Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (121 page)

"If we just break it," Alma said, thoughtfully.

Jerry nodded, and handed her the box. "We break the spell, possibly wake everyone up, and we have to explain what we're doing here trying to get out the fire escape. I'd rather try something more subtle."

"Go ahead," Alma answered.

Iskinder left them to it, and went back to the main door. He eased it open, peering down the hall to see the darkness thick at the top of the stairs. Possibly something moved at its base, and he closed the door again, snapping all three locks and throwing the bolt for good measure.

"It's at the stairs," he said quietly, and Alma nodded.

"Almost there," Jerry muttered. "Almost." He closed his eyes. "Oh you who are the Light and the Sons of Light, You who parted the waters and led Moses into safety, grant me the power to part these strands of darkness and bring us safe into the light." He opened his eyes, and touched a corner of the grid. "Aleph." He touched another, and another, tracing the shape of a six-pointed star. "Beth, gimel, daleth, he, waw."

For an instant, a trail of light hung in the air, and then the paint that had sealed the window shattered, covering them with pale green flakes. Jerry pulled the window the rest of the way open, and held out his hand to Alma. "After you."

"Iskinder first," Alma said, and Iskinder hurried to obey. He eased himself out onto the platform, found the brake that held the chain, and lowered the stairs to the ground, wincing at the noise. He held out his hand to Alma, who clambered out easily, and then they both helped Jerry drag himself awkwardly through the window frame. At least it was stairs and not a ladder, Iskinder thought, and closed the window behind him.

"This way," Alma said, and started down the stairs. Iskinder followed, knowing Jerry wouldn't want help but braced to catch him anyway, and saw Alma stiffen as she reached the ground ahead of him. "Damn."

"What?"

"There's a man," she said.

"Pelley's?" Iskinder began, and saw the man skid to a stop at the head of the alley. He reached into his pocket, but instead of a gun he pulled out something like a short wand.

"Oh, no, you don't," Alma said, and put her hands out to her side, palms extended toward the earth. Iskinder felt the asphalt shudder and heave, and a wave of earth knocked the man off his feet. Iskinder lunged for the wand before the man could recover, grabbed it up and then kicked him in the groin.

"Nice," Jerry said, breathing hard, and Iskinder looked at both of them.

"We should move on —"

"Not before we break this," Alma said. She looked up at the building, and Jerry took her hand.

"Unclean thing that cannot stand the light of day, the sun is risen. Begone!"

There was a snap, a flat crack of light like a flashbulb going off behind every window of the building, and the sense of pressure was abruptly gone. On the ground, Pelley's man groaned as though it had hurt him more than the kick, and Iskinder leaned over him.

"Do not meddle in my business again," he said, and the man curled protectively in on himself as though afraid of another blow.

"Let's go," Jerry said, and this time Alma let them be drawn away.

Chapter Eleven

New York

December 18, 1932

A
lma studied the weather bulletins stacked on the clipboard, one eye on the fuel truck just pulling away from the Dude. Full tanks, topped up tight: that gave her the option of taking a more northerly route, which would hopefully let them skirt the edge of the weather that was building to the west. Right now, Salt Lake City was reporting dropping pressure, and the forecast was for snow and ice to sweep across the mountains and then bring cold rain to Missouri and Tennessee before petering out in Georgia. The Weather Service wasn't making any promises about where the northern edge of the storms would fall, but it seemed as though there was a decent chance of staying north of the worst of it if she went via Chicago. There were plenty of good fields in the area, but Mitch always recommended Harlem Airport in Oak Lawn. Of course, the conservative choice would be to stay in the city until the weather cleared, but after their experience the day before, she didn't want to take the risk. Pelley had made it clear he was determined to get the medallion, and she didn't want to offer him another chance. Even if she had to put down somewhere in the Midwest, that was safer than staying here. She unclipped the most recent weather report and put it in her pocket, then went back into the terminal building.

"Mrs. Segura." That was Jennings, the day manager, bustling out from behind his counter. "Was everything all right?"

"Fine, thanks." Alma reached for her purse. "Can I get you to wire Harlem Airport for me? That's the other Harlem, outside Chicago."

Jennings smiled at the joke. "Of course, Mrs. Segura. Do you want me to reserve space for you there?"

"Please. And you can give me my bill as well."

"Of course," Jennings said again, and fished beneath the counter. He came up with several sheets of grubby paper, which he copied quickly onto a sheet printed with the field's name and address. Alma, who was used to being given ragged sheets torn off the backs of envelopes and scribbled on the backs of grocery lists, bit her lip to keep from giggling. She filled out her check while Jennings went off to send her telegram, and handed it across when he returned.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Segura. Harlem says they'll be expecting you, and will hold hangar space."

"Excellent," Alma said. "I appreciate it."

"Our pleasure," Jennings answered. "And I hope you'll stay with us the next time you're in the city…"

Jerry and Tesla were sitting together in the main waiting room, Tesla with his hands folded on the handle of a slender walking stick. Though she had told them to leave their luggage with the porter, and had seen two suitcases stowed in the baggage compartment with her own, she was somehow unsurprised to see a large satchel at Tesla's feet. Jerry had left the medallion with Iskinder, who had promised to make a noise about taking the medallion back to Ethiopia with him along with the other artifacts. Though she hated to leave Iskinder to face the music, no matter how careful he promised he would be.

"Gentlemen," she said, and they both rose at her approach. "Are you ready? We've been assigned quarter past ten for our take-off slot."

Jerry reached automatically for his watch, and she saw him relax as he realized they had more than half an hour to be ready. Tesla smiled pleasantly. "Can we say that this is a good day for flying, Mrs. Segura? I'm quite excited about this adventure."

"Today should be nice," Alma answered. "We are flying into some weather tomorrow, but I'm hoping to stay north of it. We'll put down outside Chicago for the night."

Jerry nodded, and stooped to pick up Tesla's bag.

"No, no, Dr. Ballard," Tesla began, and Jerry said, "No, I insist."

His eyebrows rose then, and Alma cocked her head in question.

"This is fairly weighty," he said, cautiously.

"Just a few things I thought I might need," Tesla said. "Things you won't find in the average machine shop — though I suspect yours is better prepared than most, Mrs. Segura."

Alma reached for the bag, hefted it with the ease of long practice. It probably weighed thirty pounds, but Tesla's suitcase had weighed only fourteen when she supervised the loading. "That should be fine," she said, and Jerry retrieved it. "We'll just make sure it's tucked snugly so it doesn't shift."

Jerry nodded again, and they started toward the plane. Alma unlocked the door and folded down the steps, then waited while they hauled themselves into the cabin. The Dude still seemed small after the Terrier, even though there were only two passenger seats installed at present, one on each side of the narrow aisle. She'd left out the uncomfortable bench seat that ran across the back of the cabin, and there were still a couple of cargo straps left over from some trip of Lewis's. She used one of them to secure Tesla's satchel along the plane's midline.

"If you need something, just open the bag, don't unfasten it."

Tesla nodded. "That's very clever. Yes, of course. And should I sit anywhere in particular?"

"Why don't you take the left-hand seat?" Alma said. "I can get you a blanket and a pillow if you'd like to nap."

"I need very little sleep, Mrs. Segura," Tesla said. "But, yes, that would be nice." He ran his hand appreciatively over the leather of the armrest as he settled himself. "Good heavens, this is very elegant. And wood paneling, as well. This is more like a liner than I imagined an airplane would be."

"This is a Kershaw Deluxe Frontiersman," Alma said. "It's a bit fancier than most."

"It's very pleasant," Tesla said, settling himself neatly.

Alma fetched him a blanket and pillow, wishing they'd had time to have them monogrammed with the company initials the way Mitch had suggested, then climbed into the pilot's seat. Jerry took the copilot's seat. He'd brought newspapers and what looked like an academic journal, and busied himself with them while she ran down the final checklist. One of the field mechanics helped her start the engine, and then it was time to taxi out onto the main field. The radio crackled, the Tower's voice in her ear steering her onto the runway and giving clearance, and she turned into the wind, pointing the Dude's nose toward Jamaica Bay.

She revved the engine, letting the power build, then released the brakes. The Dude arrowed down the beautifully smooth concrete, not a crack or a bump to mar the run. The tail popped up; she pulled back on the wheel, and the Dude soared into the watery sunlight as though it, too, was eager to get home. She was grinning, and she didn't care, lost in the simple pleasure of flight.

The radio crackled, reminding her of her heading. She reached for the microphone to acknowledge, and put the Dude into a shallow bank, turning west and north. Manhattan sprawled below the down-pointing wing, all roofs and spires, the streets in shadow. They flashed past Central Park as she straightened and she glanced back to see Tesla pressed close to his window, peering down in obvious fascination. Happiness swelled in her — she was glad to be going home, to have escaped Pelley's trap; glad to be bringing Jerry back with her, even glad to see Tesla's pleasure — and she took a long breath, savoring it, before she turned her attention back to the controls.

T
he miles ticked away, morning turning to afternoon, the sun off their left wing to the south at this time of year. Alma looked over at Jerry, who had put away his paper and journal to enjoy the winter sunlight. "What's Dr. Tesla doing?"

Jerry glanced back through the cockpit door to where Tesla lay back in his seat, his hands folded across the breast of his three-piece suit as though he were practicing for his funeral. "Napping. I think."

Alma didn't even ask what "I think" meant. But then she'd known Tesla when she was a child. "I hope he knows what to do to turn the machine off when we get there," Alma said. "Because I certainly don't."

"He ought to," Jerry said. He frowned out the front window of the Dude at the line of the horizon obscured by the snow cover, white ground and white sky.

"The medallion," Alma said.

"Iskinder will keep it safe."

And that quick answer meant Jerry was just as worried as she was. She released the wheel long enough to touch his shoulder gently, then settled back to her comfortable slouch. "You said the tomb of Alexander the Great was lost. How'd that happen?"

"That's a really good question," Jerry said. "It drops out of the historical record sometime around 300 AD. Misplaced, which is frankly mysterious. A major landmark in the center of a city, a big tourist attraction known to everyone — how do you lose something like that? It's like losing the Statue of Liberty or the Washington Monument. Even if they were destroyed by war or in an earthquake or something it's not as though people would suddenly forget they ever existed. But somehow the Soma — the tomb — was lost. People forgot where it was sometime after Septimius Severus closed it to the public, having first stored within the tombs all the 'books of magic' collected from other temples."

Alma shot him a look. "Books of magic?"

Jerry shrugged. "That's what the Roman writers say. And they remain intriguingly mum on what the books were. Sacred scrolls? Early Hermetic texts? Copies of the Book of the Dead? We have no idea. All we know is that the tomb was sealed and subsequently lost."

"Maybe that's what Pelley's looking for."

"It's certainly possible."

They flew on in silence for another few miles, snow-patched farmland crawling past beneath the wing. It was hard to imagine losing something like what Jerry was describing, especially if it was a famous landmark — famous enough to be put on the souvenirs sold to passing tourists. "Could it have been destroyed?" she asked.

"Maybe so," Jerry conceded. "It might have been destroyed in an earthquake. It might have been destroyed by the Christian mobs that looted the Serapeum. But if so, why doesn't anyone say so? The Church Fathers danced on the ruins of the Serapeum, proclaiming to all the world that pagan Egypt lay dead. Surely if they had likewise destroyed one of the greatest cult sites in the ancient world, somebody would have mentioned it! And ditto the earthquake idea. If the Statue of Liberty were destroyed in a natural disaster, surely lots of people would write about it. St. John Chrysostom wrote around 400 AD, 'tell me where is the tomb of Alexander? Show me. Tell me on which day he died.' He talks about it like it's unknown in only fifty years or so. If the Statue of Liberty fell down tomorrow, do you think in 1982 nobody would have any idea where it had been?"

"That doesn't make any sense," Alma said. There was a wrinkle between her brows.

"It doesn't," Jerry said. "And so that leaves us with the intriguing possibility that the tomb still exists, hidden somewhere beneath modern Alexandria."