Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (127 page)

"Mitch?" Stasi called from the mine office. "I think you should take a look at this, darling."

"I wonder what she found," Lewis said, and they made their way in to see. There on the dusty table that had no doubt once held the mine's books was a radio.

"Huh," Mitch said.

It was an old set, the kind Lewis remembered from his childhood, but it looked like it was all in one piece. Mitch went down on one knee to inspect it. "It has power," he said.

"I wonder if it's got an antenna," Lewis said. His eyes traced the wires where they went into the wall. "I bet it's set up to transmit."

"Why would you put a radio in the mine office?" Stasi asked.

Mitch shrugged. "Tesla wanted to talk to somebody. Maybe to his lab back in town. I don't know. Thirty years ago there weren't a lot of radios out here, and there sure weren't stations transmitting like there are today. But it looks like it probably works."

Lewis took the headset off the hook and put it on, the worn leather cracked against his ears, tuning for KFXF in Denver. Suddenly the music came in loud and sweet, Bing Crosby singing Broken Hearted Me. "Loud and clear," he said.

Stasi frowned. "Tesla liked to dance?"

"This means we're not cut off," Mitch said. "We can radio out if we need to."

With a screech the music cut off in a rising wail of static.

Stasi looked out the door. "The machine is powering up!"

"Turn it off!" Mitch said, snapping the radio off. "It might be triggered by radio!"

"It's not stopping!" Stasi's eyes were wide, and Lewis hurried to the door too. The thing in the middle of the floor was glowing, rising webs of light dancing around the globe in the center, brighter and brighter, shifting toward ultraviolet.

"What the hell?" Mitch said.

There was a low thrumming noise, felt as much as heard, and the hairs on the backs of Lewis's hands stood on end.

"Get down!" Mitch said, grabbing Stasi's arm and dragging her to the floor. "Ground yourself as much as possible. And don't touch anything metal!"

Lewis threw himself flat on the weathered boards, his feet somewhere around Stasi's head. "It's going to discharge!" he yelled. His hair was standing on end now, lights like St. Elmo's fire dancing around the exposed metal of the struts, like standing in the middle of a field with a thunderstorm bearing down, ionized air rushing past him.

Stasi squeaked. The noise rose in a crescendo, the lights flickering almost painfully bright. Lewis squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into the boards, heart racing.

There was a sudden flash, bright enough to leave an impression behind closed eyelids, the roar of thunder coming after almost instantly, like standing next to a near lightning strike. And then quiet.

Lewis opened his eyes. The machine sat there silent and dark. The air smelled like ozone.

"What the hell," Mitch said, raising his head. His hair was covered in dust.

Stasi's eyes were wide.

"It's lightning," Lewis said. "It's creating a lightning strike. That's what happened to us and Rayburn. It would jump to anything metal that was above it, like an airplane. Jesus Christ."

"Did the radio do it?" Stasi asked. She picked herself up to a sitting position.

"Maybe. I don't know," Mitch said. "But I think we'd better leave the radio alone just in case."

"I'm with you on that," Lewis said fervently.

T
he Dude bored west at its normal cruising speed. Alma kept her hands away from the throttle, despite the temptation to push it forward, bring them home at closer to the Dude's top speed. But that would just waste fuel, and there was no need for that, not yet. The headwind had diminished significantly from yesterday, and the air was generally calmer. She had the Dude at six thousand feet, between a patchy layer of clouds that did nothing to hide her big landmarks, and a haze of ice crystals far above them, and she made herself relax into the rhythm of the flight. She'd sent the telegram, and Mitch and Lewis would know what to do — get the sheriff to help out, stop somebody stealing scrap out of the Silver Bullet. They might even be able to get the Reserves involved, if they were lucky. It would all be fine.

Jerry was drowsing in the co-pilot's seat, as though he hadn't gotten enough sleep the night before, and she touched her stomach for reassurance. She couldn't help thinking about Gil, about the last time, and she couldn't decide if she wanted to kick him or kiss him. Maybe both, she thought, and guessed Jerry would have been happy to help either way. Only Gil would have leaped to that solution.

She glanced over her shoulder. Tesla was settled comfortably in his seat, one of the blankets tucked around his legs, reading what looked like a very serious journal. If he'd only mentioned earlier that people might be after his death ray, or that the thing in the mine was a version of the death ray — though she supposed she might have guessed that, considering its results. She shivered then, in spite of the mink cuddling her. It was an ugly thought, machines like the Silver Bullet strung out across the countryside, waiting to strike down attacking aircraft. It was an answer to bombers, she supposed, but — not a good one.

She looked out the windshield again, picking out the broad line of the Platte River off her starboard wing. She'd decided to stay on the northern course rather than cut cross country and risk hitting the tail of the storm. Not much further now, and she reached for the radio, adjusting the dials to the frequency for the North Platte field.

Jerry stirred at the movement, opening his eyes. "North Platte?"

"In about half an hour." Alma glanced back into the cabin again. Tesla had discarded his journal, was jotting notes in his morocco leather case, mechanical pencil flying. "I don't know what anyone thinks they could do with the death ray, or whatever it is. It's enormous — it must be four stories tall. I don't know how you'd be able to dismantle it without somebody noticing."

"That would be nice," Jerry said.

"You don't think so."

He shook his head. "You said yourself that it looked a lot like some of Tesla's other devices. I'm guessing there are a few key components that you'd want to take and then the rest you could build from a good set of photographs and Tesla's notes on his other machines."

Alma grimaced. It had been a faint hope at best. "Well, let's hope Lewis and Mitch figure out something to do about it."

"They can call the sheriff," Jerry said, but he sounded as doubtful as she felt.

"And tell them what? Spies are stealing a death ray?"

"Somebody's looting what's left of the mine," Jerry said. "I know, it's not much, but it's something."

"Maybe Mitch can get Colonel Sampson to do something," Alma said and reached for the radio, cutting off any answer Jerry might have made.

There wasn't a lot of traffic at North Platte in the middle of the day. Alma got the fuel truck set up and made her way across the tarmac to the main terminal. It was quiet, too, even the coffee shop empty, the waitress perched on the end stool reading a magazine, and Alma's shoes were loud on the linoleum as she made her way to the manager's office. The door was closed, but there was a light on behind the pebbled glass, and she tapped gently on the frame. She heard rustling, and then the door opened, the manager still settling his coat on his shoulders.

"Can I help you? It's Mrs. Segura, isn't it?"

"That's right. I think you have a telegram for me."

"Telegram?" The manager shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Segura, not that I've seen. But let me check, just to be sure."

He pawed through the handful of papers on his desk, then leaned into a second, smaller office. "Sybil? Have we gotten any telegrams today?"

There was an indistinct murmur, and then an older woman appeared, shaking her head. "Not today. Were we expecting one?"

"I was hoping for one," Alma said.

"Sybil, this is Mrs. Segura, of Gilchrist Aviation," the manager said. "My wife, Mrs. Thomsen."

"Oh, my." Sybil wiped her hands nervously on her skirt and took the hand Alma extended. "It's a pleasure — a real honor, Mrs. Segura."

"Thank you," Alma said. "I sent a telegram from Cedar Rapids this morning, asking them to answer here, and — well, I thought it would be here by now."

"The boy hasn't been out today," Sybil said. "And the mail's been and all. I'll run up to the tower, though, and see if somebody got lazy and radioed it."

"That's a good idea, Syb," the manager said, and the woman hurried away.

"I'll just see about getting some coffee," Alma said, and turned back to the coffee shop.

Jerry was there ahead of her, the Dude's shiny new thermos unstoppered on the counter while a fresh pot brewed and the waitress sliced up ham for sandwiches. "Any news?"

Alma shook her head. "Nothing."

"Damn."

"Surely they got it already," Alma said.

"Maybe not." The sandwiches were finished, and Jerry reached into his pocket for his wallet. "Even Western Union has delays. Or if Mitch and Lewis were out on a job —"

"Stasi could phone Western Union with the answer," Alma said. "Everybody knows how to do that."

Jerry nodded, his eyes grave behind his glasses.

"Mrs. Segura?" Sybil Thomsen came hurrying across the lobby. "I spoke to the boys in the tower, and they said they haven't gotten anything, either. Sometimes the boys in town get lazy, they don't want to bike all the way out here, so they radio the messages. But not today."

"Thank you for checking," Alma said. Her mouth felt stiff, as though she were cold.

"I told them you were expecting a message, and they said they'd radio if one came in, as long as you were still in range."

Alma caught her breath. "That's very kind of you."

"It sounds important," the other woman said, with frank curiosity.

"I just need to know if they got my telegram," Alma said.

"Then we'll know what to do," Jerry added, with a smile. He slid a dollar across the counter and waved away the change. "The fuel should be loaded by now."

"Yes," Alma said, and managed a smile for Mrs. Thomsen. "Thank you for all your help. I really appreciate it."

They made their way back to the Dude in silence, and Alma concentrated on her checklist. The field mechanic helped started the engine, and she taxied slowly alongside the runway, automatically checking the windsock and the empty sky over the field.

"Gilchrist, this is North Platte Tower," a bored voice said in her ear. "You're clear for takeoff."

"Tower, this is Gilchrist. Roger that — you don't have any messages for me?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Segura."

"Thanks anyway." She took a breath, made herself sound firmly professional again. "Gilchrist ready for takeoff."

"Roger that. Have a good flight."

Alma lined the Dude up on the runway and advanced the throttle, automatically compensating for the increased weight of fuel. Plenty of fuel to get them home, even fuel to waste if she wanted to make better time. She left that thought unresolved, concentrating on the feel of the controls, the lift on the wings. The Dude rose eagerly, and she turned west again, following the line of the South Platte River. She could follow that to Greeley and cut south to Denver, or strike out cross country after they passed Sterling — probably the latter, she thought. Maybe they just didn't get the telegram, or maybe they hadn't had a chance to answer her, for whatever reason. But she wanted to be home.

I
t was a few minutes after eleven by Stasi's watch. She unwrapped some peanut butter crackers and considered them carefully. Or rather she considered the Death Ray carefully while eating peanut butter. It had powered up again at five until ten after its first run at ten after eight and they'd all taken shelter in the minehead while it discharged again. They were further away, but it was no less alarming. And Stasi began to wonder. "The proof," she said, "is in the pudding."

Lewis looked around from where he was keeping watch through one of the broken windows, watching for Kirsch and his boys. "What pudding?"

"The second time," she said slowly, "We didn't touch the radio. And it went off anyway."

"Yeah." Lewis frowned like he wasn't sure what she was getting at.

Stasi licked peanut butter off her fingertips. "Don't electrical things…like clouds…build up a charge? Like combing a cat?"

Lewis blinked. "Why would you comb a cat?"

Mitch came out of the office, glancing up at Tesla's device, which for the moment was not doing anything. "To make it spark with static electricity," he said. "It scared my little sisters." Mitch grinned.

"Exactly," Stasi beamed. "But doesn't that work because it builds up or something?"

"Sure." Mitch reached for the wax paper packet of crackers. "Static electricity builds up a charge when you comb a cat. Just like it does on the wings of a plane when the atmospheric conditions are right."

"How long does it take?" Stasi asked.

Mitch shrugged. "It depends on the weather."

"But it's some predictable amount of time?"

Lewis put his head to the side. "So you're saying that Tesla's machine builds up a charge and then discharges, rather than it's discharging from the battery?"

"I'm just wondering," Stasi said. "The second time we weren't touching anything. We weren't even near it. But it was an hour and three quarters later. If it is building up and discharging, wouldn't it do it again at about twenty till twelve?"