Goliath

They were false, in other words.

Alek kept to his cabin most of the day, avoiding the newsreel cameras roaming the ship’s corridors. One of his grandaunts believed that photographs snatched pieces of the soul, and maybe she was right. At sixteen frames a second, a moving-picture camera would chip away like a machine gun. Perhaps it was only last night’s brandy in his head, but Alek felt as empty as Mr. Hearst’s false buildings.

The airship followed the coast of California southward at three-quarter speed, angling against the cool ocean breezes that blew toward land. Los Angeles slipped past in the late afternoon, and a few hours later Alek felt the airship turn southeast. According to the map on his desk, the sprawling city below was Tijuana.

A sudden blaring of horns and drums cut through the engine noise, and Bovril scampered to the windowsill. Alek looked out—a huge stadium yawned below, packed with cheering spectators. Some sort of double-headed bull was kicking up dust in the arena’s center, facing a matador almost too small to see in the fading light.

It occurred to Alek that however swift airship travel was, one missed a great deal of scenery from the lofty height of a thousand feet.

By the time he’d dressed for dinner, the desert below was wrapped in darkness. Bovril was still on the windowsill, gazing down. No doubt its large eyes could see by starlight.

“Meteoric,” the beast said, and Alek frowned. It was the first word Bovril had said all day, and certainly not one that Alek had uttered.

But Alek was already late for dinner, so he placed the creature on his shoulder and headed out the door.

The lady boffin had commandeered the officers’ mess for the evening, no doubt the first of many tiresome dinner parties. With so many civilians aboard, the Leviathan’s journey to New York was in danger of turning into a pleasure cruise. At least tonight’s dinner was for only five, and not two dozen like Hearst’s affair.

Deryn stood waiting at the mess door, dressed in her formal serving uniform. When Bovril reached out for her, she ruffled its fur and then opened the door with a deep bow. A smirk played on her face, and Alek felt briefly silly in his formal jacket, as if the two of them were children playing dress-up.

The other guests had already arrived—Count Volger, Mr. Tesla, and the lady reporter from Hearst’s San Francisco paper. Dr. Barlow ushered the young woman forward. She was wearing a pale red dress with a frilled collar, and a pink ostrich plume curled up from her rose-colored felt hat.

“Your Serene Highness, may I present Miss Adela Rogers?”

Alek bowed. “I had the pleasure last night, but only briefly.”

Miss Rogers extended her hand to be kissed, and Alek hesitated—she was hardly of his social standing. But Americans were famous for ignoring such notions, so Alek took her hand and kissed the air.

“You missed,” she said with a baffled smile.

“Missed?” Alek asked.

“Her hand,” said Dr. Barlow. “The custom in Europe, Miss Rogers, is that only married women are kissed directly ohe flesh. You young things are thought to be too easily swayed by the touch of lips.”

Alek heard Deryn snort, but managed to ignore her.

“Young? But I’m all of twenty,” Miss Rogers said. “My hand has been kissed many times without injury!”

Dr. Barlow’s loris laughed, and Alek coughed politely. “Of course.”

“And I was almost married once,” Miss Rogers said. “But an old suitor rushed in at the last moment and tore up the marriage license. I think he was still in love with me.”

“Really?” Alek managed. “No doubt he was.”

“Couldn’t you have got another license?” the lady boffin asked.

“I suppose so. But the interruption gave me time to think. I have decided to put my writing first. One can always get a husband, after all.”

Dr. Barlow laughed as she guided the young lady toward the table. Alek felt himself blushing and looked away, only to see a smirk on Deryn’s face—and on Volger’s as well. He wondered if all American women were this bold, as ready to embarrass men as they were to escape in balloons.

“Easily swayed,” Bovril repeated; then it crawled beneath the table to join the lady boffin’s loris. As Alek took his seat, he noticed a sixth table setting before an empty chair.

“We appear to be awaiting a mystery guest,” Count Volger said, inspecting his wineglass for spots.

“Mr. Francis?” Alek asked Dr. Barlow.

“He was not invited. You shall soon see why.” She nodded at Deryn, who opened the door. A man in a somewhat ill-fitting jacket entered. It took a moment, but then Alek gripped the table’s edge, half rising from his chair.

“You!”

“Don’t get up, Your Highness.” Eddie Malone bowed. “Ladies and gentlemen, sorry I’m late.”

Alek sank back into his chair.

“Mystery guest,” the beast muttered.

“Mr. Malone, I believe you’ve met Count Volger and His Serene Highness.” Dr. Barlow was all smiles. “Mr. Nikola Tesla and Miss Adela Rogers, this is Eddie Malone, reporter for the New York World.”

“The World?” said Miss Rogers. “Oh, dear.”

“Edward Malone,” Tesla murmured. “Aren’t you that reporter who interviewed Prince Aleksandar in Istanbul?”

“That was me, all right.” Malone took his seat. “I’ve been tracking him ever since, you might say. And thanks to your flying radio, I’ve found him at last!”

The inventor smiled. “A most rewarding experiment.”

The two men laughed, and Alek suddenly wished that he and Deryn had let the storm wreck the antenna. Its only purpose had been to generate more publicity.

Miss Rogers looked aghast. “Has anyone told the chief that one of Pulitzer’s men is aboard?”

“Mr. Hearst didn’t think to ask.” The lady boffin gestured to Deryn, who stepped forward to pour the wine. “And you’ll find that Mr. Malone has some interesting news.”

Malone turned to Miss Rogers. “It has to do with your friend Philip Francis. We’ve been looking into him for some time now, and it turns out that’s not his real name. He was born Philip Diefendorf, about as German a name as you could have!”

Alek frowned, recalling Mr. Francis from the night before. “He doesn’t have a German accent.”

“Maybe he also changed the way he talks.”

Miss Rogers rolled her eyes. “Philip was born in New York.”

“So he claims,” Malone said.

“Hah! You boys at the World are always making out like the chief’s a traitor. You just hate him because he sells more papers than you!”

“I didn’t say Hearst knew anything about this,” Malone said, raising his hands. “But the head of your newsreel operation is German, and he’s taken pains to hide it.”

“Don’t most Americans come from somewhere else?” Count Volger asked.

Mr. Tesla nodded. “I am an immigrant myself.”

“An excellent point,” Dr. Barlow said. “But the captain is concerned. Last night we took aboard a large quantity of supplies in a great hurry, and not all of it has been searched yet.”

“Searched for what?” Miss Rogers asked.

“Sabotage is the easiest way to destroy the Leviathan,” Dr. Barlow said. “A small phosphorous bomb in the right place would bring us all to a fiery end.”

The table went silent, and Alek felt his headache threatening to return.

“That’s not likely, of course,” Deryn spoke up. “We’ve had the sniffers belowdecks all afternoon, and they’d have found any explosives. But something dangerous might’ve been smuggled aboard.”

“Such as?” Count Volger asked.

Deryn shrugged. “A weapon of some kind?”

“Now, this is just preposterous,” Miss Rogers said. “One man can’t take on the whole crew, no matter what