Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (50 page)

“There’s one other thing we need,” Alma said, looking at Henry. “You told me you wanted us to repaint in some sort of flashy scheme.”

Henry spread his hands, the remains of his brandy glinting in the warm light from the lamps. “It’s all publicity. I’ve had a couple of my people draw up some designs, nothing gaudy, but a bit brighter than raw metal —”

“I’ll paint it purple if you want,” Alma said, and Lewis saw Mitch wince. “But you don’t touch the rondels — in fact, we need to repaint them ourselves, to reinforce their protection.”

“I figured those were sigils,” Henry said. “Yes, of course, you can use the shop — I’ll tell Frank you’re making some secret modifications, that’ll keep him happy. Just don’t leave everything smelling of aftershave this time.”

Lewis felt himself blush — two years earlier, they’d borrowed Henry’s machine shop in Chicago to create protective sigils, and the only scent available to consecrate the equipment had been a bottle of Mitch’s aftershave — but Jerry laughed aloud.

“Needs must,” he said.

Alma grinned. “I expect we can be a bit more subtle this time.”

Henry lifted his glass. “A toast, then. Luck and victory.”

Lewis raised his glass and drank with the others, hoping for both.

A
lma leaned back in her chair, stretching her toes into the sun that crept onto the edge of the shaded patio. It was lovely and warm in California, when there was still snow back home; she had bought a pair of daring pumps, cut low in the toe with three thin straps across the foot, and she eyed the dark green leather with renewed admiration. Henry had insisted on supplementing their wardrobes, buying each of the men a nice new suit and casual slacks and jacket, and her a green crepe jacket-dress with the new higher waist and the pumps to match. He had wanted her to buy jodhpurs as well, for interviews, and she’d reluctantly agreed, but refused the matching middy blouse. She particularly liked the way Lewis looked in his new cream-colored suit, so she was willing to forgive Henry a great deal at the moment — well, for that and the lovely coffee. It would be far too easy to get used to living like this, sleeping in every morning, rising to a breakfast expertly cooked by a polite and attentive staff, taking her last cup of coffee out to the patio before she had to face the business of the day… Not at all like home, where only Lewis could be relied on not to burn the bacon, and where there were always grounds in the coffee no matter how many eggshells she put in the pot.

“Good morning, Mrs. Segura.”

Alma looked up to see Mabel Kershaw making her way through the French doors, elegant in wide-legged trousers, her hair held back in a silk scarf. She held a cup of coffee, too, and settled herself in the chair next to Alma, smiling pleasantly.

“You don’t mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” Alma said, already marshaling her excuses, and Mabel took a long drink of her coffee.

“Henry said he took all of you on a shopping trip yesterday.”

“Yes,” Alma said, and extended her foot. It was size nine and a half, but the pump managed to make it look elegant.

Mabel nodded appreciatively. “Oh, that’s nice! I do like those — you won’t mind if I pick up a pair, will you?”

“Not at all,” Alma answered, surprised and rather touched. That was unexpectedly gracious, and hardly necessary, and she found herself warming to the other woman.

“It occurred to me — my beautician’s coming today,” Mabel said. “And I thought you might like her to cut your hair, too.”

Alma paused. “That’s very nice of you,” she said, carefully.

Mabel set her cup down and leaned forward. “Please don’t be offended. I don’t mean that I think you need it, or — anything bad.” She sounded suddenly younger, less sure of herself. “It’s just that there are going to be so many reporters and the newsreels and everything, I thought you might like to get a proper cut before the race starts. It’s not like for the men, they can just go to the nearest barber shop.”

“I doubt Mr. Kershaw does that,” Alma said, and Mabel gave a sudden grin.

“No, he most certainly does not. And his manicurist is more expensive than mine.” She sobered abruptly. “It matters how you look out here, Mrs. Segura. Especially with the press involved. The better you look, the better you’ll be treated.”

That was probably true, Alma thought. She’d seen it in the way reporters covered society gossip, though that was more Jerry’s hobby than her own. She’d been willing to paint the Terrier any outlandish color Henry wanted, for the sake of the race; surely a Hollywood hairstyle was a lesser sacrifice? “It’ll have to be something I can manage without setting,” she said.

Mabel nodded. “Dolores is a genius. She’ll be here at three.”

Dolores turned out to be a stout elegant woman in a neat blue suit, with delicately tinted nails and unobtrusive makeup. She had brought a pair of younger women to help out, and Alma let them pamper her with orange-blossom shampoo and a foot massage. By the time those were done, she was relaxed and agreeable, happy to let Rita paint her toenails, though she turned down the manicure with only mild regret.

“I can’t keep my nails in any kind of shape,” she said, glancing up at Dolores. “And whatever you do with my hair, it has to be something I can take care of — that I can make look good — on the road.”

Dolores nodded seriously. “Yes, Mrs. Kershaw explained that you will be in the Passenger Derby, Mrs. Segura. I am seeing — something not so very different from what you are wearing now, just a bit updated. More suitable to a world traveler.”

Alma grinned at that, but leaned back and let her get to work.

When they were finished, her hair washed and cut and styled, makeup applied with a feather’s touch by pertly smiling Olive, she stared at her reflection in the mirror with some surprise. It really wasn’t all that different, just a little change in the angles that framed her face, and yet the woman who looked back at her was somehow much more sophisticated, even elegant.

“You must keep the lipstick,” Dolores said, very seriously. “It is not an easy color to find, and it becomes you.”

“Lipstick and powder will take you everywhere,” Mabel agreed.

Alma didn’t try very hard to refuse, but as she changed for dinner, she regarded her new self warily in the long mirror. She only hoped Lewis liked it.

She paused at the top of the two steps that led down to the dining room, bracing herself, and Mitch turned with a whistle.

“Yowza.”

Jerry peered over the tops of his glasses, looking slightly stunned, and Lewis came to offer his arm, neat in his new pale suit.

“You look gorgeous,” he said, low-voiced, and she tucked her hand into his elbow with a quick grin.

“A new look for the race.”

“You’ll be the best-looking pilot in the bunch, that’s for sure,” Mitch said, and the bell sounded for dinner.

“I hope she knows what you’re getting her into,” Mabel Kershaw said softly behind her, to Henry, but Lewis drew them away before Alma could decide whether to respond.

T
he California sun was warm though it was only March, and Lewis took his jacket off the moment he got in the hangar. The good thing about working on the Terrier in Henry's hangar was that it was top-notch. There was every piece of equipment you might want, and all of it was good and worked right. Also, since Kershaw had built the Terrier, there was no making do with parts intended for a Fokker or a Ford. Everything was factory sharp, just what the boss ordered.

The bad thing was that there were always people hanging around. Henry had a shop manager, one of his senior mechanics. A bunch of his designers worked out of this hangar. And he had a full crew all the time, tending to a couple of other planes either pre or post production. The Gilchrist Terrier that was going to be in the air race was a source of pride to everybody, and being alone with the plane was like trying to court a girl before her
quinceañera
. Alma had concluded that while a big robed ritual to bless the plane might be preferable, it was not going to happen. The magic was going to have to be in the paint job itself, in the repainting of the sigil on the Terrier's tail, rather than in a working that accompanied it.

Alma and Mitch were already in the hangar, the sleeves of Alma's mannish shirt rolled up to her elbows as she stood by Mitch surveying the basic job. Henry's guys had put the first coat on, solid white from nose to tail, and Lewis had to admit it looked good. A lot better than bare metal, anyway, which was what they'd had. The wing tips had also been painted, a bright medium blue that Lewis frowned at. It would change the profile of the plane against the sky, make it harder to identify.

Apparently Mitch had been saying the same thing, because as Lewis walked up Alma replied, "Yeah, but we're not worried about friendly fire! A little confusion might be good for us."

Mitch put his hands on his hips. "It's pretty. I'm just saying that it will make us look like a smaller plane. It's going to make us look like one of the Fords from a distance."

"Does that matter?" Alma asked.

"Consolidated's colors are blue and white too," Mitch said.

"They've got red on the tail," Lewis said, joining them. "You can tell us apart."

Jerry came around the other side of the plane, pushing his glasses back on his nose. "I've got it drawn out and ready," he said, waving a piece of paper at Lewis. "Do you think you can do this?"

Lewis took the paper and studied the design. It was a circle cut into four parts by an equal-armed cross in the center, like a compass or a Templar cross. An outer ring around the outside sported 'Gilchrist Aviation' around the top of the circle and 'Ps 22 16-17' around the bottom, all rendered in the same celestial blue as the wing tips. "I can do it that size," he said. "It's big enough. What, about 36 inches across there on the tail?"

"Sounds good," Alma said.

Lewis eyeballed it. "So the letters are a couple of inches tall. Sure. I can do that with a fine brush."

"It's the Sixth Pentacle of Jupiter," Jerry said in a low voice so it wouldn't carry to shop employees. "It serveth for protection from all earthly dangers, regarding it each day devoutly thou shalt not perish."

"Sounds good to me," Mitch said. "I like not perishing."

"I'll keep that in mind," Lewis said. "I'll need a big compass or calipers or something to trace the circle onto the plane."

"Fortunately I have one of those," Jerry said, his eyes amused. "Vital equipment for the modern magician."

"Ok," Lewis said. "Let's have a look."

T
he wind blew in through the hangar door, tinted with scents of a spring evening, lifting Lewis' hair off his brow and teasing the edges of the flaps as though the Terrier yearned for the sky. Not a terrier, Lewis thought. One of Diana's greyhounds, born to run. She was ready to stretch her wings over the whole continent.

And she would. Pacific to Atlantic, over mountains and deserts and plains and bayous, over cities rising hopefully toward the sky. Celestial blue, the color of ocean. Lewis carefully traced the circle, going clockwise around with the paintbrush. Pacific to Atlantic, we will be safe. We will be safe under heaven.

The cross was simple, broader brush strokes, clean lines. He'd seen it on airplanes before, not so different from the cross on the Luftstreitkrafte planes he'd fought against in France, only enclosed in the circle and without concave curvature to the arms, a compass that could never waver. A compass. Wherever they wandered, the Terrier would bring them home.

Celestial blue, the color of sky.

"That looks real nice," Mitch said, looking up.

"Thanks," Lewis said.

Jerry didn't speak, just nodded, not wanting to interrupt.

Gilchrist Aviation across the top of the circle, Alma's name when he'd first met her, his family now. Lord protect us, Lewis thought, filling in the letters carefully with the smallest brush, the oldest prayer. Lord, protect my family.

Celestial blue, the color of the Virgin's robe, the color of prayer.

And the verse last. "They pierced my hands and feet. I may tell all my bones." A funny thing to paint on an airplane, he'd thought at first, but it made sense now. No matter what travail, no matter what sorrow, grace never wavered. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…" Lewis had walked through that valley. He'd been there more than once, but there was always morning on the other side. This was morning. This was bright day, everything he could reasonably ask for out of life — flying and friends and a bride who loved him, who he loved heart and soul. He hadn't thought he could love Al more, but he did, every day that he woke up and saw her open her eyes and look at him.

Celestial blue for Alma's eyes. Celestial blue for love.

Love carry us, and love bring us home safe.

"It's perfect," Alma said as he finished the last letter. "Perfect." Her pride in him made his heart swell with joy.

"You're very talented," Jerry said, and reached up to give him a hand down. Lewis hadn't realized he was so stiff. The sun was almost setting.

"I wish I had more training," Lewis said. He might have meant painting.

"We'll have to work on that," Jerry replied. There were too many people around to say more.

"We need to get changed," Mitch said. "Henry's guests will be here any minute."

"And the press," Jerry said.

Chapter Four

I
f Henry's previous parties had been sumptuous, this one was over the top. Alma looked around the terrace over the swimming pool with something like dismay. Red Japanese lanterns hung in long ropes, reflecting like fat moons in the still surface of the pool. A full orchestra was playing under a pavilion across from the pool house, white tie and tails on every one. There was a bar at the other end serving up French champagne and everything stronger, while a crowd of women in gorgeous evening gowns and men in black tie mingled around the pool, on the terrace and lawn, and through the wide French doors into the house where a buffet was set up. Here and there the crowd was livened by the occasional strobes of flash powder going off — reporters and their photographers snapping movie stars and aviators, sportsmen and executives.