On the High Road to Oblivion

Chapter 5—Majestic

Everything was a blur.

Of course, that was what Findlay Newcombe thought every morning when he awoke. The first few minutes of every day, as he fumbled on the bedside table for his spectacles, were spent squinting blearily at a world made of indistinct shapes and colors.

But even though he was legally blind without the thick corrective lenses, Newcombe could make out enough about his surroundings to know that he wasn’t in his bedroom.

Despite the unfamiliarity of his environment, he reached out to the space alongside the head of the rather comfortable bed in which he lay, probing to see if there was a nightstand. There was indeed a side table there, but his fingers felt only a thick vase… or maybe it was a water pitcher? His eyeglasses were nowhere to be found.

“You’re awake. Good. It’s about time.”

Newcombe sat bolt upright at the sound of the voice. He could make out the shape of a man standing at the foot of his bed — bald head, stocky physique, dark clothes — and not much else, but the voice was unmistakably familiar, and with the recognition came a feeling of dread. “General Vaughn,” he groaned.

The blurry figure gave a short, guttural laugh. “I can tell you’re happy to see me. If it’s any consolation, I share your enthusiasm.”

Newcombe doubted that very much. The last time he had seen the US Army general, Vaughn had left him, along with Dodge Dalton and the lovely socialite cat-burglar Jocasta Palmer, to freeze to death at the bottom of the world. Newcombe had heard that Vaughn had since been forced to retire from his post. He wanted to believe that the punitive action had been taken in response to his cowardly behavior in Antarctica, but it was much more likely that Vaughn had been drummed out of the army for losing the marvelous otherworldly technology that Dodge and his friends had originally brought back from the outpost there. Inasmuch as Newcombe had played a key role in stealing some of that technology from Fort George Meade, it was understandable that Vaughn might harbor a grudge against him. Still, the curtailment of a career hardly seemed to balance the scales with being left to die on the southern polar ice.

“So who’s your ginger-headed friend?” Vaughn asked.

Newcombe followed what he assumed to be Vaughn’s line of sight, and saw another bed arrayed parallel to his own, a few paces away. Its occupant was mostly a blur, but he recognized the shock of auburn hair resting on the pillow. “Rodney Lafayette,” he answered slowly, trying to remember how he was acquainted with the man. “He writes adventure stories.”

Vaughn snorted. “I see your taste in friends remains unchanged.”

“He’s not exactly a friend.” But if not, then who was he? Newcombe remembered meeting Lafayette at the Clarion Building, remembered a pleasant conversation with the man, and particularly with his attractive assistant Nora… Nora something. Then Dodge had come along with Hurricane and Max Beardsley… and that was the last thing he remembered.

No. There was something else… I was in the back of a van… Men speaking… Greek, was it? Rodney was there… and… dynamite?

“Where am I?”

“You’re safe.” For the first time, Vaughn sounded almost polite. “You took a pretty nasty knock on the head, but the doc says you managed to avoid any serious injuries. When your writer friend wakes up, I’ll give you the nickel tour. I think you’ll be suitably impressed.”

“I have been conscious the entire time, General,” Lafayette exclaimed.

The indignant eruption startled Newcombe, but Vaughn merely chuckled again. “Well, I can already tell that I liked you better when you were pretending to be asleep.”

“Hmph. Be that as it may, I have a great many questions that I would like answered. Am I correct in assuming that we have been relocated to a military hospital?”

“You are not,” Vaughn answered, matching the writer’s tone. “But if it’s answers you want, then come with me.”

Newcombe cleared his throat. “General, I hate to be a bother, but I can’t seem to find my glasses.”

Vaughn did not immediately answer, but instead moved away, blurring into the background. Newcombe heard an exchange of low voices, and then the former army officer returned. “I’m sorry, doctor. Your glasses weren’t with you when you were brought on board.”

“On board?” Lafayette asked.

Vaughn ignored him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do for now. Come along; I’ll show you around.”

Lafayette was persistent. “Are we on a ship? You cannot seriously expect us to wander about in our nightclothes.”

Newcombe threw back his blanket and squinted at his apparel. While he couldn’t make out much in the way of detail, he did indeed seem to be wearing pajamas, powder blue, and silk by the feel of them.

“Your clothes are with the laundry. They should be cleaned and mended in a few hours. If you would rather wait…”

“No,” Newcombe answered quickly. Lafayette harrumphed again, but added no further comment.

After donning the soft slippers that waited at the bedside, Newcombe swung his feet onto the floor. He felt a faint vibration beneath him, the hum of machinery perhaps, but it vanished as soon as he shifted his weight onto his soles. Squinting again, he tried to bring his world into focus.

The room appeared to be a generic hospital ward, with four beds and not much else. A single door, which Vaughn held open for them, led out into a dimly lit hallway. Unlike the almost sterile utilitarian décor of the infirmary, the hallway seemed like something from a luxury hotel; the burnished wood paneling, art deco light fixtures of frosted glass, and a stretch of plush burgundy carpet offered a stark contrast to his waking experience. If they were indeed on a ship, then it was a pleasure liner, not a military vessel.

“This is the central access corridor,” Vaughn explained. “All the rooms, including the staterooms you’ll be assigned, open onto it, so you don’t need to worry about getting lost. Just pay attention to the numbers.”

Newcombe glanced at the brass plates affixed to the next few doors they passed. Each was engraved with a two-digit number, but he couldn’t tell if the elegant Arabic numerals showed sixes, eights, or zeroes. Fives and threes were similarly difficult to distinguish.

Vaughn led them the full length of the corridor, a journey of at least a hundred steps, to a pair of doors, each with a large round window. The former general threw the doors open with a flourish.

The room beyond was as lavishly decorated as a hotel ballroom, but Newcombe’s blurry gaze was not drawn to the enormous maple table or the delicate chandelier of Venetian crystal. Instead he, like Lafayette, was immediately captivated by the view, and the view was everywhere.

The room was roughly U-shaped. The door through which they had passed was centered on a broad paneled wall, but to either side and curving around in front of them were enormous windows, slanting outward a few degrees as they rose from the floor. On the other side of the glass, there was nothing but a black velvet sky, shot through with pinpricks of starlight.

Lafayette rushed forward and pressed his hands against one of the panes. “My goodness! We’re on an airship!”

“You are indeed,” intoned a new voice — a deep baritone, with just a hint of a Germanic accent.

Only now did Newcombe realize that they were not alone in the room. Several of the seats at the table were occupied, including the chair at the head of the table, the source of the resonant declaration. As the speaker rose and turned to face them, Newcombe squinted to bring him into focus. The man seemed to be tall and powerfully built, with jet black hair swept back from a high forehead. His hands were planted casually in the pockets of his red silk smoking jacket.

“Or to be more precise,” he continued with a pleasant smile. “You are on my airship. Gentleman, I am Walter Barron. Welcome aboard the Majestic.”

He had faced every horror imaginable, from the trenches of the Great War to the darkest schemes of malevolent criminals, to the otherworldy horrors of Hell itself. But until he rode as a passenger with Nora Holloway driving, Hurricane Hurley had never truly known what it meant to be afraid.

Hyperbole, to be sure, but despite his best efforts to appear nonchalant, he’d nearly bitten through the unlit cheroot between his teeth, and the fingers of his right hand were gripping the steel door frame of the Ford Model 48 sedan so tightly that visible dents had appeared.

That wasn’t to say that Nora was a bad driver. Indeed, the simple fact that she had somehow avoided colliding with any other vehicles during their egress from the city was a testament to her skill behind the wheel. Even Hurricane would have grudgingly admitted that Nora was in fact an excellent driver. She just also happened to be a very aggressive one, as well.

Once away from the confines of the city, Hurricane began to relax a little. Out on the open highway, without traffic to weave in and out of, there seemed to be less chance for some catastrophic accident… in the straight stretches, at least.

“So,” he ventured, when he was finally able to release his death grip on the door frame. “This is Lightning Bug’s car? I must say, I expected something flashier.”

“‘Lightning Bug?’” Nora glanced over at him and burst into laughter. “Don’t knock it. It’s got a V-8.”

“Which you seem to be enjoying very much.”

“Rodney doesn’t drive, so even though the car is technically his, I kind of feel like it’s mine, too.”

“You’re a regular ‘girl Friday,’ I reckon.”

She flashed a coy smile. “You might say that.”

“Are you an’ he…?” Hurricane raised an eyebrow, meaningfully.

“Oh, goodness no. Our relationship is strictly professional. I know him too well to… let’s just say I’m immune to his charms.”

“Charms?” It was Hurricane’s turn to chuckle. “That’s one word for it. He certainly makes quite a first impression.”

Nora’s smile slipped into something more like resignation. “That he does.”

Hurricane studied her, trying to decipher the riddle that seemed to be lurking just under the surface. “Still,” he ventured after a thoughtful pause. “He’s not a half-bad writer.”

She glanced sidelong at him, the smile returning. “You’ve read them? Rodney’s stories, I mean.”

“I have. I’m something of a connoisseur of purple prose.” He managed a grin and waggled his cheroot. “It’s one of my many vices.”

“And does Mr. Dalton share your opinion? He didn’t exactly seem enthusiastic about meeting us.”

Her expression had unexpectedly become serious, and Hurricane sensed that, for reasons beyond his grasp, Dodge’s opinion of Lightning Rod’s literary abilities was very important to Nora Holloway. He waved the cigar dismissively. “His feathers were a mite ruffled by the news. I’m sure it’s just a touch of professional jealousy.”

She turned her attention back to the task at hand, and not a moment too soon, as a hairpin turn loomed ahead. She might have tapped the brake pedal a little; Hurricane couldn’t say with certainty. “Do you think they’re all right?”

Hurricane grimaced — whether because of the gravity of the question, or as a reaction to the G-forces that pressed him up against the sedan’s door, even he couldn’t say for sure.

The question had been occupying his thoughts, but strangely, they had not spoken of it as they made their way from the Empire State Building to the Clarion Building where Lafayette’s car was parked. After a brief stop at Nora’s apartment, where she quickly changed clothes and wiped away some of the dust from the explosions, they had gotten on the road, and while they had talked a little about what they hoped to accomplish by tracking down Walter Barron, at no time had the discussion turned to the matter of whether Newcombe and Lafayette were safe.

He plugged the cheroot between his teeth once more. “Well, Miss Nora, here’s how I see it. I don’t know what Dodge’s new best friend has been telling him, but she and hers were the ones that started tossing sticks of dynamite around. Them fellows in the gyros, why, all they did was pluck Newton and Lightning Bug from the middle of a dangerous situation. So, if Barron — and that’s assuming he’s behind all this — wanted to hurt our friends, it seems like there were better ways to go about it.”

“But he — they — did take Rod and Dr. Newcombe. Against their will, or so it seems.”

He reached out and gave her arm an avuncular pat. “There’s more going on here than meets the eye, that’s for sure. But we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

The airfield at Lakehurst Naval Air Station near Manchester Township, New Jersey had become permanently fixed in the public consciousness following the disastrous events of May 6, 1937. On that fateful day, the LZ-129 Hindenburg, an eight-hundred-foot long hydrogen-filled zeppelin, had burst into flames as it was landing. Thirty-five of the ninety-seven passengers and crew were killed in the fire, along with one ground crewman. The destruction of the airship took less than a minute, but it was a minute immortalized by Herbert Morrison’s live eye-witness radio broadcast, and particularly by his agonized declaration: “Oh, the humanity!”

Dusk was settling as Nora and Hurley pulled up to the main gate at the Air Station. A guard directed them to the Royal Industries hangar, and a few minutes later, they arrived in front of the structure that looked like a Quonset hut for a fairy-tale giant. The massive sliding doors at the end of the hangar were closed tight, but light issued from the windows of a smaller adjoining building.

Despite his aches, Hurley extricated himself from the Ford and hastened around to the other side of the car where, ever the gentleman, he opened Nora’s door. “All right, Miss Nora, we don’t really know what’s going to happen when we start asking questions. You’re here against my better judgment, but for the time being, you’re going to need to trust me. Let me do the talking, and be ready to duck or run if I give the word.”

A retort seemed to be forming on the brunette’s shapely lips, but then she appeared to think better of it, and simply nodded.

Hurricane led the way to the door into the small building, and opened it to reveal a lone security guard, sitting in a tilted-back chair, reading a newspaper. He looked up as they entered, his expression showing nothing more than mild curiosity. “We’re closed for the day,” he said. “Everyone’s gone.”

“Well that’s okay,” Hurricane said, his voice a friendly growl. “I reckon you can probably tell us what we need to know.”

A flicker of irritation crossed the guard’s face. “And what’s that?”

“We’ve heard tell that Royal Industries owns a pair of autogyros. We’d like to see ‘em, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Hurley smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. He flexed his hands and curled them into fists, but before he could begin to project menace, he felt Nora’s hand on his forearm. “Hurricane, let me handle this.”

“What?” The guard’s chair hit the floor. “Hurricane? Are you Hurricane Hurley?”

The big man was momentarily dumbfounded, but Nora chirped: “He sure is!”

The guard was on his feet in an instant, his hand extended. “Gosh, this is just the best thing ever. I’m a huge fan of you and Captain Falcon. I read it to my kids every Sunday over dinner. I’ve got to get your autograph… I mean, if it’s all right with you.”

Still speechless, Hurricane shook the proffered hand, after which the guard began rooting through a stack of newspapers.

“See?” Nora whispered. “My way works even better.”

“Your way?” Hurley affected mock disdain. “I’m the famous one.”

“Here,” the guard announced, holding up a Sunday edition of the Clarion. He flipped through it until he found the page with an installment of The Adventures of Captain Falcon, and then thrust the tabloid, along with a fountain pen, into Hurricane’s hands. The big man scribbled his signature under the headline and handed it back.

“This is just fantastic,” the guard reiterated. “My boys won’t believe that I actually met Hurricane Hurley.”

“The one and only,” Nora added. “But listen, chum. We’re trying to track down those autogyros. Can you help us out?”

“Of course. They aren’t here, though. Mr. Barron keeps them aboard the Majestic.”

Hurley glanced at Nora, raising an eyebrow. Here at last was confirmation of the connection between Royal Industries and Walter Barron. “The Majestic?”

“It’s his airship. She’s a beaut. Bigger’n the Hindenburg… well, in volume at least. She’s bigger around, but not quite as long. The reason she’s so fat is because there’s an internal hangar deck for launching the autogyros. They’re perfect for air launch because they don’t need much of a runway. It’s a much better system than the trapeze we used on the Akron.”

“You were on the Akron?” asked Nora.

Hurley was mildly surprised that the young woman knew about the US Navy airship. He reckoned she would have been in her late teens when it suffered a catastrophic crash, with a loss of nearly all hands.

“Ayup. I crewed on her back in ‘32. You might say that’s how I ended up here.” He leaned over and rapped his knuckles against his right shin, producing a hollow sound. “Cable snapped and took my leg clean off.”

“I’m very sorry.”

The guard shrugged. “If it hadn’t happened, I probably would have been aboard when she crashed. Losing the leg probably saved my life.”

“I thought the Navy had given up on using airships.” Hurley interjected, trying to gently steer the conversation back on course. “I’ve never heard of the Majestic.”

“Oh, the Majestic isn’t a military airship. Not exactly anyway. It’s strictly for Mr. Barron’s use.”

“Sounds like an awful lot of blimp for just one man to use.”

“She’s not a blimp. She has a rigid airframe like a zeppelin.” The guard winced, embarrassed at his own audacity in correcting Hurricane Hurley. “But it’s not just a pleasure craft. He uses it for a lot of different things.”

“Where is it now?”

The guard scratched his chin. “Well, she left here a couple days back. I heard Mr. Barron was on his way to… east somewhere. Africa, maybe?”

Hurricane glanced at Nora. He could tell from her expression that she was probably thinking the same thing he was. Their own earlier sighting of the autogyros indicated that the Majestic had been in New York a few hours ago. But if the guard’s information was accurate, it was a good bet that their friends were now somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean.

“Gentlemen, please take a seat.” Barron gestured expansively. “Dinner will be served momentarily.”

“We’re hardly attired for dining,” blustered Lafayette.

“I think we can overlook that minor breach of decorum, given the circumstances of your arrival.”

Lafayette harrumphed again, but said nothing more as he walked to the table. Newcombe followed suit, though it was only when the chairs were at arm’s length that he was able to make out which ones were presently vacant. He realized that the chairs closest to the head, where their host sat, had been reserved for them.

“Actually, I’ve been wanting to ask about that,” the scientist said, as he settled in to Barron’s right. “The circumstances, I mean.”

“Yes, Mr. Barron,” Lafayette interjected forcefully. “I think we are owed some answers. How is it that we have come to be passengers on your dirigible? Dr. Newcombe and I were kidnapped by a gang of hooligans, and now we’re here; are we your prisoners?”

“You will have your answers forthwith. But first, please enjoy a glass of Perrier-Jouet as an aperitif. It is a rather nice vintage.”

“I usually prefer champagne before a meal,” Lafayette opined. “But if it’s all you have, I guess it will have to do.”

Barron made an odd noise, and Newcombe realized that their host was chuckling. No one else at the table made a sound. “Please forgive the humble nature of our wine selection.” He paused as a waiter decanted some of the sparkling wine into glasses set before the new arrivals, then continued: “Gentleman, you know of course that you were the subjects of an attempted abduction. This act was carried out by a group of anarchists who call themselves the October Brotherhood. They are, among other things, intent upon disrupting my activities.”

“And what activities might those be?” asked Lafayette.

“Something to do with the military,” Newcome ventured. “That’s why General Vaughn is here.”

“Your intuition serves you well, Dr. Newcombe. Yes, I am a manufacturer of armaments; weapons of war.” Barron took a sip from his glass. “My agents — spies, if you will — have infiltrated the Brotherhood. They reported to me that the group intended to abduct you, Dr. Newcombe, and Mr. David Dalton.”

“Dalton?” Lafayette slapped the table.

“Yes, Mister… Lafayette, is it? It seems that you are the victim of a case of mistaken identity.”

“Well, that clears it right up. I assume you’ll be returning me promptly.”

Barron ignored the writer. Without looking, he made a gesture and a team of waiters appeared and began ladling bowls of creamy vichyssoise from a tureen on a wheeled cart.

“Suffice it to say,” their host continued, “When I learned of the threat, I dispatched my best pilots to effect a rescue and had you brought here for your own safety.”

Newcombe shook his head. “Why? Why did they want to kidnap Dodge and I?”

“The soup is cold,” grumbled Lafayette, but no one paid him any heed.

From midway down the table, Vaughn entered the discussion. “They probably wanted Dalton because of your friendship with him.”

Barron nodded. “I would surmise as much. But the explanation for how you came to the attention of the October Brotherhood, I fear, lies with me. You see Dr. Newcombe, it was my intention to hire you.”

“Hire me? I already have a job.”

“What is it you do again? Answer silly letters from schoolchildren?” Vaughn scoffed. “That’s quite a step up from presidential science advisor.”

Newcombe thought Barron smiled, but the man’s face was a blur. “General Vaughn exhibits a military man’s contempt for tact, but his sentiment is accurate, Dr. Newcombe. You belong in the laboratory, doing meaningful research, at the forefront of innovation.”

“Making weapons? That was never what I wanted. The goal of science is to improve people’s lives, not find better ways to end them.”

Vaughn wagged his head disparagingly. “So naïve.”

Barron leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. “Dr. Newcombe, it may surprise you to learn that I share your viewpoint. But tell me this: can science give us an end to war?”

Barron did not wait for an answer. “Are you familiar with the works of the poet George Santayana? He wrote: ‘Only the dead have seen the end of war.’ Conflict is in our very nature. Whether it is with machine guns and fighter planes, or with sticks and rocks, we will find a way to kill each other.

“But consider this. If I have sticks and stones and my neighbor has a machine gun, I am much less likely to attack him. A weapon that gives one party a strategic advantage over all possible enemies is the best way to ensure peace.”

“Until your enemy gets his hands on that weapon too.”

“True. But if the weapon were sufficiently terrible, the mere fact of its existence might serve as a deterrent to hostilities.”

Newcombe swallowed nervously, tongue-tied. “What sort of… um, device… did you have in mind?”

“Ah, you are curious then. I would expect no less.”

Barron gestured to the waiters again, who in turn began clearing away the soup bowls. Newcombe realized that he hadn’t even tasted the vichyssoise, and when several large platters of prime rib were placed on the table, he found that he could barely look at them. His appetite was gone.

The champagne flutes were cleared away as well, replaced by wine glasses, into which the waiters began decanting a rich, dark red wine. Newcombe heard one of the waiters telling Lafayette the vintage — something French — and the writer clucked disapprovingly, but it meant nothing to the scientist.

As the rest of the party indulged in the repast, Barron resumed speaking. “General Vaughn tells me that you are quite familiar with the work of Nikola Tesla.”

The apparent shift in topics momentarily cheered the scientist. “I am indeed. The man is a genius.”

“He is of course most well-known for his work as an inventor of electrical devices, but some of his work focused on mechanically produced resonance waves.”

“Ah, that business with the earthquake machine,” said Lafayette. “Tesla claims that back in the 1880s he built a vibrational device that shook a building apart and caused a minor earthquake. He even said that he could build a device, small enough to fit in his pocket, that would shake the Empire State Building to its foundation. He told the story a couple years back in order to get money to build some newfangled device that would allow him to see through the earth, or some such nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” objected Newcombe. “By measuring the rate at which energy waves travel through an unknown medium, you can determine the composition of the mass. Seismic waves, such as are generated in earthquakes, travel through the entire planet. Tesla was proposing to use these reliable properties to create a device that might be used to find subterranean mineral deposits.” He turned his blurry gaze back to Barron. “A tool, not a weapon.”

“And yet, the very genesis of this technology was a device capable of shaking buildings apart and creating earthquakes, was it not? Such is the curious marriage of science and war.”

“A machine that can create earthquakes,” added Vaughn. “If you had that, no one would mess with you. That’s how you put an end to war, Newcombe.”

The scientist frowned. “Well, Mr. Barron, it would seem to me that if you want to build this earthquake machine, you’d be better served giving your money to Tesla. It’s really not my area of expertise.”

Barron waved his hand, dismissively. “The device is already built. I have a working prototype in the laboratory here aboard the Majestic. In tests, it has produced vibrational waves that can liquefy solid ground.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“It’s a matter of scale. The prototype is far too small to generate the kind of energy waves necessary for my purposes. It would be analogous to throwing a pebble in a still lake. Although the ripples from that pebble will spread out across the entire lake, they would have very little effect on, say a drifting rowboat. Throw in a larger stone, however, and the effect is much more pronounced.”

“So just build a bigger machine,” Lafayette suggested around a mouthful of meat.

“Would that it were so simple. To return to my analogy, it is an easy thing for anyone to pick up a pebble and toss it into the lake. But in order to produce a wave capable of overturning the rowboat, a large stone… a boulder perhaps… is needed.”

“You’re talking about the limitations of energy,” Newcombe exclaimed. “Dodge and I wrote about that in our column on death rays. The amount of energy necessary to generate such an effect is always going to be greater than the amount energy it actually produces. In your example, it would much easier to simply swim out and tip the boat over, than to try to lift a boulder up and heave it into the lake.”

“You misapprehend my meaning, Dr. Newcombe.” Barron pushed away from the table and stood, holding up the crystal wine glass by the base. “Observe.”

He dipped a fingertip into his wine, and then began rubbing the rim of the glass in slow but deliberate circles. Almost immediately, a high-pitched hum filled the dining room. Barron’s finger began moving faster and the hum quickly built to ear-splitting intensity. Then, just as Newcombe was about to give into the impulse to cover his ears, the flute shattered in a splash of wine and leaded crystal splinters.

Barron settled back into his chair, brushing the debris away with a napkin. “The wave device functions in much the same way as what I have demonstrated. Energy is not the limiting factor. The problem we are having with the larger scale version of the machine is that the resonance waves it produces are as destructive to the machine as they are to the intended target. The waves literally rip the machine apart at a molecular level. Thus far, we have found no material capable of withstanding the waves at the desired intensity.”

“Then again, I must ask, what do you expect me to accomplish?” Newcombe’s tone was exasperated, but secretly he felt a measure of relief. “I cannot create some miracle alloy that will permit you to contravene the laws of physics. Perhaps your earthquake machine simply isn’t meant to be.”

Barron seemed not to have heard him. “There exists however, one type of metal that may allow us to surmount this obstacle. And you are unquestionably the expert on that substance.”

“And what might—” Suddenly, Newcombe knew the answer. He cast an accusing glance down the table at Vaughn. “You told him? You were sworn to secrecy.”

“Don’t lecture me on breaking oaths,” snarled the former military officer.

“What on earth…?” Lafayette’s question barely penetrated the tension hovering above the table, and in a rare display of self-control, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

“Dr. Newcombe!” Barron’s deep voice rumbled like a thunderclap. “General Vaughn violated no secrets. The President himself informed me of the existence of this miracle metal of yours, and told me everything else about the… what did your friend Dalton call it? The Outpost?”

Newcombe sagged back in his chair. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you again, Mr. Barron, but the objects we recovered from the Outpost, what few still remain, have all ceased functioning. And the metal is impervious. We’ve never succeeded in melting it down or manipulating it in any other way.”

“I’m aware of that,” Barron replied calmly. “But the metal is nonetheless terrestrial, is it not?”

“Terrestrial?” That gave him pause. He scratched his head thoughtfully. “I suppose it must be. The only other possibility would be some sort of meteoric metal, but most metallic meteorites are made of the metals commonly found on earth, anyway.”

“So would you agree that at some point, a metallurgist or artisan was able to refine and cast the metal?”

“I…?” Newcombe shrugged.

“Are you familiar with titanium metal, doctor?”

“I am, and I can assure you that the objects from the Outpost were not made of it.”

“Titanium is, ounce for ounce, one of the strongest metals in existence, with an extremely high melting point. When it is refined by a chemical process and cast, it is almost impossible to cut, melt or reshape again. I propose that this may also be true of the metal used in the creation of the objects you studied.”

“The ancients called it adamantine!”

The cheerful voice, with just a hint of an Irish brogue, came from a woman sitting to Newcombe’s right, and startled the scientist. It was the first time any of the other dinner guests had spoken, and he had almost forgotten that they were not alone. He turned sideways and squinted at her. He could tell that she had brown hair, and was wearing a black gown, but not much else.

“Oh, goodness,” the woman said. “You can’t see me, can you?”

“No, I lost my glasses.”

“Here, try these.”

She pressed something into his hands. He immediately recognized that they were pair of wire-framed spectacles, and donned them cautiously. The effect was immediate and dramatic. While the lenses were not as powerful as his normal prescription, the world was no longer a smear of indistinct colors. He got his first good look at Barron, stern and regal in his ornately carved chair at the head of the table. He also saw the other half-dozen people assembled at the table. Most wore navy-blue uniforms with gold piping — doubtless the captain and senior officers of Barron’s airship — but one man, in the seat beside Vaughn, looked completely out of place. Dressed all in black, the same shade as his pomaded hair and perfectly groomed mustached, the rugged looking fellow might have been considered movie-star handsome, if not for the ragged scar that stretched like a plowed furrow from his chin to his left ear. When the dark man realized he was the subject of Newcombe’s scrutiny, he flashed a dangerous scowl, and the scientist quickly looked away.

“Better?” asked the woman.

“Much.” He turned to thank her, but his voice caught in his throat.

She was beautiful… no, he thought. That’s probably not the right word. She wasn’t glamorous like Marlene Dietrich or Greta Garbo. Rather, her freckled face, framed by close-cropped brown hair, gave her an almost pixie-like appearance. Newcombe didn’t know if that qualified as “beauty” to whomever it was that decided such things, but he nevertheless felt an idiotic grin spread across his face. “Thank you,” he finally managed. “But what will you do without them?”

She shrugged. “I’ve got three more pair in my stateroom. I’m rubbish at keeping track of things, especially my spectacles, so I always bring along a few extra.”

Barron cleared his throat. “Miss Dunn, I believe you were about to tell us about adamantine.”

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” Newcombe was surprised to hear himself say it, but the impulse had been overwhelming. He wanted to know more about this lovely Miss Dunn.

“Quite right.” She smiled. Newcombe wanted to believe the smile was meant for him, but he knew that his face was probably just a blur to her. She extended her hand. “Fiona Dunn. How do you do?”

Barely able to keep from trembling, Newcombe reached out, took her hand, and touched his lips to it. “I’m Dr. Findlay Newcombe. I do very well, thank you.”

Not to be left out, the red-haired author practically shouted across the table: “I’m Rodney Lafayette, an author of some renown.”

Fiona inclined her head politely in Lightning Rod’s general direction.

“Does that satisfy your sense of propriety, Dr. Newcombe?” Barron rumbled. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Miss Dunn is a scholar of ancient languages—”

“I’m a good deal more than that, Walter.” Fiona turned to Newcombe again. “He makes me sound like a librarian. I’m trained archaeologist. I’ve explored the Valley of the Kings, and the palace of Ashurbanipal in Nineveh. I’ve gone looking for dinosaur fossils in the Gobi Desert. I’ve even—”

“Forgive me,” Barron interrupted forcefully. “What I meant to say, is that I have employed Miss Dunn in the capacity of expert linguist, and I would very much like her to tell us what the ancients have to say about adamantine.”

She stuck her tongue out at the host, but then straightened herself. “Numerous ancient texts describe adamantine as the hardest metal on earth. Some scholars believe the word referred to diamonds, but I find this explanation highly suspect.

“In Greek mythology, the sword Perseus used to slay the Gorgon Medusa was said to be of adamantine. Norse mythology tells of the god Loki being bound with adamantine chains. You can’t very well forge diamonds into a sword or make chains out of them. No, adamantine has to be some sort of metallic element, and evidently the ancients — or rather the gods of the ancients — found a way to fashion it to suit their needs.”

“Just as with titanium,” Barron interjected, “the metal is only malleable when it is refined from raw ore. We need find such a source of ore.”

Fiona nodded. “According to Virgil, the gates of Tartarus, the entrance to the Underworld, are composed of adamantine. I believe that the pit — Tartarus — is in fact a mine, where the ancients located a source of adamantine ore. If we find Tartarus, we find our adamantine.”

“As simple as that,” Lafayette remarked, scoffing.

“Finding Tartarus will be a challenge,” Fiona admitted. “But the ancients believed it was a literal place, and they even told how to find it. One such account was housed in the Library of Alexandria.”

Lafayette made no attempt to hide his skepticism. “The Library was destroyed thousands of years ago.”

“Not quite ‘thousands’ plural, Mr. Lafayette. Part of the Library was destroyed in the fourth century, but some parts of it may have survived as late as the seventh century, when Muslim armies conquered Alexandria. I discovered a parchment in a monastery in Jerusalem, which contained inventory of items that had survived the final destruction of the Library. Included in that collection was a comprehensive edition of the Dictys of Crete, a geographical account of the Odyssey of Homer, composed by Polybius in the second century BC. Polybius believed that the writings of Homer were not only historically correct, but also geographically accurate, and to that end, he retraced the journey of Odysseus and identified all the places he visited in his wanderings with actual known locations, including the entry to the Underworld — Tartarus — where Odysseus met with Teiresias.”

“You said you found an inventory; not the actual historical document.”

Fiona sighed, her patience clearly wearing thin. “The items from the Library had been taken; looted by agents of the Hashshashin — a cult of Ismaili Muslim assassins that rose to power in Persia in the eleventh century. The map would have been taken to their stronghold, Alamut, which was reputed to have its own magnificent library. It’s not a stretch to believe that they would have added this history to the collection there.

“The Ismailis were eventually conquered by the Mongols, and much of the library at Alamut was also destroyed. Some items were saved, but no mention of Polybius’ writings or any of the other items from Alexandria Library appears in the historical record. I believe this is because the collection lies in a secret treasure room that has yet to be discovered.”

“I can think of any number of other explanations.”

“Mr. Lafayette, would you please allow her to finish?” Newcombe was again surprised at his own assertiveness.

“Why thank you, Findlay. As I was saying, our best chance to find Tartarus and a source of adamantine, is to explore the ruins of Alamut for that historic account.”

“We should arrive there in a few days,” Barron added.

“Good God. Are you saying that we are already underway?” The writer jumped up from his seat and ran to enormous window. “We’re over the ocean!”

“We left as soon as you and Dr. Newcombe were brought on board. I apologize if it has inconvenienced you, but I assure you, I thought only of your safety.”

“This is an outrage. I’m not even the one that these revolutionaries were interested in. I demand to be returned at once.”

“My need is quite urgent, gentlemen. There are other considerations which I am not at liberty to share with you at this time. We are beyond the range of the autogyros, and I cannot delay my mission by turning back. We will finish the Atlantic crossing in less than two days. If you still wish it, I will put you off as soon as we are within range of an airport.”

Although his hospitality had been nearly perfect, something about Barron’s tone told Newcombe that further debate would be a very bad idea. “Cheer up,” he told the writer. “This is the sort of thing Dodge Dalton does all the time.”