Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "Say yes," Jerry said, with a grin that was almost genuine, and Alma laughed again.

  "All right. And — truly, thank you."

  The room at the Astoria was both grand and comfortable, with her own private bath and the bed tucked into an alcove so that the sofa formed its own tiny sitting room. There was a radio as well, and she left it on while she bathed and changed for dinner, dance music playing softly as she brushed her hair and powdered her nose. It was a shame about Jerry's job, she thought. At least he was supposed to be asked back in January, and he'd sworn up and down that he believed the offer was sincere, but it was still an abrupt and unhappy ending. Even without the problem of this medallion. Jerry had given her a little of the story on the way over, though she knew he'd left out most of the interesting details. New York had been good for him: he looked sharper, smiled more readily — he'd lost some of the melancholy that had hung around him since Gil's death. She just hoped the Met would keep its word and hire him back.

  She crossed her fingers once, then turned her attention to getting the last of the lipstick out of the tube. It was the color Mabel Kershaw had given her in Los Angeles, before the race, and easily the most flattering shade she'd ever owned. Maybe she could find more in New York, if she could find time to look, though somehow she didn't think this was something she could find at the corner drugstore. And not that she was likely to have the time to spare, between Dr. Tesla and his device and whatever Jerry and Iskinder could manage to do about the medallion. She checked her seams in the mirror, then switched off the radio and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

  Neither Iskinder nor Jerry was anywhere in sight, and she paused for a moment, scanning the crowd. It was a sedate and expensive-looking bunch, a few couples in evening dress and even a woman with diamond clips in her hair, and she wished she could have worn her mink. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man detach himself from the front desk, and turned to face him as he lifted his hat.

  "Mrs. Segura. I hadn't heard you were coming to New York."

  "Mr. Winchell," she said, with some dismay. There was no mistaking the columnist, though at least he was speaking at a more normal speed than he used on his radio broadcasts. "I had some business to take care of."

  "Yes, they told me over at Floyd Bennett that you flew in today solo, in a brand-new Kershaw special." Winchell cocked his head like a malicious sparrow. "I don't suppose you'd care to give me the exclusive?"

  "It's a matter of business," Alma said warily. "Confidential. Though if you'd like to talk about the Frontiersman, I'd be happy to tell you all about it —"

  Winchell's eyes shifted, and she swallowed a curse. She glanced back as casually as she could, and was unsurprised to see Jerry and Iskinder moving toward them.

  "I see Dr. Ballard's in town," Winchell said.

  "He's been working here since the end of the summer," Alma said, and forced a smile. "Gentlemen, we have company."

  "Mr. Winchell and I have met," Iskinder said, pleasantly enough, and Winchell gave a toothy grin.

  "Indeed we have, Prince. Mrs. Segura, you're moving in exalted circles these days. Just be careful he doesn't carry you off — the Ethiopians still have slavery, you know."

  "Ras Iskinder and my first husband were in the war together," Alma said, her voice as bland as she could make it. "As was Dr. Ballard, of course."

  "Quite a reunion," Winchell said. "Is Mr. Segura in town, by any chance?"

  "As you said, I flew in alone," Alma answered. "I wish he were here, but he was needed in Colorado."

  "Oh, too bad."

  "Yes," Alma said. "It is."

  Winchell gave her a smile that boded badly, and looked at Jerry. "And where's your fiancée the countess, Dr. Ballard? She couldn't make it either?"

  "Who?" Jerry said, his face blank, and Iskinder cleared his throat.

  "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Winchell —"

  "That's news, Dr. Ballard," Winchell said, as though the other man hadn't spoken. "After all that talk of an engagement —"

  "I'm not engaged," Jerry said. "And that's all I have to say."

  "Which almost makes Mrs. Segura's visit entirely kosher." Winchell's smile widened.

  Oh, dear, Alma thought. She linked arms with both men, and gave Winchell a smile of her own. "As I said, Mr. Winchell, I'm here on company business. Dr. Tesla — Dr. Nikola Tesla, the famous scientist — has offered to sell me the rights to one of his aviation patents. But of course that's all confidential."

  "And if you'll excuse us," Iskinder said again, "our table is ready."

  This time Winchell let them turn away, tipping his hat politely, and Alma did her best not to look over her shoulder.

  "Oh, Jerry, did you have to?"

  "Surely it's time to end that farce," Jerry said.

  "This is that 'countess' you picked up during the race? The papers were very cagey about her." Iskinder spoke to the headwaiter, and they were ushered to a banquette in a secluded alcove.

  "That's a good thing," Alma said, and Jerry nodded.

  "That's her. She claimed me for her fiancé, but I don't think it's working out. It seemed kinder to end it."

  He sounded more amused than annoyed, but Alma shook her head. "In Winchell's column?"

  "Oh, come on, Al, she'll get a kick out of it." Jerry leaned his cane against the edge of the table and unfolded his napkin.

  "I hope Mr. Segura also has a sense of humor," Iskinder said. "Winchell plays rough."

  "He does," Alma said. "But Lewis knows Jerry's no threat to him. Though I wish I could see his face when he reads it."

  As she'd hoped, Iskinder relaxed a little, and she looked at Jerry. "Any word?"

  Jerry shook his head. "Still nothing. Though I did find out that Judson himself is handling the sale, and that he's in town. Which means your man ought to be able to talk to him tomorrow, Iskinder."

  "I expect so." Iskinder picked up his menu. "And enough of business and gossip for tonight. Let's enjoy ourselves."

  "Because tomorrow we talk to Dr. Tesla," Jerry said, and Alma lifted her glass in acknowledgement.

  There was a shot and a scream. With that, Detective Story ended. "To be continued next week at the same time on the same station," the radio announcer intoned solemnly.

  Sitting in the chair by the window, Lewis frowned. "I hope that wasn't Flora who got shot."

  "It was probably Stanley," Stasi said. She stretched on the couch next to Mitch, rummaged in his pocket and fished out his box of Camels. He reached in his other pocket and presented his lighter. He flicked it and she bent to light the cigarette, half leaning across his lap in the process, her hair brushing against his cheek. She took the first draw and then settled back, still leaning on his shoulder.

  "It might have been Stanley," Lewis said.

  The swelling strains of big band music came up. "And now, all the way from Chicago and the Crystal Ballroom, Canada's finest export! Ladies and gentlemen, Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadian Orchestra!" The tune was Stardust, sweet and lush and full and romantic.

  "Stanley's sort of extra," Mitch said. "It was probably Stanley. That sounded like Flora screaming." He handed Stasi the ashtray, which she balanced on his thigh. It was awfully comfortable to sit like that, even if she did use him as an auxiliary sofa.

  Lewis stood up, stretching pointedly. "Gosh, I'm tired. I think I'm going to go turn in."

  "Good night, Lewis," Stasi said.

  "Good night," Mitch said. It was nice of Lewis to clear out, leaving them cuddled on the couch listening to Stardust. He probably still felt bad about the other night.

  Lewis went upstairs, the light going on in the hall above punctuated by the sound of the bathroom door opening. Stasi took another long draw of her cigarette, the tension in her thin shoulders easing a little, her left elbow in his ribs. It was nice to sit like that, in the little bubble of the lamp on the table and the radio.

  Sometimes in a quiet moment he could surprise her into truth, get something that wasn't
a big story, and there was something he ought to know, just a yes or no answer at least. "Are you married?" Mitch asked.

  "Not anymore." She blew the smoke away from him, the creases at the corners of her mouth delineated by fading lipstick, and he thought that was all she'd say for a long moment. "He was arrested and shot." Her voice was perfectly flat, her eyes on the radio as though she could see the music.

  And there wasn't much answer to that, nothing right to say, not when he'd asked something that hurt like that. I'm sorry? Gosh, that's too bad? How horrible? Wow, that must feel awful?

  Stasi smiled, a patently insincere smile. "How about you, darling? Are you married?"

  "I don't think so," Mitch said. He was still looking for the right thing to say. The Red Terror or the White Terror?

  "You don't think so?"

  "You know there's about a year of my life I don't remember," he said. "You scared me to death, checking into that hotel in New Orleans as Mrs. Sorley. I don't remember getting married, but…." He shrugged. "Apparently there was a lot about that year I don't remember."

  "Well, I expect she'd have turned up to claim a share of the race winnings if Mrs. Sorley existed," Stasi said practically. She took another draw. And that was that for her truth. She'd changed the subject thoroughly, and he couldn't exactly pursue. Whatever it was he should have said, the moment was past.

  "I expect so," Mitch said. He didn't remember, and he probably never would. And that was a thing she ought to know. "You know I'm crazy, right?" he asked quietly.

  "I had noticed," Stasi said. She glanced at him sideways. "It was the amnesiac fugue that gave me a clue. But you seem pretty harmless. We're all crazy, darling. It could be a lot worse. If the worst thing you do is go on a bender every few years and ride up and down streetcar lines dead drunk and not remembering your own name, that's really fairly mild as a neurosis." She lifted the cigarette. "I suppose if you get lost I'll just have to haul you home again. Rather inconvenient, like having a dog that gets out."

  "Planning to put a tag on my collar?"

  "If that's what it takes." She smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. "If lost, call… I wonder what sort of dog you'd be," she said speculatively. "Some sort of large, hound dog."

  "A Plot Hound," Mitch said.

  "What's a Plot Hound?"

  "It's a hunting dog from North Carolina. Big dog. They're smart but real laid back. Gentle dogs, but they hunt bears."

  "That seems about right." Stasi curled on his arm again, tapping her ash into the dish. "I, on the other hand, am a cat."

  "A Siamese," Mitch said. "Elegant, talkative, and very, very rare."

  Stasi beamed. "Why, thank you, darling!"

  "They're beautiful cats."

  "I'm glad you think so."

  The phone rang. Its jangling cut across whatever he might have said next. "Damn it," Mitch said, shifting ashtray and Stasi off and hurrying up to get it. Surely not another crash. Surely. Please God not. "Hello?"

  "Is Mitchell Sorley there?" It was Colonel Sampson's voice.

  "This is Sorley."

  "We've sent out an advisory to all airfields in the West warning of a navigation hazard," Sampson said. "It's an advisory. We don't actually have any authority to forbid planes to go over those coordinates, but hopefully the commercial lines will take heed."

  "I expect they will," Mitch said. "Certainly I'd pay attention."

  "Well, not every jockey will," Sampson said. "You know the type. Warnings are for other people. But at least it's something."

  "It's the best we can do," Mitch said. "And that's a lot."

  Chapter Ten

  New York

  December 17, 1932

  Alma sipped a fresh cup of the Astoria's excellent coffee, wiggling her toes in her heavy stockings and sensible pumps. It wasn't as cold in New York as it had been in Colorado, but there was a dampness to the air that seemed to cut through her nice clothes. Jerry reluctantly set aside the last of his paper and pushed aside his empty plate.

  "Iskinder says Barstow promises to talk to Judson today, with a big enough offer to make it worth his while to answer. And I telephoned Dr. Tesla this morning, and he said he'd see us at eleven."

  "That's good," Alma said. "I can't help hoping he could just tell me what to do about this thing of his."

  "He told me it was too dangerous to try that," Jerry answered. "And don't look at me like that. I don't deny it's completely possible he'll take one look at you and decide you'd understand perfectly. I'm just telling you what he said."

  Alma grinned, but sobered quickly. "I was just thinking it's a long trip for a man who must be, what, seventy-three? Seventy-four? I'd spare him that if I could."

  "He was willing to take the train, provided we got him a first class ticket. I think he'll be ok."

  "I hope so," Alma said. "Did he really say this was a death ray? That just doesn't seem like him."

  "Iskinder said Tesla had spoken to his government about selling them a death ray," Jerry answered. "So presumably that means he's working on one? Or has worked on one? But from what he said, I don't think this thing was supposed to be it."

  "Well, that's something," Alma said, and couldn't help feeling a bit relieved. She'd always liked Tesla — he'd seemed like a nice old man, though now that she thought about it, he'd probably been about the same age that she was now. To a nine-year-old, though, he'd seemed ancient, and the devices in his lab had seemed as much like magic as science. She still remembered the cavernous room with the transmitter at the back, trying not to jump as Tesla drew enormous sparks from it, directing them with apparently casual waves of his hands. She'd been allowed to hold the special wireless lamp, parading around the lab and outside into the yard to demonstrate that it really was wireless and really did light up anywhere, drawing power from the air around them without harming her in the slightest.

  And then there had been the day that he'd somehow electrified the butterflies — a cloudy day, early in the summer, warm air rising from the valley, and she'd snuck off to the lab after breakfast to stop awestruck halfway through the hole in the back fence. There must have been two dozen of the bright gold butterflies, fluttering around the flowering weeds beside the fence, and each one of them glowed vivid blue, their wings haloed with the same lightning she'd seen inside the lab, only steady and apparently harmless. She'd stood amazed, both hands over her mouth to keep from shouting her delight, and as the haloes faded, she'd looked toward the lab to see Tesla standing in the back door, the same amazed excitement on his face. The butterflies had swept away, carried off on a sudden breeze, and Tesla put his finger to his lips, enjoining secrecy.

  "I'm sure he had no idea this thing might cause problems," Jerry said. "After all, he built it, what, thirty years ago? They didn't even have aircraft then, never mind the kind of sophisticated instruments you have now."

  "And it's enormous," Alma said. "It would have been horribly expensive to dismantle, why not just leave it in place? Let whoever leased or bought the mine property after him deal with it."

  "Except that now it's turned on." Jerry shook his head. "I still think that wasn't the brightest idea. Though I supposed he couldn't have predicted what would happen with radio, either."

  "No." The waiter brought the check, and Alma waited until he was out of sight before sliding it from under Jerry's elbow. If he hadn't grabbed it, that meant he didn't have the money, and Iskinder had been adamant that she put her meals onto the bill.

  "Thanks," Jerry said, his mouth wry, and Alma shrugged.

  "Thank Iskinder."

  "I owe him kind of a lot just at the moment," Jerry muttered.

  There was nothing Alma could say to that, and she gathered up purse and gloves. "I'm glad you like Dr. Tesla, Jerry."

  He blinked, then managed a smile. "I do. Though I'm damned if I could say exactly why."

  Tesla lived in a modern residential hotel by Pennsylvania Station, and Alma couldn't help staring as they rode the elevator up to Tesla's
suite. It was the sort of place you saw in the movies, and in spite of the mink she felt tall and awkward and unfashionable. Even the elevator boy seemed more confident than she felt and she straightened her spine. She was Alma Gilchrist Segura, winner of the Great Passenger Derby, and that ought to be enough for anyone.

  The man who opened the door for them was unmistakably Tesla, tall and lean in his well-cut suit, his hair white at the temples, but still dark elsewhere. She blinked, startled — he had shaved his mustache to keep up with fashion, but otherwise he was almost unreasonably unchanged — and she saw him frown slightly as Jerry introduced them.

  "Forgive me, Mrs. Segura," he said, "but you look familiar."

  "I grew up in Colorado Springs," Alma began, and Tesla smiled.

  "Alma Sullivan? Sergeant Sullivan's daughter?"

  "That's right." It was very hard not to say 'yes, sir,' as she had done when she was nine, and she thought she saw amusement in his eyes.

  "Good heavens. And now you're the lady who won the Great Passenger Derby. I suppose I shouldn't be at all surprised."

  "Thank you," Alma said.

  "But come in, come in." Tesla waved them toward the suite's living area, where a uniformed waitress was standing by a service cart. "I took the liberty of ordering coffee and a few of the excellent pastries from the Florentine room, and if you wouldn't mind pouring, Mrs. Segura, I believe we can dispense with Doris, here."

  "Of course," Alma said, and took the chair next to the cart. The waitress bobbed a sort of curtsy and let herself out, and Alma turned her attention to the coffee pot and the stack of little plates. She got them all served without mishap and added cream to her own coffee. "Dr. Ballard told you why we're here, Dr. Tesla?"

  Tesla nodded, sipping carefully at his own cup. "He did. And I have to say, I'm somewhat surprised to hear of these events. I'm not entirely sure I can develop a theory that would allow for such a violent reaction."