prison searchlight seeking an escaped felon. The lights of farmhouses and an occasional ancestral castle would flicker through the darkness, and now and then a speeding train would reveal itself, throwing sparks from its smokestack, bidding the zep hello by way of its long mournful whistle. The drone of wind stirred by the airship’s cruising speed of eighty knots drowned out any engine sound, adding to the surreal effect of sightseeing by night.
A familiar voice just behind him caught Charteris’s attention: Ed Douglas, the advertising man, had flagged down a white-jacketed steward.
“Where’s this fabled smoking room, anyway?” Douglas demanded. “And can a man get a drink there?”
Charteris could see Douglas’s companions—Colonel Morris and Burt Dolan—seated in the lounge, waiting and watching with anticipation as their emissary went forward.
The steward, a narrow-faced youth of perhaps twenty-two, said, “The smoking lounge is below us, on B deck, sir—and, yes, there’s a fully outfitted bar.”
“Good! Where exactly?”
“Starboard side, all the way back, sir—”
Douglas had turned away, heading back to his friends, when the steward called out to him.
“But, sir! For certain technical reasons, the smoking room cannot be opened until we’ve been aloft for three hours.”
“What? The hell you say!”
“Safety precaution, sir. The bar is open—you see, you enter the smoking room through an air-lock door in the bar.”
Douglas’s mustache twitched with irritation. “All right, then. Least we can drown our damn sorrows.”
“There will be a light supper served, sir, in the dining room, at ten P.M .”
“I’ll be drinking mine.”
The advertising man returned to his comrades to report this dire news, the steward moving on. Charteris and Hilda, who had both overheard this exchange, shared a smile.
“How terrible to be held so under tobacco’s sway,” Hilda said.
“I have to admit,” Charteris said, “I’m little better. But I take solace in knowing that, prior to the Hindenburg, there was no smoking at all on zep flights…. Would you like me to help you find your cabin?”
“I would.”
They were almost neighbors. Charteris had been assigned cabin A-49/50 near the portside stairs, and Hilda was in A-31/32,just down the narrow hall a few doors. After the spacious promenade and lounge, these windowless, glorified closets came as something of a shock—they were no better, or for that matter no worse, than a first-class railway sleeping car.
Hilda’s room—if a six-and-a-half-by-five-and-a-half cubicle could be so designated—had pearl-gray linen walls, a rose in a wall vase, cupboards over a fold-out washstand; her suitcase was on a small fabric-and-aluminum stand and an aluminum ladder, drilled with circular holes to lessen its weight, leaned against the top bunk.
“Bathrooms and shower are on B deck,” Charteris said.
“A shower on an airship? That must be a first.”
“Oh, it is—but there’s only one, so you have to make a reservation, I’m told.”
“Well,” she sighed, surveying her tiny world, “at least I do not have a roommate.”
Charteris leaned an arm against the bunk. “Would you like one?”
She had been just about to finally undo the belt of her trench coat, but now she paused, smiling faintly, as if thinking better of it.
“You are rather bold, are you not, Mr. Charteris?”
He leaned forward, just a bit, and kissed her on her full mouth—a short but promising kiss, which she accepted, if not quite returned.
“At times,” he said.
Smirking in a not unfriendly manner, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him gently toward the door. “Perhaps you should check out your own quarters before trying to replace them.”
“Fair enough… Shall I stop by just before ten? We could have supper together.”
“What, and eventually breakfast?”
“Now who’s bold?”
She squeezed her pulchritude past him, reached around to grasp
A familiar voice just behind him caught Charteris’s attention: Ed Douglas, the advertising man, had flagged down a white-jacketed steward.
“Where’s this fabled smoking room, anyway?” Douglas demanded. “And can a man get a drink there?”
Charteris could see Douglas’s companions—Colonel Morris and Burt Dolan—seated in the lounge, waiting and watching with anticipation as their emissary went forward.
The steward, a narrow-faced youth of perhaps twenty-two, said, “The smoking lounge is below us, on B deck, sir—and, yes, there’s a fully outfitted bar.”
“Good! Where exactly?”
“Starboard side, all the way back, sir—”
Douglas had turned away, heading back to his friends, when the steward called out to him.
“But, sir! For certain technical reasons, the smoking room cannot be opened until we’ve been aloft for three hours.”
“What? The hell you say!”
“Safety precaution, sir. The bar is open—you see, you enter the smoking room through an air-lock door in the bar.”
Douglas’s mustache twitched with irritation. “All right, then. Least we can drown our damn sorrows.”
“There will be a light supper served, sir, in the dining room, at ten P.M .”
“I’ll be drinking mine.”
The advertising man returned to his comrades to report this dire news, the steward moving on. Charteris and Hilda, who had both overheard this exchange, shared a smile.
“How terrible to be held so under tobacco’s sway,” Hilda said.
“I have to admit,” Charteris said, “I’m little better. But I take solace in knowing that, prior to the Hindenburg, there was no smoking at all on zep flights…. Would you like me to help you find your cabin?”
“I would.”
They were almost neighbors. Charteris had been assigned cabin A-49/50 near the portside stairs, and Hilda was in A-31/32,just down the narrow hall a few doors. After the spacious promenade and lounge, these windowless, glorified closets came as something of a shock—they were no better, or for that matter no worse, than a first-class railway sleeping car.
Hilda’s room—if a six-and-a-half-by-five-and-a-half cubicle could be so designated—had pearl-gray linen walls, a rose in a wall vase, cupboards over a fold-out washstand; her suitcase was on a small fabric-and-aluminum stand and an aluminum ladder, drilled with circular holes to lessen its weight, leaned against the top bunk.
“Bathrooms and shower are on B deck,” Charteris said.
“A shower on an airship? That must be a first.”
“Oh, it is—but there’s only one, so you have to make a reservation, I’m told.”
“Well,” she sighed, surveying her tiny world, “at least I do not have a roommate.”
Charteris leaned an arm against the bunk. “Would you like one?”
She had been just about to finally undo the belt of her trench coat, but now she paused, smiling faintly, as if thinking better of it.
“You are rather bold, are you not, Mr. Charteris?”
He leaned forward, just a bit, and kissed her on her full mouth—a short but promising kiss, which she accepted, if not quite returned.
“At times,” he said.
Smirking in a not unfriendly manner, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him gently toward the door. “Perhaps you should check out your own quarters before trying to replace them.”
“Fair enough… Shall I stop by just before ten? We could have supper together.”
“What, and eventually breakfast?”
“Now who’s bold?”
She squeezed her pulchritude past him, reached around to grasp
Similar Books
Freaks Under Fire
Maree Anderson
Max Baker: Guardian of the Ninth Sector
Matthew Cronan
Ruby
Lauraine Snelling, Alexandra O'Karm
The Corpse of St James's
Jeanne M. Dams
Coyote
David L. Foster
No Strings (Broken Strings)
Jo Briggs
Lady Scandal
Larissa Lyons
The Thicket
Joe R. Lansdale