The Dark Design (36 page)
“Damn it! He won’t even let me see the X-rays! Why?”
“He said he didn’t want anyone but himself to see the X-rays. It’s part of the psychological evaluation tests.”
“How in the hell could X-rays of the head tell you anything about a man’s psyche? Is he nuts?”
“I suppose he’ll tell us all about it when he’s seen all the photos. By the way, speaking of a man’s psyche, I’m not a man.”
“I was speaking in the abstract.”
He stopped and scowled even more fiercely. “I won’t be able to sleep nights worrying about this. Man, I wish I’d lived longer. I shuffled off this mortal coil in 1980, so I didn’t get to see the later developments in medical science. Just as well, I suppose. I couldn’t keep up with the deluge of new stuff as it was.”
Turning to Jill, and stabbing the cigar at her, he said, “Something I’d like to ask you, Jill. Something that’s been bothering me. Firebrass is the only one I’ve ever met who lived beyond 1983. Have you ever met anyone who did?”
She blinked with surprise. “No-o-o. No, I haven’t, now I think about it. Firebrass excepted.”
For a moment, she had been about to tell him about Stern. That was going to be a hard secret to keep.
“Neither have I. Damn peculiar.”
“Not really,” she said. “Of course, I haven’t been all over The River, but I have traveled several hundred thousand kilometers and talked to thousands of people. The twentieth-century people seem to have been scattered thinly everywhere. If they were resurrected in clumps, as it were, I never heard of any. So that means that anywhere in the Valley you’ll likely find a few, but most of the population segments will be from other centuries.
“So there’s nothing remarkable in the rarity of people born after 1983.”
“Yeah? Maybe so. Ah, here comes Smithers and two other thugs. Step into my X-rated parlor, my dear, as the spider said to the fly.”
Extracts from various editions of
The Daily Leak:
Dmitri “Mitya” Ivanovitch Nikitin is pro tempore pilot third officer of the
Parseval.
He was born in 1885 in Gomel, Russia, of middle-class parents. His father was a harness-factory owner; his mother taught piano. His qualifications for candidacy were based on his experience as chief steersman of the
Russie,
a French airship built by the Lebaudy-Juillot Company in 1909 for the Russian government.
Ms. Jill Gulbirra, chief airship instructor, says that Mitya’s experience was rather limited from her viewpoint, but he has shown excellent ability. However, according to rumors, he is too fond of skull-bloom. Take a tip from us, Mitya. Lay off the booze.
… Charges will not be brought by the editor against Pilot Nikitin. During a necessarily brief interview in the hospital, Mr. Bagg said, “I’ve been laid out by better men than that big slob. The next time he comes charging into my office, I’ll be prepared. The reason I’m not having him arrested isn’t just because I have a big heart, however. I just want a chance to personally knock his brains out. Speak softly and carry a big stick.”
… Ettore Arduino is Italian (what else?), but he is blond and blue-eyed and can pass for a Swede as long as he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t eat garlic. As all but new citizens know, he entered Parolando two months ago and was immediately signed up for training. He has an illustrious though tragic history, having been chief motor engineer on the airship
Norge
and then on the
Italia
under Umberto Nobile. (See page 6 for a minibiography of this son of Rome.) The
Norge
accomplished its primary mission to fly over the North Pole on May 12, 1926. It also established that there was no large land mass between the North Pole and Alaska as reported by that great explorer, Commodore Robert E. Peary (1856–1920), the first man to reach the North Pole (1909). (Though Peary was accompanied by a Negro, Matthew Henson, and four Eskimos whose names we don’t remember, actually Henson was the first man to stand on the North Pole.)
The
Italia,
after passing over the Pole, found itself bucking a very strong headwind on its way to King’s Bay. The controls jammed from heavy icing; a crash seemed assured. However, the ice melted, and the airship proceeded. Some time later, the vessel began to fall slowly. The helpless crew was forced to stand by while the queen of the skies struck the surface ice. The control gondola was torn off, a fortuitous event for those in it. These scrambled out and then looked up in shock as the dirigible, freed of the weight of the gondola, rose again.
Ettore Arduino was last seen standing on the gangway to the starboard engine gondola. As reported by a crew member, Dr. Francis Behounek of the Wireless Institute of Prague, Czechoslovakia, Arduino’s face was a mask of utter disbelief. The
Italia
floated away, and nothing of it or the men still aboard was ever seen again. On Earth, that is.
Arduino relates that he perished of the cold after the
Italia
fell for the second and last time on the ice. His complete account of this horrendous experience will be printed in next Thursday’s issue. After this blood-chilling event, no reasonable person could expect Ettore to volunteer again for airship travel. But he is undaunted by this and expresses eagerness for another polar expedition. We don’t care what people say about Italians, and we have nothing but contempt for the attitude prevalent in Tombstone, where it was stated as a fact that all wops were yellow. We personally know that they have more guts than brains, and we are sure that Ettore will be a shining adornment to the crew.
… last seen paddling desperately toward the middle of The River while Mr. Arduino fired shots at him with the new Mark IV pistol. Either this weapon is not what it’s cracked up to be, or Mr. Arduino’s marksmanship was below normal that day.
… your new editor accepts the suggestion of President Firebrass that this journal temper the privilege of free speech with discretion.
… Mr. Arduino was released after promising that he would no longer settle grievances, justified or unjustified, by violent means. The newly created Board of Civil Disputes will handle such matters from now on with President Firebrass as the court of last appeal. Though we will miss S.C. Bagg, we must confess that…
… Metzing had been chief of the Naval Airship Division of Imperial Germany in 1913. He was
Korvettenkapitan
of the Zeppelin L-1 when it went down on September 9, 1913, during maneuvers. This was the first naval Zeppelin to be lost. The crash was not due to any deficiency on the part of crew or vessel but to the ignorance at that time of meteorological conditions in the upper air. In other words, weather forecasting was then a primitive science. A violent line squall lifted the L-1 up past her pressure height and then dashed her down. With propellers still spinning and ballast ejecting, the ship smashed into the sea off Heligoland. Metzing died with most of his crew… We welcome this experienced officer and likable gentleman to Parolando but hope he brings no bad luck with him.
… Flash! Just arrived! Another airship veteran, Anna Karlovna Obrenova from upRiver some 40,000 kilometers. In the brief interview allowed before Ms. Obrenova was taken to President Firebrass’ HQ, we learned that she had been captain of the USSR freighter-dirigible
Lermontov,
logging 8584 hours of flight time in this and other airships. This exceeds Ms. Gulbirra’s 8342 hours and Mr. Thorn’s 8452 hours. A complete account of Obrenova should be in tomorrow’s issue. All we can say at the moment is that she is a peach, a real pipperoo!
It was funny, though not laughing-funny.
She had been worried that a man with more airtime than herself would show up. One had, but he had not been aggressive. His only ambition was to be on the ship, and he did not seem to care what rank he got.
Somehow, she had never thought of being displaced by a woman. There were so few female officers in her time. And so few people who had lived past 1983 had come by—only one, in fact—that she had not worried about dirigibilists of that era. From what Firebrass said, post-1983 had been the great age of the large rigid airships. But the odds against aeronauts of that era showing were high.
Chance had thrown its dice, and so here was Obrenova, a woman who had 860 hours flight time as captain of a giant Soviet airship.
So far, the officers’ positions had not been announced. No matter. Jill knew that the little blond newcomer would be first mate. Realistically, she
should
be. If Jill were in Firebrass’ place, she would have had to appoint Obrenova as first mate.
On the other hand, there were only two months left before the
Parseval
took off for the polar voyage. The Russian might need more retraining than that. After thirty-four years of ground life, she would be rusty. She would have a month reacquainting herself with the gasbags in the
Minerva.
Then she would have a month of training in the big ship with everybody else.
Could she do it? Of course, she could. Jill would have been able to do it in that time.
She had been in the conference room with the officer candidates when Anna Obrenova was brought in by Agatha. On seeing her, Jill’s heart had seemed to turn over like a sluggish motor. Before she heard Agatha’s excited announcement of the newcomer’s identity, she had known what it would be.
Anna Obrenova was short and slim but long legged and full breasted. She had long, shining yellow hair and large, dark blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, a cupid’s-bow mouth, and a deep tan. She was, to quote another newspaper article, a “beaut.”
Disgustingly delicate and feminine. Unfairly so.
Just the type that men simultaneously wanted to protect and to bed.
Firebrass was on his feet, advancing toward her, his face aglow, his eyes seeming to drip male hormones.
But it was Thorn’s reaction that surprised Jill. On seeing Obrenova enter, he had jumped to his feet and opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, then closed it again. His ruddy skin was pale.
“Do you know her?” Jill said softly.
He sat down and covered his face with his hands for a moment.
When he took them away, he said, “No! For a second I thought I did! She looks so much like my first wife! I still can’t believe it.”
Thorn remained shaking in his chair while others crowded around Obrenova. Not until the others had been introduced did he get up and shake her hand. He told her then how remarkably she resembled his wife. She smiled—“dazzlingly” was a cliché, but it was the only adverb appropriate—and she said, in heavily accented English, “Did you love your wife?”
That was a strange thing to say. Thorn stepped back a pace and said, “Yes, very much. But she left me.”
“I am sorry,” Obrenova said, and they did not exchange another word while in the room.
Firebrass sat her down and offered her food, cigarettes, and liquor. She accepted the former but declined the rest.
“Does that mean you have no vices?” Firebrass said. “I was hoping you’d have at least one.”
Obrenova ignored this. Firebrass shrugged and began questioning her. Jill got depressed while listening to the account of her experience. She had been born in Smolensk in 1970, had been educated as an aeronautical engineer, and in 1984 had become an airship trainee. In 2001 she had been made captain of the passenger freighter
Lermontov.
Finally, Firebrass said that she must be tired. She should go with Agatha, who’d find quarters for her.
“Preferably in this building,” he said.
Agatha replied that no rooms were available. She would have to be satisfied with a hut near those of Ms. Gulbirra and Mr. Thorn.
Firebrass, looking disappointed, said, “Well, maybe we can find a place here for her later. Meantime, I’ll go with you, Anna, and make sure you’re not given a dump.”
Jill felt even lower. How could she expect objectivity from him, when he was so obviously smitten by the Russian?
For a while, she indulged in some fantasies. How about abducting the little Russian and tying her up in a hidden place just before the
Parseval
was to take off? Firebrass would not hold up the flight until she was found. Jill Gulbirra would then become first mate.