But how to do it? Airplanes possessed the obvious, needed characteristics-but, just as obviously, were not a practical answer at all. Regularly chartering airplanes was as completely out of the question as was owning them. Those few that existed were already overtaxed, and those in private hands seemed to spend half of their working hours commandeered by the government or its confidential agents. Furthermore, the airplane’s need of specialized infrastructure-airfields, prepositioned fuel and maintenance caches, repair personnel and ground crew-made the establishment of a broad, commercial network based upon these rare and complex vehicles something far beyond his capacity for investment, even if all his Venetian resources were at his fingertips…
But they were not, and that lack echoed the very problem he sought to solve: if only there was a faster way to transfer the funds, to access his remote capital for a timely local investment…
Miro caught movement from the corner of his eye: Coleman Walker was finally heading his way, the banker’s elderly customer now being escorted to her safe deposit box by a teller. However, before Walker crossed half the distance, his subordinate-an eager, but somewhat disheveled looking fellow named Marlon Pridmore-rose and snared his manager with an eager, urgent phrase. Behind, the elderly lady reemerged from the vault, evidently in some dither of uncertainty, her eyes scanning intently for her implicit savior, Mr. Walker.
Miro, sensing a further delay in the offing, edged closer-and heard Marlon Pridmore gushing: “So we’ve got the burner running at peak efficiency now, even with alternate fuels.” Walker, facing slightly away from Pridmore, rolled exasperated eyes as his employee burbled on: “I tell you, Coleman, that balloon of mine is going to soar…”
By which time the little old lady had returned: she scooped her desperate arm through Walker’s, who allowed himself to be drawn away with an apologetic glance.
Which Miro hardly saw. All he could see was the radiant glee of the ballooning enthusiast who stood before him, albeit now somewhat sheepishly.
“Sorry, sir-I just get carried away when I’m talking about the balloon I’m building.” Pridmore looked away guiltily. “Other folks can get pretty tired hearing about it.”
“Not me,” Miro averred flatly. “Tell me more.”
Pridmore did just that. In excruciating detail. Miro estimated that he had understood about one third of Pridmore’s discursis, possessed a vague conceptual appreciation of a second third, and was absolutely baffled by the rest. But he also knew that none of that mattered: what mattered was that Mr. Marlon Pridmore-an indifferently skilled bank officer-might be able to construct a working balloon. Or, in Estuban Miro’s mind, a commercially viable form of air transport.
Pridmore was wrapping up: “I’m actually amazed you can follow all this, Mr. Miro, particularly without any drawings or models to show you. Understanding a blimp is easier when you can see it.”
“Well, then: may I see it?”
Pridmore, like a proud father being asked to display his newborn child, beamed mightily. “Why, sure you can! Whenever you want.”
Miro rose. “How about now?”
The ride to Pridmore’s house was not long, and was the first Miro had ever taken in an up-time automobile. But he almost failed to notice the marvels of this conveyance, so focused were this thoughts.
Balloons. He had read a little about them in the library already. They were not fast in terms of absolute velocity-certainly not in comparison to airplanes-but, like airplanes, balloons recognized few obstacles. Because the sky was their home, they flew as straight as the crow, rather than crawling as crooked as the tortoise. And for them, airfields were not required: a network of the simple support facilities would be easy enough to set up in communities located at the right intervals. And the operation of a blimp was, in comparison to piloting an airplane, almost laughably simple: it was the difference between manning a rowboat on a fishpond and steering a three-masted merchantman through treacherous reefs.
And bandits and toll collectors could only stare up and wonder what small treasures might be nestled in the gondola above them, seemingly close overhead, but for all practical purposes, as distant from their greedy hands as the wealth of Prester John’s fabled kingdom.
Pridmore’s balloon turned out to be a surprisingly simple device. Large when inflated-it would measure 150 feet in length, and 60 in girth-it became so small when deflated that it would easily fit in its own, longboat-sized, wicker gondola. Two engines-up-time devices once used to propel small, two-wheeled vehicles-provided the motive force that pushed the floating lozenge through the air. Close beneath the bag-or “envelope”-of the vehicle was what Pridmore called a “burner”-a special torch which sent new hot air upwards to keep the canvas inflated. Miro found himself deeply impressed by the elegance and practicality of the whole vehicle.
Or at least, of its many unassembled pieces: they lay about the master ballooner’s small barn in what almost looked like disarray, the envelope itself still a pile of unsewn strips. Miro gestured toward the gear: “It seems that you have a long way to go before your airship is ready, Mister Pridmore.”
Marlon-who was also called “Swordfish,” for reasons having to do with an obscure pun on piscine nomenclature-nodded sadly. “Yeah, got a ways to go with this ol’ girl. Just me and Bernard doing the work. A few other folks pitch in-when they have the time.”
“Can you not hire more workers?”
Pridmore stared sideways at him. “On my salary? Not hardly. I’m lucky to have a week where I get twenty hours to work on her.” He sighed and stared longingly at the somewhat chaotic collection of airship components. “Not like I haven’t had offers, though.”
Miro turned to face Pridmore. “To what offers are you referring?”
“Well, there was a bunch of Venetian fellows who came out here just last week. Said they had come all the way from Italy just to learn how to build aircraft-any aircraft. But none of the airplane firms wanted ’em: they’ve got more staff and apprentices than they can pay, right now, and these Venetian fellas didn’t have any prior experience with up-time machines. So they wound up coming here. They were plenty interested but couldn’t stick around: said they needed a salary more than knowledge, so they left. Can’t say as how I blame them. Last I heard, they were trying to scrape enough dollars together just to get back to Venice.”
Miro began walking to the barn door; Pridmore looked up, surprised, and trotted after. “Where are you goin’, Mr. Miro?”
“If you would be so good as to drive me back to town, Mr. Pridmore, I have some new business to conduct there.”
An hour from closing time, the tubular door chimes sounded, causing Nicolo Peruzzi to look up from securing the display case in the front room of Roth, Nasi, amp; Partners, Jewelry Sales and Lapidary Services. His first instinctual hope was that it might be a customer, but one glance made him conclude otherwise.
He had seen this fellow before-a handsome, saturnine man of about thirty years with a hint of the hidalgo about him. And today he seemed more Mephistophelean than usual. Perhaps it was because he entered the store alone, and Peruzzi was-uncharacteristically-without nearby employees. Perhaps it was because of the fellow’s careful backward glance into street, as if checking to ensure that he was neither followed nor under observation. Or perhaps it was because of the long, straight dagger he produced as soon as the door had closed behind him.
Peruzzi’s hand went to the large button under the rear lip of the display case and remained there, quite taut. Was this fellow-named Miro? — really going to rob him? In broad daylight? It was known that, although Miro was a wealthy man, he was struggling financially, still separated from his funds in Venice. But had he really become so desperate? And so stupid? Did he really think he would get more than a mile from the store before the police-?