and Florence. At least it wasn't snowing, wasn't windy, but the skies were clear enough that the cold would be bitter. Still, if it was a mechanical, there was a decent chance Rayburn could have put it down in one piece, and then they'd have shelter, and the chance to build a fire. Rayburn would definitely do that, both to keep warm and to give the search teams a beacon to follow. He knew they'd be looking for him.

  The Florence beacon flashed on the horizon, and Lewis adjusted his heading, turning away from the road to follow the more direct route. There were lights on in the house beside the hangars, and he started to reach for the radio, but Mitch tapped his shoulder again.

  "No radio there. Buzz the tower, they'll call us in to Denver."

  Lewis nodded and circled the field, waggling his wings. A door opened, spilling light, and he saw a small well-bundled figure come down the front steps, waving acknowledgement.

  "Denver, this is Gilchrist," Mitch said behind him. "We're at Florence and starting back."

  Lewis dipped his wings again, turning onto a northeasterly heading, and for a moment Samson's voice cut through the static.

  "Roger that, Gilchrist."

  This was the tricky leg of the pattern, heading back up the slopes of the mountains. The ground was heavily forested, a bad place to try to set down — though there were clearings, Lewis reminded himself, clearings and the occasional clear-cut area where one of the mines had set up its ore-processing machinery. The snow would provide a little protection from the stumps and boulders. Rayburn might be all right after all.

  He eased the Frontiersman down another hundred feet, peering ahead himself to see if he could spot any breaks in the snow cover. The moon was dropping toward the horizon; once it was down, there wouldn't be much point in looking until daylight. He shivered again, in spite of the heavy flight suit and the layers of shirt and sweater and long johns under it. Not a nice night to be down on a mountain somewhere —

  A voice crackled abruptly in his earphones, something like found, and he glanced sideways to see Mitch pressing the phones tight to his head.

  "Say again?" That was Denver, and Lewis breathed a silent prayer.

  "— Sighted — dropped flares — all ok —"

  "Confirmed," Denver said. "All right, everybody, we've got a visual and it sounds like nobody's hurt. Eagle, stay on station as long as you can. Everybody else, you can go home." There was a pause. "Nice work, boys."

  Lewis sighed, feeling his muscles unknot. That was better than he'd been expecting, better than he'd had a right to expect. But Rayburn was good. If anyone could muscle a plane down into a clearing, it would be him.

  Mitch tapped his should again. "Good news."

  Lewis nodded. "Yeah." He tipped the Frontiersman into an easy turn, lining up on the heading that would bring them home. "I wonder what happened?"

  "Weird night for a wreck," Mitch agreed. "Well, I imagine we'll hear all about it in the morning."

  "Yeah," Lewis said again. They still had plenty of fuel, and he opened the throttle just a little. "Better get us home."

  Chapter Two

  Colorado Springs,

  November 17, 1932

  "I still don't understand why the ballerina just went to the train station like that," Lewis said. This had been supposed to be a treat, a holiday after the excitement of the crash and getting Rayburn and his men down out of the mountains, but somehow it wasn't working out the way he'd planned. His breath was a cloud in the frosty air, and he twisted his scarf around his neck with his free hand. It was cold but not snowing yet, and the sidewalk glittered with black ice in the lights from the movie theater marquee.

  "She didn't know he was dead, darling," Stasi said from behind him. "Nobody told her because they didn't want a horrible scene. Of course they'll get one anyway. It's not as though she won't find out when he's not waiting at the train station, but we won't have to watch it."

  "Maybe they won't tell her," Mitch said. It was cold enough that he actually had his overcoat fastened, his hat pulled low over his eyes. "They'll just let her think he didn't show up because he was insincere. He never meant to come with her. Jewel thieves are like that."

  "Are they?" Stasi asked lightly. "I suppose they are."

  "I think it's terribly sad," Alma said, and Lewis was startled to hear a catch in her voice. Her eyes looked suspiciously red, like she'd been crying in the movies. Which wasn't like Alma at all.

  "I guess?" Lewis said. These women's movies full of love affairs and big emotions didn't really appeal to him. He'd been thinking about the crash through most of Grand Hotel, even if everyone did say it was going to win an Oscar. He felt bad for Rayburn, whose plane was still stuck on the mountainside because he didn't have the men to spare from his regular routes, and everyone was confused about why it had happened. Clear skies, calm air, and all of a sudden there was a zap and all the instruments went out: it didn't make sense, and Rayburn was being pretty close-mouthed about the job he'd been on. And of course some of the old boys at the Legion were talking about ghosts and haunts, but presumably that could be discounted — surely. Alma was scowling, and he dragged his attention back to the conversation.

  "It is terribly sad," Alma said. "Here she thinks the man she loves is insincere, and instead he's lying dead among a bunch of strangers who don't care what happens to him, and meanwhile everyone she trusts is lying to her. I think it's horrible!"

  Lewis tucked her arm into his. "Are you ok?"

  "I just think it's sad," Alma said. She blinked furiously. "And I can, so I will. There's no need to be heartless about other people's pain."

  "She's not a real person," Lewis said confusedly.

  "It was sad," Mitch said. They stopped beside Alma's pickup truck. "I think he should have gone with her and married her and fired that creepy nurse. But no. He had to steal one more thing first. He couldn't get out of the game."

  "Well, he was going to go with her!" Stasi said hotly. "It just didn't work out."

  "Because he got caught in the middle of a burglary and bludgeoned to death," Mitch said. "Which he might have seen coming."

  "Nonsense, darling. Why would he have seen it coming? He'd done it hundreds of times before."

  "If you play too long, sooner or later you lose," Mitch said.

  Lewis looked at Alma, who was sniffling conspicuously. "It's just a movie," he said.

  "Can you imagine anything worse than not to be with the man you love when he's dying?" Alma demanded.

  "Um," Lewis said. He felt like he was out in the middle of a frozen pond suddenly with no idea how he got there.

  "He meant to go with her," Stasi said, stalking off along the street toward the Torpedo parked four cars ahead.

  "
Well, meant to isn't the same as did," Mitch said, following after with the keys. "If he'd just left well enough alone, she had enough money."

  "There's no such thing as enough money, darling." Stasi's back was straight as she waited for him to open the door, one foot tapping impatiently. "Rockefeller doesn't have enough money."

  "Nor any other feller," Mitch snapped.

  "I can't believe you're so callous about it," Alma said as she went around to get in the truck.

  "I'm sorry this guy in a movie died," Lewis said.

  "You weren't even paying attention," Alma said. She got in and slammed the door.

  Ahead, Mitch slammed the door of the Torpedo just a little too hard for politely helping a lady in.

  Lewis climbed in the truck. "It was just a movie," he said. "I don't see why everybody is bent out of shape about it."

  Alma's jawline was hard. "I expect you don't."

  The Torpedo peeled out from the curb, leaving the smell of burnt rubber behind it, eight cylinders of power revving up to a distinctive roar. It was a damn nice machine, Lewis had to say. Someday he'd like a car like that, though of course there was nothing wrong with Alma's Ford pickup, and the truck was a lot more practical than the two-seater convertible. You couldn't fit three people in the Torpedo, much less any of the stuff they usually had to haul around.

  "Look, Al," Lewis said. "I said I'm sorry. I don't know why you're so upset. Is something wrong?" There were times when a husband just had to eat crow. It came with the job description. Apparently failing to take women's movies seriously was one of those offenses that put a guy in the doghouse. Two years, and he was still kind of new at this husband gig.

  "I'm fine." Alma drove sedately and conservatively, her eyes on the road. "Just a little out of sorts."

  Oh. That kind of out of sorts. The kind that involved mysterious female problems. Come to think of it, it seemed like it had been a while since those sorts of problems, the ones involving belts and drug store bags and long baths and him staying out of the way while she had a little medicinal brandy in the bathtub. Right. That time. Definitely time to make nice.

  "I could get you a drink when we get home," Lewis said.

  She glanced over, giving him a quick smile. "Maybe some tea," she said. "And a snack."

  "A snack sounds good," Lewis said, watching the red tail lights of the Torpedo accelerating in front of them.

  Of course Mitch beat them to the house. He was already out of the car and opening Stasi's door when they pulled in, one foot in strappy pumps and backseam stockings emerging. Mitch glanced in the direction of his apartment over the garage. "Feel like coming up for a little nightcap?" he said, holding the gleaming chrome of the door handle.

  "No, thank you," Stasi said frostily. "I think I'll just go to bed." She headed straight for the front door of the house.

  "So will I," Mitch snapped to the nearest person, who happened to be Lewis.

  "Great," Lewis said blankly. Alma headed across the lawn behind Stasi, the keys in her hand. "Women are nuts," Lewis said. "She takes my head off and now I'm going to go make her a Dagwood sandwich in the middle of the night."

  "Al's usually ok," Mitch said, pocketing his keys with a dark look toward the house. "Not like Blondie Boopadoop." He stalked off toward the garage.

  "Ok," Lewis said to no one in particular. "The lesson of the day, my son, is that women's movies put everyone in a bad mood. Next time it's westerns only."

  In his windowless office in the basement of the Metropolitan Museum, Dr. Jerry Ballard adjusted his glasses and picked up his fountain pen, beginning a new entry neatly. "Item 124 of the Rosenthal Collection," he said aloud. "Medallion purportedly dating to the reign of Ptolemy Auletes. Ptolemy XII." He put down the pen and lifted up the medallion, examining it under the green hooded desk lamp.

  It was made of heavy bronze, a good size for a paperweight, a circle about four inches across. There indeed was good old Ptolemy himself, double chin and big nose, wearing a leopard skin to present himself as Neos Dionysos, his throne name. The bronze was a bit worn, but overall it was in good shape. A nice piece, Jerry thought, if nothing particularly extraordinary.

  For one thing, it was rather late. Compared to some of the sixth and seventh century material in the collection, not to mention that perfectly lovely ushabti of Tia Sitre, it was practically new, only dating from the first century BC. Secondly, there were hundreds of examples of this sort of medallion from the late Ptolemaic period. The Met already had about ten. It was not rare in any sense, though it was nicely preserved and a good likeness of Ptolemy Auletes if a museum were trying to fill out a collection with all the Ptolemies in order. Thirdly, it had come through the hands of several collectors before it reached Lothar Rosenthal, and its provenance was in doubt.

  Jerry noted his thoughts neatly. "Condition: very good. Value: $2,000-$3,000." A nice piece, but hardly invaluable. Maybe the Met would buy it and maybe not. He supposed it depended on how much they wanted to spend and if someone wanted Auletes particularly.

  He turned it over, checking the obverse. Again, quite ordinary. The back of the medallion was a stylized cityscape of Alexandria, lighthouse in the foreground, as ubiquitous as the modern Souvenir of New York ashtrays that displayed the sights of the Big Apple together, Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, and the brand-new Empire State Building. Maybe this had been just like that at the time -- Souvenir of Alexandria, ready for the Ptolemaic tourist to take away. The thought made him smile. Someday a future archaeologist would dig up his ashtray and consider how many dozens of likenesses of the Statue of Liberty there were -- clearly a major focus of worship in ancient New York, but not particularly valuable because of its ubiquity.

  Jerry picked up his magnifying glass. Oh yes, the lighthouse in nice detail! What else? That was the familiar shape of the Serapeum, and the Isis pylon. The Isis pylon wasn't shown as often, and it was squeezed in there just in front of a dome. Odd placement. There was plenty of room on the medallion, and yet it was squeezed in oddly in front of the dome of the Soma, the lost Tomb of Alexander the Great that appeared enticingly on all this ancient material and yet had never been found. The lighthouse had most of the right side, and here on the left the pylon was squeezed in between some unidentified buildings and the Soma, the Serapeum center and crossing the midpoint. Did it actually disappear behind the top tier of the lighthouse?

  A frisson ran through Jerry. "Wait," he said aloud. "Wait."

  Most medallions and coins showed the skyline stylized, all the famous buildings of Alexandria lined up, just like the Souvenir of New York ashtrays and tea towels with the Brooklyn Bridge and the Empire State Building lined up next to the Statue of Liberty as though they were all the same size and stood in a row. But this was different. This was a photorealistic drawing, as though someone had stood on a ship and sketched the harbor, the lighthouse in the foreground large and taking up a whole side, partially obscuring buildings further away. The dome of the Soma rose above the buildings before it, a magnificent curve in the background, while the pylon of Isis appeared truncated and squeezed in, crowded between the Soma and the buildings along the harbor.

  "Oh my God," Jerry breathed.

  It was like looking at a photograph of ancient Alexandria, one that showed the location of the Soma. The tomb of Alexander the Great had been lost since antiquity. It was one of archaeology's holy grails, as famous as Schliemann's Troy, potentially as rich as Carter's tomb of Tutankhamun. For a hundred years everyone had tried to find it without success. Everyone knew it was somewhere beneath Alexandria, but aside from the difficulty of digging up a modern city, no one knew where. There were hundreds of acres that had been part of the old city, miles and miles of catacombs and cisterns and waterworks beneath it, city built on city back to the days of the first Ptolemy. Digging it all up was literally impossible, even if it had been feasible to conduct that kind of operation in a city with a current population of more than a million.

  But if you had a map…
. If you knew where to dig…. Three points allow you to locate a fourth. The Lighthouse. The Serapeum. The pylon of Isis. Everyone knew where the first two were. The Lighthouse had stood until the fifteenth century, and a modern fort had been built on the site. The Serapeum was marked today by the tourist attraction known as Pompey's Pillar, for all that it had nothing to do with Pompey and had been raised by Diocletian. The pylon of Isis…. There were several promising sites. And if any of them more or less matched the location on the medallion….

  Jerry put it down because his hands were shaking. If they knew where the pylon of Isis was, they had a map to the Soma. They had a map to the lost tomb of Alexander the Great. They could triangulate from the other three points.

  Or someone could. The Met could fund an expedition. They could hire people. They could get the best. And assuredly that wouldn't be a one-legged archaeologist who hadn't been in the field in twenty years. Whoever eventually got to go after the Soma, it wouldn't be Dr. Jerry Ballard.

  Or could it be? Jerry ran his hands over the medallion reverently. Expeditions took time to organize and to fund. The Metropolitan Museum of Art didn't do anything quickly. There would be committees and meetings, grants and permits. It would be years before anyone got in the field, maybe even half a decade. They would need the permission of the British colonial government, and that itself could take a year. The Met's digs in Egypt were all carefully approved and controlled, all officially sanctioned and done right. The Met wasn't shady.

  But they'd have to be a little shady now. Saying they were going after the Soma would be the fastest way to get their permits denied. One whiff about the Soma and the British Museum would have dibs. No, Jerry thought, caressing the medallion, they'd have to say they were looking for the pylon of Isis. That was the first step anyway, and it was a lesser known site, a building certainly of interest but hardly a great treasure. After all, it was basically a big carved block erected by Queen Arsinoe, daughter of Ptolemy I Soter and his queen Berenice. It was of enduring interest, but not something the British Museum would stick their nose into.