Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (49 page)

"There's no money to pay the teachers," Jerry said. "No money to heat the building, either, so the school board's closing down until spring."

"Which puts us into planting season," Alma said. "So they probably won't start up again until the fall."

Jerry nodded.

"Oh, Jer," she said again.

"I've got other options," he said, though the words felt hollow. "Reviews, the occasional article, translations — there's still work out there for a specialist." Except that there were half a hundred specialists in exactly the same things competing for those jobs, and most of them were in Chicago or Cambridge, not Colorado Springs. "It's people like Catherine Holton and Martha Betts that I feel sorry for."

Alma nodded. They all knew who'd been out of work for a year, who was pawning the family radio, whose watch no longer had a chain or fob.

"And it's not as though I particularly love teaching high school," Jerry said. He couldn't seem to stop talking, as though he might convince himself. "I won't be sorry to see the backs of a few of those boys."

Alma turned to the sideboard, where the decanter stood half full. It wasn't good whiskey, exactly, but it was better than the local homebrew Mitch usually scrounged for them. She poured them each two fingers of neat spirit. Jerry lowered himself into the chair by the radio and took the proffered glass. His stump was aching, and he took a long swallow.

"Say," Alma said, and sat up straighter in the chair opposite. "This means — Jerry, there's no reason now that you can't be our designated passenger."

Jerry blinked. He'd resigned himself to not being part of the air race, done his best to pretend he didn't hate being left behind, and now — Alma was right, there was nothing to keep him here. "Every other team is going to be bringing some one hundred pound starlet," he said, scrupulously. "Not only are they a good deal more photogenic, but I weigh nearly twice that. Every ounce could make a difference, Al."

"Leave that to me and Mitch. You've got other advantages."

"Let's hope we don't need them," Jerry said, and felt his heart lift in spite of everything.

Chapter Three

O
n February 25th they took off to fly to California, spending the night in Las Vegas along the way, because this time they weren’t flying into Grand Central but a bit beyond, to the private field at Henry’s hacienda outside the city. There were no lights there, no flagman unless Henry detailed someone to meet them or, even less likely, deigned to wave them down himself, and there was no point risking a landing at dusk, not when even a small miscalculation would bring them in after full dark. At best that would force them to divert to Grand Central, and no one wanted to make them look bad just when Henry was ramping up the publicity for the race.

All of these were things that Jerry understood, even though he wasn’t a pilot and never would be one. He’d begun as a scholar, a classicist, survived the Great War as an artillery officer, and even before they’d had to amputate his foot and most of the lower leg, he’d meant it when he told Gil he had no desire to learn to fly. He’d always been happy to leave that to Gil, and then to Gil and Alma, and now to Alma and Mitch and Lewis. That was what they were good at; his skills lay elsewhere.

In research, for one. He refolded the last of the newspapers he’d bought in Las Vegas, a New York Daily Mirror only a day old, studying Winchell’s column. Winchell was already talking up the race, and most of his jibes seemed to be reserved for the amateurs from Fair Harvard — “Charles Parker Salstonstall, George Peter Newhouse, Miss May Saltsonstall, and Rob-Roy McIsaac… guess which one didn’t go to Harvard, boys and girls… and it’s not the lady!” — but they were bound to draw his eye eventually, if only because Alma was leading the team.

The pitch of the engine changed, the plane tilting in a wide turn, and Jerry glanced out the window to see a tile-roofed house passing below the wing. It looked enormous, three wings and what looked like a stable forming a square around a verdant inner courtyard, and Jerry shook his head again at the amount of money involved. Henry had lost a bundle on his failed airship, and it was hard to believe he was selling many airplanes these days, but he still seemed to be doing all right. Which was a good thing, if it meant he could sponsor them in the race.

The Terrier tipped again, swinging around over the house a second time, and Lewis leaned across the aisle.

“We’ll be landing soon.”

“Yeah.” Jerry ground out his cigarette and folded the newspapers back together. He could feel it now himself, could see the descent out the window, the dry grass rushing to meet them, the mountains a purple smudge in the distance. And then they were past the grass and onto tarmac, and he felt the lift fail as Mitch brought the plane neatly down onto the runway.

“I can’t believe Kershaw’s paved the strip,” Lewis shouted, over the noise of the engines as the plan shuddered and slowed to a decorous pace.

“I can,” Jerry said. Henry didn’t do things by halves. If he was going to have a private airstrip at his house in the country, it was going to be a good one. He’d have hangar facilities and a workshop — yes, there they were, a long low building off to one side, vanishing as Mitch turned toward it. That left him with a view of the house, also built long and low, with stucco walls and red tile roofs, small windows shuttered against the sun. It wasn’t as old as it looked, he guessed, looking at the way it fit the land around it, but it was every bit as expensive.

Mitch brought the Terrier to a halt just outside the hangar, and Lewis jumped to open the door and let down the folding stairs. The air that rushed in was dry but not as hot as Jerry had expected, smelling of dust and gasoline. He worked himself to his feet, the artificial leg tricky on the metal floor, and Mitch and Alma emerged from the cockpit, both of them looking tired but pleased.

“Everything went well?” Jerry asked, and Mitch nodded.

“She’s in pretty good shape. I’d like to tweak the motors just a little more, but — yeah. It was a good flight.”

Alma rubbed his shoulder lightly. “She ran like a dream,” she said. “Let’s not push too hard.”

“Just a tweak,” Mitch said, and Alma followed him out of the plane.

Jerry tucked his cane under his arm and levered himself carefully down the stairs, taking most of his weight on his arms. Henry was waiting, along with a man Jerry vaguely remembered as Henry’s senior shop manager. Mitch and Alma were already talking to him, Lewis hovering quietly, and after a moment he and Mitch disappeared into the hangar’s shadows. Jerry braced himself on his cane, and moved to join them, accepted Henry’s jovial handshake and a tap on the shoulder.

“Good flight, I gather.”

Jerry nodded. “From a passenger’s perspective, entirely uneventful. I read the papers most of the way.”

Henry gave him a shrewd look. “You’re getting into the spirit, I see.”

Lewis and Alma had followed Mitch and the engineer into the hangar, but Jerry hung back, lowering his voice just a little. “I thought I’d better. There’s going to be a lot of press interest in this event.”

“There is,” Henry agreed, his voice neutral.

“And a great deal of it focusing on personalities.”

“You’ve been following Winchell?”

Jerry nodded. “Of course.”

Henry gave a crooked smile. “He’ll eat Alma up. With a spoon.”

“Yeah.”

“And I’m going to let him,” Henry said. “It’s all good publicity for me.”

Jerry glanced over his shoulder, to see Alma leaning on Mitch’s shoulder, Lewis still at her back. He looked more like a bodyguard than a husband, standing there, and his frown made him look unhappily possessive rather than just tired. “Too much gossip might not be good for you,” he suggested, and Henry shrugged.

“If the press wants to turn Alma into a femme fatale — well, good luck to them. I can’t see it.” He spread his hands hastily. “Don’t get me wrong, Alma’s an attractive woman, but —”

“I expect you don’t see it because it’s not true,” Jerry said, with a bit more edge than he’d meant. They were skating on thin ice here, and he’d never known just how much Henry knew or suspected, back when they’d all been part of the same lodge. Jerry had been Gil’s lover then, Gil being Alma’s late husband; he and Alma had shared Gil until Gil’s death, a highly unconventional arrangement but one that had worked for them. And if you looked too far back into his past, there was a regrettable affair that had very nearly gotten him kicked out of school and had cost him his scholarship… But he couldn’t exactly say that out loud, so he settled for the next best thing. “But my point is, we’re going to be taking — precautions — all through the race. Nothing that would count as cheating, nothing that will influence the outcome, just — protective sigils, things like that. And we want to be free to act if we have to, without being trailed by every reporter who wants to catch one of us with his pants down.”

Henry nodded slowly. “I see that, yes. All right, I’ll do what I can —”

“If you could stick to professional opinions,” Jerry began.

“If I did that, they’d assume she was sleeping with all of you,” Henry said. “I’ll be calm and soothing and talk about how sweet it is that Alma’s found new love after being widowed so young.” He paused. “Your job will be to keep her from killing me when she reads that.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jerry said, with a grin.

H
enry had promised nothing too fancy, at least for their first night, but even so, the dinner was impressive, and Lewis was glad he’d bought a new suit for the race. Alma had a nice dress, not too fancy, but not severe, a rich rose-red that flattered her golden hair, and a matching spray of silk roses in place of a hat. Henry’s wife Mabel was far more exotic, graceful in her silk pyjama suit, and Mitch had been quick to light her cigarette and refresh her cocktail before dinner. Henry didn’t seem to mind, and if he didn’t, it was none of Lewis’s business, any more than the starlet Henry had brought on the airship trip with him. Jerry had fallen into conversation with Henry’s daughter, Rose, a tall, solemn girl with glasses who managed to make a green silk sheath look oddly dowdy. Alma and the shop manager, Nowak, were talking about the magnetos, and Lewis concentrated on the food in front of him. The roasted pork was delicious, and the corn relish was lightly touched with chiles, a flavor familiar from his childhood: a Spanish cook, he guessed, but that was no surprise, in California.

After dessert, they retreated to Henry’s lavish sitting room, where a uniformed maid brought coffee and Henry offered a selection of liqueurs. Mabel excused herself, pleading an early start the next day, and took Rose away with her, and Nowak made his departure a few minutes later. Henry leaned against the mantel, swirling the brandy in his glass, and Alma put her hands on her hips.

“All right, Henry, out with it.”

“I received the final list of entries today,” he answered, and nodded to his desk. “No surprises.”

Alma crossed to the desk, putting her drink aside, and Lewis came to join her, peering over her shoulder at the neatly type-written list. No, there weren’t any real surprises: all three of the newly-created passenger and mail lines had entered, Transcontinental and Western Air, United Aircraft and Transport, and American Airways, all flying Fords. He was a little surprised that American had managed to field a team. Less than a year ago, they’d been a collection of more than eighty small airlines, some of them no bigger than Gilchrist. It was impressive that they’d pulled themselves together. He’d heard of Consolidated Aircraft, too, and was surprised that they weren’t entering one of their own machines: Floyd Odlum was supposed to be taking an interest in them, after Transcontinental had been forced into the merger with Western. The others, though…

He stepped aside to let Mitch look, and Alma relinquished the paper to him, fixing her gaze on Henry. “Who should we be worried about?”

“All of them,” Henry answered, and Alma rolled her eyes.

“Seriously, Henry. What do you know about the smaller teams? This Jezek Corsair, for instance —

“Connie — Conrad Jezek use to work for me, and I was sorry to lose him,” Henry said. “They’re being a little cagey about their specs, and I think they had to lean on the organizers a bit to get in at all — you can’t really call it a stock plane when they’ve only built one of them — but it looks to me as though they’ve traded size for speed. They’re going to be carrying a smaller fuel load than you are, and that’s going to cost them.”

“How about Bestways?” Lewis asked. “Or Comanche?” There was something familiar about the names listed for the latter, though he couldn’t quite place them.

“I don’t know much more than what it says on their entry papers,” Henry said. “Bestways is out of the midwest, Chicago, I think. And Comanche is a bunch of Army Reserve guys from Oklahoma.”

That was where he’d heard the name. Lewis said, “If that guy Rayburn is who I think he is — I met him at a Legion meeting a while back. He’s a good pilot.”

Alma nodded, visibly filing the information. Mitch looked up from the sheet of paper. “And — Crimson Air?”

“The Fair Harvards,” Jerry said, and blinked as they all looked at him. “I’m not drunk, that’s what Winchell’s been calling them. They must’ve leaned on the organizers, too. I can’t see them being a serious aviation company.”

“That doesn’t mean they can’t fly,” Lewis said.

Jerry paused, visibly trying to remember what the gossip columnist had said. “The two boys are cousins, just out of Harvard, and they’ve been flying since the younger one was twelve.”

“And they’ve got a ringer,” Mitch said. “Isn’t Rob-Roy McIsaac the guy who used to fly liquor out of Canada for all the hot-shots in New York?”

“That’s the one,” Henry said.

“Hell of a way to go straight,” Jerry said.

Mitch put the list aside, and Lewis picked it up again, scanning the entries. Pilots aside, and they wouldn’t know how good any of these people were until they were in the air, it was the planes themselves that were going to make the difference. Five Fords, two Fokkers, and the Corsair… The Corsair was an unknown quantity and there was nothing they could do about that, though he trusted Henry when Henry said it would be carrying less fuel. The Terrier was better than the Fords, and as for the Fokkers — well, the Harvards were flying one of them, and he’d back Alma and Mitch over a bunch of college boys any day. And Bestways was small enough that they might not be able to keep the plane in top conditions, and the Fokkers were notoriously prone to problems. And that, he knew, was partly wishful thinking, but on balance he was starting to like their chances.