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.