“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.”