"France," Piers answered, and there was a brief moment of silence.
Emily Harradine filled it as though from long practice. "We took the children to see the parade, Dr. Ballard. I'm afraid they're a bit over-excited."
"Understandably," Jerry said. "It's quite a spectacle."
The little boy with the airplane scowled, but his mother held him firmly.
"You're not dining alone, surely," Piers said.
"No," Jerry said, with more force than was strictly polite. The last thing he wanted was to be invited to join them. "I'm meeting my old roommate. You remember Iskinder, Piers, I'm sure."
"Of course."
Jerry looked past him, hoping to see Iskinder arriving — anything to make his escape before one of them did something foolish — but instead a handsome matron in a lavender suit moved to join them. "There you are, dear," she said, to Emily, and smiled expectantly at Jerry.
"Mother, this is Dr. Ballard. He was at school with Piers," Emily said obediently. "My mother, Mrs. Binney, Dr. Ballard."
Jerry took her hand as well, murmuring a suitable response, and to his relief saw Iskinder at the door, the crowd parting before him. Iskinder saw him in the same moment and turned toward them, breaking stride only as he recognized Piers. Mrs. Binney's eyebrows had reached the brim of her conservative cloche.
"Mother, Emily," Piers said quickly, "allow me to present Prince Iskinder, of Ethiopia."
"Charmed," she said, and there was only the briefest of hesitations before she offered her hand.
Iskinder made the usual half-bow that he reserved for situations like this. "A pleasure to meet you, ladies. And it's good to see you again, Piers. But I hope you'll forgive me — Jerry, our table is ready."
"Of course," Jerry said. He felt as though he was moving underwater, made himself shake hands with Piers and Emily, saying all the proper things, before he could finally turn away.
Iskinder led them not to the dining hall but to the smaller smoking room, and claimed a table in the corner, waving to the nearest waiter. "Two double whiskeys," he said. "Jerry, wait right here."
Jerry nodded, fumbling for a cigarette, and lit it with hands that only shook a little. He supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised: Piers had family in New York, it was only reasonable to expect him to move back here in the end, and he'd had the warning from the last Class Report. He was filled with questions, none of which he could have asked — none of which he would have dared ask, even in private, because they would have betrayed his own vulnerabilities.
The waiter arrived with the drinks, and he downed half of his in a gulp. He couldn't afford to have anyone rake up that old scandal, not when he was trying to get back into the field — not when he'd found a possible key to the Soma. He needed to seem as respectable as possible, the sort of man you could rely on to organize a dig and keep the workers happy, to spend the museum's money wisely and well. Piers wouldn't say anything, though. They'd proved their loyalty twenty years ago.
That didn't mean his wife wouldn't say something if she suspected, or the mother-in-law. Or Piers' own father, if the old man was still alive. It was probably a good thing that the Met job was short-term. But without the Met, how would he get access to the medallion? How would he find someone to sponsor a dig?
"All right." Iskinder dropped into the chair opposite him, shaking his head, and reached for his own whiskey. "I tipped the Club Steward rather heavily, and we will be seated in the Crimson Room. Mr. Harradine and his party are in the Ivy."
"Thank you." Jerry took a more careful sip of his drink. "Believe me, I was not expecting that."
"The pair of you looked like someone had shot you," Iskinder said. The words were light, but his meaning was clear, and Jerry grimaced.
"That bad?"
"I don't think anyone noticed but me," Iskinder said. "Perhaps his wife?"
"I have no idea what their arrangement is, or if they have one."
"Let's hope so."
"Believe me," Jerry said, "I hadn't thought about him in years."
To his relief, Iskinder didn't pursue the subject. They finished their drinks quietly, and Jerry ground out his cigarette as a steward appeared to inform them their table was ready. The Crimson Room was smaller, the curtains closed against a view of the building next door, but the service was still impeccable, a relish tray and glasses of champagne appearing as soon as they were seated.
"Have you given any thought to my question?" Iskinder asked.
"About someone to take artifacts on loan?"
"Yes."
"Some, yes." Jerry reached for an olive. "Am I correct in guessing these are kingship items?"
"I didn't say it."
Jerry nodded. "The Met might well be interested in a loan of something like that. Particularly with the Italians poised to make trouble. But I do think they'd make a try to keep anything you sent, and the only way I can see of preventing it is to make some sort of publicity splash."
"Right now, I don't think that's going to go over well," Iskinder said. "What about somewhere else? Boston, or Chicago? Or even the Smithsonian, I suppose."
"You'll end up in the Museum of Natural History if you try them," Jerry said. "Which may not go over well."
"No."
"I think your best bet might be to find someone important who'll broker the deal for you. Someone who can put some pressure on a museum if they try to hold on to the loan too long. Maybe somebody in the government?"
"We're not exactly Washington's favorite people just now," Iskinder said. "What about outright sales? I know there are people at home who are thinking of investing in foreign currencies."
Jerry shrugged. The waiter brought the first course, bowls of oyster stew and a basket of hot rolls, and he waited until the man was out of earshot to answer. "The trick is to not seem to need to sell, of course. You're in a better position than Rosenthal, at least. Everyone knows why he wants to get out of Germany."
"How is that project going?"
Jerry accepted the change of subject. "Well enough. There are a couple of very nice pieces that the Met should pay decent money for — and probably won't, though you didn't hear it from me — but the bulk of the collection is Ptolemaic. That was Rosenthal's real interest, it seems to me, not the earlier pieces. They're things he picked up when he was first collecting."
The main course arrived, perfect slices of turkey smothered in gravy, mashed potatoes and mashed turnips, creamed onions and asparagus tips with hollandaise, and a slice of cranberry jelly shaped like a tiny turkey. Jerry couldn't help thinking about Alma's Thanksgivings. It had been fine when Gil was alive, and better now that she'd taken up with Lewis, but in between — there had been some interesting meals, and most of the time they'd ordered all the sides from the diner. In her last letter, she'd said that Stasi had turned out to be quite a baker, so at least they'd be getting a decent pie.
"I always liked the Ptolemies," Iskinder said. "By and large, they were sensible people."
Jerry grinned. "Mostly so." He hesitated — but Iskinder did know the period, and he could be trusted. He lowered his voice. "There is one piece that's — well, as far as I know, it's unique. It's a medallion of Ptolemy Auletes, one of the typical ones with the monuments of Alexandria on the reverse."
Iskinder nodded.
"The layout's different, though," Jerry said. "It looks as though the artist was trying to portray the actual skyline of the city. And among the buildings shown is the Soma."
"Ah." Iskinder set his fork down very carefully. "With that —"
"Yes," Jerry said. "Or at least it should be possible. I want that dig, Iskinder."
"It will require a great deal of discretion," Iskinder said.
"Oh, yes," Jerry said. "And a guy from the British Museum was sniffing around the collection at Pridmore's party."
"I wonder…." Iskinder frowned. "There's been some interest among members of our government in financing archeological research — it's a way of positioning ourselv
es as at least as civilized as Italy. But there's never enough money for everything."
"No." Jerry suppressed a certain disappointment. "But this is why I need not to remind anyone of that old scandal. Not now, not with the economy the way it is. I figure I can't even begin to ask for at least five years, and in that time, I have to get some field work again." Said aloud, it sounded even less likely — who was going to hire a cripple when there were able-bodied men begging for the chance? — and he sighed.
"Surely something will turn up," Iskinder said. "Still — I'd like to see that medallion myself."
Why not? Jerry thought. Maybe it would help him raise some further interest. "I'm going to be working the next few days. You'd be welcome to come in with me."
"I have business tomorrow," Iskinder said. "Saturday?"
Jerry nodded. "Saturday it is. It'll be better then, anyway, no one's going to be around." And Iskinder would certainly be willing to try some — less conventional — methods of investigation.
It was, Alma thought, a perfectly decadent looking cake. It had curls of white frosting and curlicues of shaved chocolate, four layers high with cream between each layer.
Paul Rayburn looked thunderstruck. "Mrs. Segura, that's the loveliest thing I've seen in a month of Sundays," he said with reverence. "I can't tell you how much we appreciate you inviting us to share your Thanksgiving dinner."
"We're delighted to have you," Alma said. "And glad that everybody's in one piece after the crash. But I can't take credit for the cake. It's all Miss Rostov's work."
At her place at the other side of the dining table, Stasi preened. "It's a mighty fine cake," Rayburn's man Hopkins said in something like a prayerful tone. He was only a kid, and his admiration seemed to be about evenly divided between the cake and the baker.
Rayburn nodded solemnly. "I can't imagine why a woman as pretty as you who bakes like this is still a miss," he said. "Why you and your cake ought to be the Queen of England! The Prince of Wales ought to get on about marrying you."
"Why, thank you, darling," Stasi said with a brilliant smile. "But I'm afraid the Prince of Wales is out of luck. I'm saving myself for my one true love."
Rayburn nodded again. "Oh yes. Dr. Ballard. I hear tell he'll be home soon?"
"For Christmas," Alma said. "Jerry's had a good job in New York this fall."
"These days a man's got to go where the work is," Rayburn said. "Even if it means leaving his sweetheart behind. But I expect he'll be glad to be home. I heard you got engaged last spring. Maybe a Christmas wedding in the offing?"
Mitch made some strangled noise and Lewis thumped him on the back.
"You'll have to wait and see," Stasi said sweetly. "Mitchell, are you ill?"
"No, just something going down the wrong way," Mitch said, reaching for his water glass with tears in his eyes.
Alma felt like she needed to change direction here before something dreadful happened. There were so many possibilities for dreadful that she felt like the ringmaster at a three-ring circus. "So, Paul," she said, turning to Rayburn, "I've been meaning to ask you what happened the other night."
"You mean how the hell could we crash in decent weather with a full moon?" Rayburn said. "It's a fair question."
"It weren't nothing natural," Hopkins said. "It could have happened to anybody."
"Well, I was wondering that," Alma said diplomatically. "I know Mr. Rayburn is a fine pilot. And like he said, the weather wasn't so bad."
"It's the damnedest thing," Rayburn said, reaching for the cake. "I've never seen anything like it."
"What happened?" Lewis asked keenly.
"We were struck by lightning," Hopkins said.
"Lightning?" Mitch looked incredulous. "Out of a clear sky? There was no storm that night."
"I know," Rayburn said. "Clear as a bell, visibility twenty miles, bright moonlight, hardly a breath of wind. One minute everything was smooth sailing, and the next minute every instrument was out and we were in a dead stall."
Alma blinked. "How is that even possible?" she asked.
"I don't know," Rayburn said. "I keep asking myself that. One minute everything was fine. The next minute we were going down."
"Did you see the flash?" Lewis asked. "Cloud to cloud? We saw some very thin high clouds later that night, but nothing like a thunderstorm."
Rayburn shook his head. "Not from the cloud, no. I think it came up from the ground. I saw it when it hit, light crawling on the wing like St. Elmo's fire. And then the engine stalled out and the instruments went crazy."
"I think it was because of the radio test," Hopkins said. "It happened right after that."
Alma frowned. "Radio test?"
Rayburn gave him a dark look. "You oughtn't have mentioned that." He shook his head. "We were doing a field trial for the Army -- radiolocation. We use an active radio signal to ping off other transmitters, like the clear channel station in Denver, and then use the signals to triangulate our position. It's supposed to be a way to find your position in any weather because you know where the fixed points of the transmitters are."
"That's a really good idea," Mitch said. "I can see the point of that."
"But you use an active radio signal?" Alma said. "It's not just that you have a radio aboard and are transmitting but…what?"
"It's a much more powerful transmitter," Rayburn said. "About the same as a radio station."
Alma's frown deepened. "Then you can't be running that off the engine. You've got to have an auxiliary battery."
"We were," Rayburn said. "We were running a test flight with a special transmitter and a power solution for it. We tested it three times over three hours — the plan was five in five, but that didn't exactly work out. The first two were fine -- we pinged the commercial stations and worked out our position. The third time we cranked it up…."
Mitch shook his head. "Maybe it wasn't a lightning strike. Maybe it was a problem with the equipment. You had some feedback because of atmospheric conditions or something."
"That makes sense," Lewis said.
"Oh, believe me, I've thought of that," Rayburn said darkly.
Alma agreed. "Maybe the first two times you did it, you built up a charge on the exterior surfaces and when you did it the third time, zap. I'm no meteorologist, but maybe?"
Rayburn nodded. "It could be. You can be sure I'll be telling the Army about that. They owe me for a plane."
"It took a hell of a pilot to land that plane dead stick in that terrain," Lewis said. "It's a miracle you weren't all killed."
Rayburn looked a bit mollified. "It wasn't fun, I'll tell you."
"That doesn't explain the lights on the ground," Hopkins said.
"There weren't any," Rayburn said.
"That you saw," Hopkins said. "I saw them."
Alma put down her fork. "Lights on the ground?"
"Blue and purple and indigo, like neon lights. I could see them plain as day because of the snow. Ghostly, they were," Hopkins said. "Like crawling current. And then BZAP! They rocketed into the air and snapped us like a bug!"
"I didn't see anything of the kind," Rayburn said. "And don't you go on to the Army about ghostly lights, Charlie Hopkins. That's crazy talk." He picked up his fork with cake on it. "We had a lightning strike brought on by polarized control surfaces. It's a problem with the transmitter's power output, and the Army has to fix it."
Alma looked at Mitch and knew what he was thinking -- that if it was a problem with the transmitter, the Army owed Rayburn a plane. If it was pilot error, he'd have to swallow the costs, and Comanche Air couldn't afford it. "That kind of control surface problem can happen," Alma said. "I've seen it build up like St. Elmo's fire before. I'd be happy to tell the Army that it happens."
"That's mighty kind of you, Alma," Rayburn said.
"Absolutely," Mitch said. "It happens around here. Especially when the air's real dry."
"I'm not surprised that it does," Rayburn said solemnly, with a quelling glance at Hopkins. "Aft
er all, there are no such things as ghosts."
The moment Alma pushed back her chair, Stasi jumped to her feet and held out her hand to Lewis. "Pay up," she said.
Lewis grinned. "You got me." He reached in his wallet and pulled out a whole dollar as the kitchen emptied, Rayburn and his guys heading into the living room. "Fair and square."
Stasi looked smug. "Always a pleasure doing business," she said.
"What was the bet?" Mitch asked.
"That someone would beg and grovel for my mashed potatoes," Stasi said.
"But you never met that guy before today," Mitch said. "What made you think he'd beg for mashed potatoes?"
Stasi fixed him with a mischievous smile. "I didn't know he would. But I was sure you would."
"Were you?"
"Oh, positive," Stasi said.
"But I haven't."
"But you will," she said cheerfully. "If you want more later."
Lewis cleared his throat. "But first you're washing the dishes."
"Yep," Alma said, patting Mitch on the back. "You and me, buster. They cooked. We wash."
"How very civilized," Stasi said, dusting off her skirt with a glance at him. "You clean up and I'll just go in and chat with the boys. Coming, Lewis?"
Mitch looked at the endless mounds of china and pots. "Right," he said grimly.
It was an hour before he escaped from the sink. In the living room everyone was clustered around the radio listening to the Packers' game, Lewis and Rayburn arguing in a friendly way about whether they were going to be the league champs again this year. Stasi was holding court in the armchair, Hopkins holding her ashtray for her, her legs crossed as she gestured wildly with the cigarette holder.
Mitch wandered up. "I didn't know you liked football," he said.
"Darling, I adore football!" She gave the kid a beatific grin. "And Mr. Hopkins here has been explaining all about it."
"You can call me Chuck," the kid said. He was holding her ashtray like a suppliant, which was more than a little irritating.
"I love every single first down and grand slam and basket," Stasi said, and he could almost have thought she winked at him as she gushed at Hopkins. "You have no idea how much I admire football!"
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 76