Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "I've been working for some years on the problem of wireless transmission of electricity," Tesla said primly. "My work in Colorado was the beginning of that."

  "And the thing in the mine is a piece of it," Jerry said.

  "It was an early prototype," Tesla said. "A model for the larger system built at Wardenclyffe."

  "I see."

  "I'm not sure that you do."

  "No more am I," Jerry answered frankly. "But what I definitely don't understand is how it could still be running. Even if you left it on, surely its power source would have been exhausted by now."

  "Ah." Tesla concentrated on his food for a long moment. "Well, you see. My main laboratory was in Colorado Springs, not at the mine. And of course there was no telephone or telegraph wire up there, not when I was working there. So I designed the tower to activate on receiving a radio signal of a certain minimum duration at a certain frequency."

  Jerry considered that for a moment. "Not a specific signal, like a Morse letter, something like that."

  Tesla had the grace to look momentarily abashed. "No. Reception was always difficult in the mountains, and there was very little radio traffic at the time. Anything that lasted more than nine seconds on the relevant frequency would do the job." He brightened slightly. "Though it was hardly a common frequency."

  Common enough, apparently, Jerry thought. He said, "Does that mean that there's a matching signal that would turn it off again? Even temporarily?"

  "Unfortunately, no," Tesla answered. "Once the experiment was completed, it was important to examine the transmitter for any untoward effects. It seemed more practical to have to turn the system off by hand rather than miss some fluctuation in the power levels that might cause problems down the line."

  "I… see," Jerry said again. This time, Tesla did not correct him. "And I presume it would be foolhardy to try to disconnect the machine unless you were there to supervise?"

  "More than foolhardy!" Tesla exclaimed. "It would be actively dangerous, I'm afraid."

  "And I imagine it's not something you could create instructions for."

  "No, indeed not." Tesla looked momentarily severe. "No, if it's causing this kind of trouble — I'm very much afraid I'll have to deal with it myself."

  Jerry opened his mouth, closed it firmly over his first thought. "I expect that would be best, yes."

  Tesla pushed his plate away. He'd made good inroads into the meal, leaving only scraps of the creamed cod and finishing most of the extra bread-and-butter as well as the little pot of honey. "I'll require a first-class train ticket to Colorado Springs," he said. "Leaving as soon as possible."

  "I think we can do better than that," Jerry said. He pushed his own plate aside. "Mrs. Segura has said she would fly you out herself — your own private plane, Dr. Tesla. I hope that would suit."

  Tesla blinked, then smiled, an engaging, happy smile that belonged to a very much younger man. "That would be lovely, Dr. Ballard. And an adventure, too. When should I expect to leave?"

  Jerry considered. Alma would be here tomorrow, barring weather, but they'd need at least a day on the ground to get the plane serviced and to let Al rest up. "I'd say no earlier than the sixteenth and probably not until the seventeenth."

  "Very well." Tesla pushed back his chair. "I'll have some arrangements to make, of course, but I see no reason I couldn't be ready. And clearly this needs to be dealt with. If you'll excuse me, Dr. Ballard…"

  "Of course," Jerry said, and only then realized that he'd been left with the check. But it was worth it, he told himself, as he fumbled with his wallet to find a dollar and change for the tip. They needed Tesla's help — needed Tesla to turn off whatever it was that he'd built up there in the mountains before it caused any more harm. And in any case, there was something about the old man's smile that took away some of the sting. An adventure, he'd called it. Well, it was that, all right, and then some, and it took guts to face that with a smile when you were in your seventies and sufficiently distinguished that you could reasonably expect the world to come to you. Jerry pushed himself to his feet, and threaded his way out of the rapidly filling coffee shop. Alma would be relieved.

  Mitch waited for Colonel Sampson to be called to the phone with some trepidation. How the hell was he going to make this whole thing not sound nuts? See, sir, I found a Death Ray…. Colonel Sampson, the planes have been crashing because of a mad science device in a haunted silver mine…. And yeah, it did matter to him if he sounded like a lunatic. The United States Army wasn't big on lunatics. Not that it mattered like it once had.

  He'd joined up in '14, right after graduation, and he'd intended to make a career of it. The US wasn't at war, not yet, and his family had been anything but thrilled, but a shiny lieutenant's commission had seemed like the door to a bigger world. Books were great, but what they told him was that there was a lot more to the world than you could find in the seventy miles between home and college, a lot more interesting places than the Piedmont, boring and staid and ordinary. He'd been right about that. In the first three years he'd been in Illinois and Kentucky and Texas, met all kinds of people from all over. There were guys who had been posted in Panama and Alaska, even Peking on the other side of the world. They'd watched the sun rise over the harbor in Sydney and rounded Cape Horn on a full-rigged ship, walked the desert sands of Galilee in the footsteps of Christ. Who knew where he might be sent next?

  England, of course. France and Italy, places only the very rich got to go under their own steam. That's where the war was. And then Budapest and Vienna, hazy and strange through the mists at the end. The world was big, and lots of things in it weren't very nice after all, but they were still worth seeing, still worth having done. But in 1919 none of it seemed like so great a deal anymore. He'd resigned his active duty commission, stayed in only as a reservist. Gil gave him a job, and he had his planes and what else did he need? The reserves kept him on the rolls for things like this, for flying search and rescue when it was really important. He didn't need to be regular Army for that.

  Gil had been wrong about one thing -- that he was going up. "One day you'll have stars on that collar," Gil had said, and Mitch had laughed, half pleased and half envious. Gil had been a lieutenant colonel rather than a captain, for all that he was only seven years older than Mitch. It had meant something that Colonel Gilchrist thought he ought to be brass. And maybe he would have been if he'd stayed in, but it hadn't seemed worth it at the time.

  And now, well, the oak leaves on his collar didn't matter as much as doing it right. Being a major in the reserves meant that he could get it done right, safeguard lives, keep these kids who didn't know what they were doing in one piece until they learned. Search and rescue was a dangerous business. It mattered. And so it mattered if Colonel Sampson decided he'd gone round the bend.

  "This is Sampson."

  "Sir, this is Mitchell Sorley," Mitch said. "I've got some news for you."

  "What's that?" Sampson sounded receptive rather than impatient, a good sign.

  "Captain Segura and I went up to the area near the last three crash sites by truck. They were all near an abandoned silver mine, the Silver Bullet. We wondered what was up. And we found something."

  "Found something?"

  Mitch took a deep breath. "Yes, sir. There's some kind of device, some machine there, that's still running. I'm thinking it's giving off some kind of interference and that's what's scrambling our instruments."

  "Interference?" He hated the way Sampson just kept repeating things, but he did that all the time.

  "Interference," Mitch said. "Some kind of electrical pulse. That would account for the lightning damage that Rayburn took and that Segura and I reported. I'm recommending that we class it a navigation hazard."

  "That's interesting."

  Really, Mitch thought. Interesting? That's the best he had? "Mrs. Gilchrist -- Mrs. Segura -- says that the scientist Dr. Tesla used to lease that property for a lab for electrical experiments. I'm guessing that this is
something of Dr. Tesla's that's somehow gotten turned on. She's getting in touch with him to find out how to turn it off. But whatever the reason, in the meantime I think we should call it a navigation hazard and tell aircraft to avoid the area."

  There was a long silence. Probably Sampson was wondering how he could pass this up the chain without sounding like a nutcase too. At last he cleared his throat. "Well, three crashes in that area suggests something's going on."

  No shit, Mitch thought. "Yes, sir."

  "I'll have a couple of conversations. Thank you for your suggestion, Sorley."

  "Thank you, sir," Mitch said and rang off. Well, at least the oak leaves were good for something. Though whether or not the airspace around the Silver Bullet Mine would be placed off limits was anybody's guess. Once in a while, he wished he had those stars.

  Chapter Nine

  December 14, 1932

  New York

  The telephone in his room rang as Jerry was knotting his tie, and he froze for an instant before he limped around the bed to pick it up. It couldn't be Alma, unless she'd been delayed by weather; she was due in this afternoon, but surely it was too early for anything to have happened.

  "Ballard here."

  "Mr. Hutcheson for you, sir," the club operator said.

  Jerry relaxed, letting himself down onto the edge of the bed. "Put him through, please."

  "Ballard." Hutcheson's voice came through clearly. "Sorry to bother you on your day off, but — something's come up."

  "Oh?" As long as it didn't go on into the afternoon, Jerry thought.

  "There's been a new development with the Rosenthal collection," Hutcheson said. "I'd like to discuss it in person."

  A chill settled in Jerry's gut. This couldn't be good. Merrill was making good on his threat. "Of course. I can come straight over."

  "That would be good," Hutcheson said, and Jerry swore under his breath.

  "I'll be there in half an hour."

  Under the circumstances, he took a cab, even though it left him with the two dollars in his wallet and a handful of change in his pocket until his next check. He made his way past the museum visitors and down the stairs to the offices, and managed to nod politely to Miss Walters.

  "Go right in, Dr. Ballard," she said. "He's expecting you."

  "Thanks." Jerry knocked, then pushed the door open, and Hutcheson looked up from a folder.

  "Ah. Ballard. Come in and close the door."

  Jerry did as he was told, and seated himself in the hard wooden chair Hutcheson kept for visitors. "I take it there's a problem."

  "I was told this morning that the museum has no interest in any part of Herr Rosenthal's collection," Hutcheson answered. "Not even the ushabtis, which I was sure they'd take. Rosenthal's agent has asked for the collection back, as he's had another offer."

  "Already?" Jerry shook his head, not quite able to take it in. He'd underestimated Pelley, both his determination and how fast the man would move.

  "Apparently someone on the board called Judson — he's the agent." Hutcheson gave a thin smile. "As a favor, you understand, given the circumstances."

  Because Rosenthal needed the money quickly, Jerry thought, and who could blame him? Germany was unsettled, the latest elections just as divisive as Roosevelt's election, and even though the National Socialists had lost some seats in the parliament, their paramilitary squads were still beating up Jews on the streets of Berlin. Rosenthal was an old man, left with only a granddaughter after his sons were killed in the war. It was no wonder he wanted to leave the country. "We can't let — is there any chance the Met would buy just the medallion?"

  "Not without telling the Board exactly why we want it," Hutcheson answered. "And that's as good as shouting it from the rooftops. The British would hear, and we'd never get the permits. At least this way we'll have the photographs to work from."

  But that won't do any good if Pelley gets the medallion. He won't need five years of careful politicking to put together an expedition. Jerry swallowed the words. "When does Judson want it?"

  "Today or tomorrow. As I said, he's had what sounds like an unexpected offer." Hutcheson paused. "However, I do have some good news. I've also received photographs of a set of stele from a site near Alexandria, and the Board agreed to extend your contract to give us an appraisal."

  Jerry's breath caught in his throat. He'd been so caught up in the immediate problem of the medallion that he hadn't realized what this would mean for his job. Selfishly, he didn't want to leave New York, didn't want to let go of the life he'd just begun to rebuild. "I won't pretend that's not a relief," he said. "What period?"

  "Hellenistic, by the look of them." Hutcheson fumbled through his papers, came up with a sheet of onionskin covered in closely-spaced typing.

  Jerry took it, skimming through the blotted carbon. The descriptions were thorough, familiar fragments and images stitched together in ways that were unmistakably syncretic, and in spite of everything, his interest stirred. Four fragmented stele, similar in style and decoration, with heavily abbreviated inscriptions — possibly found together, he noted, and looked back at Hutcheson. "Black market?"

  Hutcheson grimaced. "Let's call it a gift from a collector."

  That was answer enough. "Definitely Hellenistic, if this is even marginally accurate. Relatively early, too — yes, I'm interested."

  "Good. I'll have Miss Walters draw up a new contract, then, on the same terms as before."

  Jerry nodded, and Hutcheson looked down at his hands.

  "Of course, this means your next check will be the last from this job, and of course there's no bonus since there's no purchase."

  "Of course." And that, Jerry thought, was a casual swipe from Merrill — or else an attempt to cut off funds, drive him out of New York so that he couldn't interfere with the sale. Thank God Iskinder was still in town.

  "But I've talked them into having the new contract start January 15."

  Rather than in February, Jerry knew. He nodded again. "I was going back to Colorado for Christmas anyway. That shouldn't be a problem." For a moment, he wanted to complain: one job pulled out from under him, another dangled like bait to keep him quiet, with no raise in pay, no bonus, nothing to make it any easier to meet his expenses. But then, he had the chance of a job, and that was more than far too many people had these days. He would still be able to afford to eat at the automat, and not a soup kitchen.

  "Ah. Yes, that's excellent." Hutcheson shuffled his papers again. "Now, with Judson in a hurry — would you be able to pack up the collection for us?"

  Jerry paused. "I'm sorry, Hutcheson, I had appointments today. I had to shuffle things already when you called me, and I don't want to be any later than I am already."

  As he'd expected, Hutcheson frowned. "I don't really have anyone competent to take care of it."

  "The folder with the list is on my desk," Jerry said. "Look, I can pull down the boxes, and surely one of the graduate students can wrap everything up again."

  "Yes, I suppose so." Hutcheson sighed. "I'm sorry it's worked out this way, Ballard. And I appreciate your understanding."

  "Boards make mistakes," Jerry said, and let himself out.

  He unlocked his office door and stood for a moment, staring blindly at the familiar clutter. He hated to leave even this job, something any newly-minted professor could have done and paying far less than it was worth, and it was worse knowing that the artifacts were going back to Rosenthal's agent — even without the medallion to consider, it was a shame to see some of the pieces vanish into private collections. He tossed his hat onto the desk, and ran his hand through his hair. He needed to talk to Iskinder, that much was obvious, and he also needed to delay the collection getting back to Judson. First Iskinder, he thought, and picked up the telephone.

  The Met's operator put him through to the operator at the Astoria, and she put him through to Iskinder's room. To Jerry's relief, Iskinder picked up on the fifth ring.

  "Yes?"

  "Iskin
der, it's Jerry."

  "Ah." Iskinder's voice sharpened. "Is anything wrong?"

  "There's been a — change of plan," Jerry said carefully, mindful of the operators. "I need to speak to you, rather urgently. Can I come over?"

  There was a pause. "I have a meeting now, but I'll be free in two hours. Is that soon enough?"

  "Yes."

  "Come to the hotel, then," Iskinder said. "I'll tell the front desk to show you up if I'm not back yet."

  "Thanks," Jerry said, and put the receiver down. That was a start: Iskinder had money and influence, should be able to put in a preemptive bid for the medallion that even Pelley couldn't match. Surely. He shoved that thought aside, and concentrated on the office. Delay was what he needed, confusion and delay, and he reached behind him to lock the office door. He could sow confusion, make it as difficult as possible for the museum staff to pack up Rosenthal's collection, and for a moment, he felt guilty, but suppressed the concern.

  He found the Rosenthal folder, opened it to expose the collection's master list. Something to scramble it, to make it hard for anyone to get a handle on what it contained, that was what was needed, and he reached into his desk drawer to pull out a length of string salvaged from a package. He closed his eyes, centering himself, then made the Kabbalistic cross, murmuring the invocation under his breath. He could feel the protection on the medallion now, a gentle veil, the desire to avert his eyes, and put that aside. He lifted the string, twisting and looping it, knot upon knot. Each one was another reason to look away, an item sliding from the list, dropping out of the corner of one's eye; it was interruption and confusion, counting three times and getting four answers, no ink for the pen and the pencil that snapped just as it was needed. When he'd reached the end, the string wound into a snarled mess, he tossed it onto the list and focused his will.

  "As this string, so the mind. As this string, so the hand. Confusion cloud them and happenstance hinder those who come to pack this, from this moment until tomorrow's dawn. So mote it be."

  He felt the spell catch and hold, saw the typing waver on Judson's fine bond paper. He took a breath and collected the string, slipped it back into the desk drawer, positioning it so that it would lie directly beneath the folder. And that was all he could do here.