And he knew as well as anyone what was needed, beyond the impeccable academic credentials. He needed the well-cut suit, the conservatively tailored formal wear and the patrician attitude that went with it, regardless of whether or not he'd been born to it. If he was going to convince them — any of them, the boards of the Oriental Institute or the Met or the MFA — to hire him, to sponsor any of his eventual projects, he was going to have to convince them he was worth the expenditure. And that meant parties like this.
He paid off the cab at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 55th Street, the hotel's doorman holding the cab door while he levered himself out, taking the time to be sure his footing was secure before he tried to move. He tipped the doorman, and made his way into the marble-walled lobby. He could hear the piano before he reached the short flight of stairs that led to the private ballroom, a lilting tune that managed to be stylish without being dangerous, and he handed his invitation to the attendant at the door.
"Of course, Dr. Ballard," the man said, contriving to imply that Jerry had been recognized without it; Jerry shed his topcoat without comment, and left it and his hat with the exceedingly decorative hatcheck girl.
The room was getting crowded already, and the music was hard pressed to compete with the buzz of conversation. He glanced once around the room, picking out people he knew and needed to see — Hutcheson from the Met; the evening's host, Jennings Pridmore, who'd been in his class at Harvard; half a dozen others he'd met since he'd come to New York. He nodded to Hutcheson, deep in conversation with an older man Jerry didn't know, and started toward the bar where Pridmore was holding court.
"Professor Ballard!"
Jerry turned, recognizing the voice: May Saltonstall, another passenger from the Derby. She was the sister of one of the Harvard team's pilots and the cousin of another; they'd made a damn good run at the prize, crashing on the next-to-last leg, and in spite of himself he felt himself relax a little. "Miss Saltonstall," he said, and took the hand she held out to him. She looked unexpectedly splendid in a daring bias-cut evening gown, peach satin a shade darker than her skin, diamond bracelets like manacles on each wrist. "May I offer my congratulations? I saw the announcement in the papers."
"Thank you."
She was engaged to one of her brother's Harvard classmates, Ralph Kittredge, who was something in oil: a good match by most standards, Jerry thought. "Is Mr. Kittredge here? I'd love to meet him."
"No, he's in Connecticut for the week," she answered. "Charlie brought me." She nodded toward a group of younger men clustered by one of the low tables. "But now he's talking football…."
She let her voice trail off, and Jerry picked up the hint she dangled. "Perhaps I could get you a drink?"
"That would be lovely." She set her hand on his elbow, and he walked her toward the bar. He brought them both Manhattan cocktails, and she took hers with a smile. "Cheers."
"Your health," Jerry answered, and they both drank.
"Professor!" Jennings Pridmore turned toward them, inviting them to join his little group by the bar. "And Miss Saltonstall. Is Ralph around?"
"He's in Connecticut for the week," May said again. "Charlie's here, but — I seem to have lost him."
"Too bad." Pridmore waved to one of the bartenders, who came across with a filled cocktail shaker. "Anyone?"
Jerry shook his head, as did May, but the rest of the group allowed him to top up their glasses.
"Eddie tells me you're making good progress on old man Rosenthal's collection," Pridmore said. "I heard there were a couple of nice pieces that might be up my alley."
"I'm getting there," Jerry said, cautiously. He glanced at Hutcheson, who gave the smallest of nods: the Met considered Pridmore a suitable buyer. "The best pieces are the ushabtis. Herr Rosenthal bought them as a set, and I think they genuinely are from the same tomb, even in the absence of confirming inscriptions. After that, there is a very nice faience necklace, lotus petals hanging from a strand of beads. It's been restrung, and there are replacement pieces that date from much later, but the original piece was probably Eighteenth Dynasty. Most of the rest is later, Ptolemaic or even Roman."
"Pity it's restored," Pridmore said.
"The restoration is probably Roman," Jerry said. "So there's some intrinsic interest."
Pridmore shrugged. "What sort of price do you think the museum will offer?"
I can't answer that. Jerry swallowed the words, knowing he needed to stay on Pridmore's good side. "I haven't finished looking at everything," he said. "And then there's the question of whether some of the sets are worth more intact…." He shrugged in turn.
"Whatever you say, it'll be more than the old man paid," Pridmore said. "A very high class Jew, Rosenthal. He never missed a bargain."
"No, he certainly didn't this November," another man said. "Oh. I'm sorry, Jennings, I thought you said Roosevelt."
"Roosevelt, Rosenthal," Pridmore answered. "What's the difference?"
Most of the listeners laughed, and there was a note of bitterness that startled Jerry. "You can't think," he began, and Hutcheson stepped neatly on his good foot. Jerry swallowed the rest of his words, drowning them with another swallow of his drink. A dark man in an impeccably cut suit shook his head.
"You're smart to put your money in antiquities, Jennings. Come March, we won't have a President any more, and his thugs will be nationalizing the banks. You wait and see."
"And the worst elements in the country will be cheering him on. Thugs and hooligans who've never done a day's work in their lives —"
Jerry took a step back, unable to maintain his smile a moment longer. Nearly a quarter of the country was out of work, and that was able-bodied men who were begging for work. Literally begging, sometimes: he'd seen them on the streets in Denver and Chicago as he made his way east, men in clothes that had once been decent, holding up signs that said they would work for food. He'd lost his job the previous winter when Colorado Springs ran out of money to pay the teachers at the high school. He'd come out of it all right, thanks to the prize money from the race, but Mrs. Houlton was taking in boarders, and young Miss Elliott, who'd been the English teacher, was trying to scrape together a living mending clothes and doing alterations. Her fiancé had left to look for work, and hadn't been heard from since.
"Oh, come on, George," a fourth man said. Jerry remembered being introduced to him at another function — Peter Judge, his name was, and he was something at Teachers College. "I don't think times have ever been this hard, probably not since the Civil War. There are plenty of men who'd be willing to work if there were any jobs available, and we ought to be doing something for them."
"That's not the government's business," the dark man said. "There are plenty of private charities for that."
"They can't keep up," Judge said. "And, frankly, the people who usually give aren't doing as well as they used to, either."
"And that's between them and their conscience," the dark man said. "It's no sin to take care of your own."
May tucked her hand into his elbow again, and Jerry turned his head to see her rather desperate smile. "Did you have a chance to listen to the game, Professor? Charlie said it was a disaster."
"I heard," Jerry said, grimly. Harvard had lost to Yale 19−0.
"The weather was against us," Hutcheson said. "Our boys are never any good in mud."
"Back in my day, a little rain didn't stop us." That was a silver-haired man, shaking his head. "Of course, we had problems when the sun shone."
Jerry laughed with the others, grateful for the change of subject.
The dark haired man grinned, too. "And there's a good example of how we ought to be handling things, Judge. The Boosters' Fund took up a collection for the unemployed, and raised a nice sum for them, too."
Jerry straightened, unable to stop himself. "Yes, I heard about that. They raised $2300 — from a crowd of fifty thousand. That's not quite a nickel a man."
A nickel would buy a cup of coffee anywhere in the city.
There was a little silence, and then Hutcheson forced a smile. "Well, maybe us alums are hurting, too. But I imagine the weather made a difference."
There was a murmur of agreement, three or four men scrambling for new topics of conversation, and Hutcheson stepped closer, edging him out of the group.
"For God's sake, Ballard."
"Sorry," Jerry said, without sincerity. "It was in all the papers."
May's hand tightened on his arm. "Actually, Professor, if I could borrow you for a moment, there's someone who you ought to meet."
"Oh?" Jerry let himself be drawn away, conscious of Hutcheson's relief.
"Well, he definitely wants to meet you," she said. "Though whether I'm doing you a favor — you've heard of Professor Tesla, I assume?"
"The inventor?"
"Yes." May looked faintly embarrassed. "He talked to Charlie about it first, and when Charlie mentioned you were in the city — well, that a member of the Gilchrist team was here — he asked us to introduce him. He's a dear old man, but —"
"He wants to sell us something," Jerry said.
May nodded. "Charlie's interested, but — it's not really anything he can use, and Father is insisting that he settle down and make something of the business, or else come back to work for Father." She made a little moue, self-mocking and at the same time faintly ashamed. "The Depression is getting to everyone."
"Times are hard," Jerry said. He followed her across the ballroom, her back bared by the plunging drape of her gown. And if she could afford dresses like that, she was hardly hurting for money, not like the people he knew back in Colorado — not like he himself was, counting every dollar and eating at least two meals a day at the Horn and Hardart or the cheap diner two blocks from the Met. And he knew all too well how lucky he was.
He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Hutcheson still deep in conversation with Pridmore and his friends. He'd expected better of them, somehow — it seemed as though they'd been better, when they were all undergraduates together. Maybe it was the war, maybe it was the depression on top of the boom times, slamming down like a hangover, but he was sure they'd been better then.
A gaunt old man was folded into an armchair on the other side of the room, as far from the piano as he could get. He seemed to be holding court, surrounded by a group of men and women of varying ages, but as soon as he saw May, he levered himself to his feet.
"My dear Miss Saltonstall. How lovely to see you." He bent over her hand, an old-fashioned, courtly gesture, and beckoned to one of the younger men who was hovering beside his chair. "Paul, would you be so good as to fetch me another whiskey? And another Manhattan cocktail for Miss Saltonstall and her friend."
"Professor Tesla, I'd like to introduce Professor Ballard," May said. "Professor Ballard was the passenger for the Gilchrist Aviation team last year. Professor Ballard, this is Professor Tesla."
"Who needs no introduction," Jerry said, politely. Tesla did not offer his hand, but no one seemed to find it strange.
"Professor of — physics? Engineering?" Tesla tilted his head to one side like a bird.
"Classics, actually." Jerry wondered if that was disappointment he saw in the older man's eyes.
"Then — if you don't mind my asking — how did you end up working for Gilchrist? That was a brilliant victory, by the way."
"Thank you," Jerry said. "It was all Alma's, Mrs. Segura's doing. She's a very canny pilot."
"Indeed," Tesla said. The young man reappeared with the drinks, and Tesla took his with a smile. Jerry accepted his as well, and took a cautious sip. "As it happens, Professor Ballard, I'm looking for people who might be interested in developing a patent of mine, for an aircraft with variable wings that can take off and land in extremely restricted spaces. I had a laboratory in Colorado Springs some years ago, and it occurred to me that Gilchrist might find such a craft extremely useful."
"I expect they might," Jerry answered. "I'm sure Mrs. Segura would be interested in corresponding with you about it."
"I'd be delighted to discuss it," Tesla said. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat, and produced a card. "If I could trouble you to make the introduction…."
"It would be a pleasure," Jerry said, and meant it. Whether or not the patent was practical, Alma would get a huge kick out of talking about it, and she was hard-headed enough to refuse a purchase that she didn't want. He took the card — it showed an alarmingly phallic dome-topped tower surrounded by bolts of lightning, largely overshadowing the chaste name and address — and produced one of his own.
To his rather pleased surprise, Tesla made a point of drawing him into a larger conversation about flying and then about travel and his work in the Middle East before the War. The young man who'd fetched the drinks turned out to have spent some time in Alexandria, while the middle-aged woman in the plain blue gown had spent some time driving across the American Southwest with her husband, and had acquired a significant collection of Navajo artifacts. Hutcheson joined them after a bit, bringing with him a man he introduced as Alexander Mockridge, from the British Museum, just back from Persia, and Jerry was careful not to mention anything later than the faience necklace when Mockridge brought up the Rosenthal collection.
"Ballard!"
Jerry turned, not sure if he was grateful for the interruption or not, and Pridmore nodded to the others.
"My wife reminded me. You are going to be able to make it to the Cape for Thanksgiving, aren't you? It'll be a lovely party."
Full of the same people who were here tonight, Jerry thought, the same people who couldn't spare a nickel, never mind a dime. He should do it, of course, it was the sort of invitation that meant connections now and patronage later, but he wasn't at all sure he could keep his mouth shut. Offending Pridmore outright would be far worse than avoiding him. He forced a smile. "I'm sorry, it turns out there's just too much left to do. I really need to stay in the city."
"Oh, too bad."
Behind Pridmore, Hutcheson was frowning, looking puzzled, and Jerry willed him not to say anything.
"Ruth will be disappointed," Pridmore went on.
Jerry murmured a conventional answer, swallowing an odd lump in his throat. Twenty years ago, he'd have given almost anything to be invited somewhere for the holidays, especially by someone as important as Pridmore.
"I'm sorry, too," Mockridge said. "I'd hoped to have a chance to chat further. I very much enjoyed your article on Hellenistic survivals in later Roman Egypt. I wondered if you had any thoughts on further influences — perhaps even into the Renaissance."
"That's not really my period," Jerry answered, abruptly wary. That sounded almost as though Mockridge was hinting at Hermetic connections, and that was something he very much didn't want to discuss in this company.
"Nothing formal," Mockridge answered, and Hutcheson laid his hand on Jerry's shoulder.
"There you are. If you'll excuse me, Sandy."
Jerry let himself be drawn away, leaning heavily on his cane. His leg was starting to hurt, and he thought it was probably late enough that he could make his escape soon.
"You know, Ballard, if you want to go," Hutcheson began, and Jerry shook his head.
"Thanks, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay and work." He paused. "And I'd rather not talk too much to anyone from the British Museum until I've had a chance to finish with the collection."
Hutcheson gave him a sharp look. "Sounds like you and I need to have a chat."
"There are one or two interesting items," Jerry said carefully.
"I'm not in the office until Monday, but let's talk then."
"Definitely." Jerry made his way back to the bar to collect another cocktail. Iskinder loomed up out of the crowd, elegant in a Savile Row suit, and Jerry gave what he suspected was the first real smile of the evening.
"Quite a crowd."
"Oh, yes." Iskinder's smile was wry. "I gather Pridmore wants to buy up some of that collection you're valuing."
Jerry nodded. "At a bargain
price, of course. But —" He stopped, biting his tongue. "That will be up to Herr Rosenthal himself, of course."
"Quite." Iskinder set down his empty glass. "I was about ready to head back to the Club. Would you care to share a cab?"
"God, yes." Jerry took a last swallow of his own drink, set it down half-finished. "Whenever you're ready."
They made their excuses, Jerry feeling as though his face was going to split from too much smiling, and trailed at last out into the chilly dark. The doorman whistled for a cab, and Jerry hauled himself into the passenger seat. He saw the driver frown as Iskinder climbed in the opposite side, weighing faultless suit and cashmere coat against black skin, and said, "The Harvard Club, on West 44th."
That decided the driver, as Jerry had hoped, and he pulled decorously away from the curb. Iskinder leaned back against the split cushions, sighing.
"Well, it was good to see Peter Judge, at least."
"I didn't know him that well," Jerry said, and Iskinder smiled.
"We played doubles together quite a bit."
Jerry nodded. He himself had never had the money or the time to play sports, but Iskinder had thrown himself into the games with undeniable enthusiasm.
"He's doing good work at Teachers College," Iskinder went on.
Jerry nodded again, letting the words wash over him. He was tired but not ready for sleep. He wanted another club, another — well, maybe not another drink, but another crowd entirely, company that was congenial in an entirely different way. As the cab pulled up at the door of the Harvard Club, Jerry leaned forward.
"I'll be going on from here, cabbie."
Iskinder paused, the door half open. "Jerry?"
"I want a little night life," Jerry said.
There was a moment of silence, Iskinder's face unreadable in the dark, but then he swung himself out of the car. "Be careful," he said, not as lightly as he intended, and slammed the door behind him.
The cabbie looked in his mirror. "Where to, Mister?"
"Times Square."
The theaters were getting out, their audiences spilling into the neon-lit streets. The cab let him off at the Morosco, and a tipsy businessman claimed it almost before Jerry could finish paying his fare. The glowing clock at the center of the Pepsodent sign proclaimed it quarter of eleven, and steam was rising from the sidewalk vents; the air was damp, the sky pale above the neon, promising rain later. He walked south down Broadway, mingling with the crowd, and turned onto 44th, where the ushers were closing up the Shubert lobby. Beyond the Shubert, the Majestic was dark, but a single light glowed above a basement entry. He let himself down the steps, careful of the worn stone, and rapped sharply on the door. After a moment, the peephole opened, and he gave the password. There was another pause, the bouncer still looking him over, and then the door swung back.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 74