Falling Against Gravity Read online

  Mr. Blake tilted his head curiously. “I really wouldn’t know anything about that, sir. In fact, I don’t really know what to make of this crash business. I usually work in procurement, but they sent us out here. So we’ll see what happens.”

  Fort was perturbed that someone so unqualified was being sent to investigate something so important on behalf of the government. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he invited the man to sit with him. “Shouldn’t you have someone with you who specializes in this sort of thing?” Fort inquired.

  Blake tilted his head again. “Well, we're looking for credible experts. Would you consider yourself an expert?”

  “Would I? Why, I'm one of America's foremost authorities on this sort of thing.”

  Blake raised his eyebrows and took out a notepad. “And what is 'this sort of thing' exactly?”

  Blake and Fort spoke for many miles over the bumps and swaying of the train. He felt like he’d found a comrade in arms, a fellow enthusiast of the terra obscura. Eventually Fort gathered up his notebooks and papers, and the two headed towards the dining car together. Blake motioned for Mr. Kane to remain where he was. Fort and Blake drank a few drinks. After the fourth drink, Fort enthusiastically splayed out all his papers and notes on the table while he waxed on with great enthusiasm about all he knew and believed about visitors from other worlds.

  ***

  Fort stood over his desk, head hanging. Ripley sat in a wooden chair in the corner, fiddling with a shiny paperclip he picked off Fort’s desk while listening to his tale. He looked up and nodded to Zoya, who was leaning in the doorway listening as the morning sunbeams cut through the dusty air of the office and lit the schematics on the wall behind Fort.

  Fort banged his hands viciously on the desk. More dust swirled in the air. “I was such an idiot! I told him every detail I had discovered about the case in Aurora! Every name they needed, the property, everything!

  “It’s understandable, Charles, you didn't know,” Ripley said, trying to calm his friend. He slipped the paperclip into his waistcoat pocket discreetly as he pulled out his sketchpad and pencil from his jacket.

  Zoya chuckled. “Divulging secrets to strangers on a train is idiotic, though.”

  Fort lifted his head a little to look at her through his mess of brown hair. He was a wee bit drunk after the rapid shots of whiskey.

  She shrugged. “I'm just saying,” Zoya explained, “it was very careless to tell everything to someone you had just met. That's all.”

  “Yes, thank you, Zoya,” Fort sneered. “Shouldn't you be working on something? Somewhere else?”

  Zoya took a drink of hot coffee from her tin mug. “No. It's my break time. And this seems like an interesting story. Go on.”

  “No … that’s enough of that,” he said, resigned. Straightening up, Fort regained his composure. He wandered around the desk and out the door past Zoya, looking up at the Nimbus, a magnificent mechanical airship in the main part of the hangar. This was why they needed the mercury. He would risk his life a hundred times for this ship. He stood there for a few moments, enraptured in the vessel’s beauty. “We have a timetable to follow and a deadline to keep. This machine has to fly across the Atlantic in less than two weeks! I'd like to run a few test flights before that. Wouldn't you, Helmsman Zoya?”

  “That is not an idiotic idea, Mr. Fort. And I prefer Chief Engineer Zoya, if you're going to be all formal with me.”

  Fort’s ire rose as he turned to face her. She had a smug smile as she took another casual swig from her cup.

  Ripley was getting uncomfortable with the tension and wanted to diffuse it somehow. “Charles, you've been up this whole crazy night. And now you're drinking. Why don't you go lie down for a few hours and I'll help Chief Engineer Zoya.”

  “Don't call her that,” Charles scoffed.

  “I'd like that, Mr. Ripley,” Zoya smiled, ignoring Fort. “And I could use a hand running some cable.”

  “As I said before, Ripley is fine. Or Leroy, if you like. Or just Ripley. Whichever,” he gushed. Over the last few weeks he had started to normalize Zoya’s beauty. When he first met her he could barely look her in the eye, often awkwardly avoiding her looks. But when she was in the room and not noticing him, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Lately they had more exchanges and conversations, even sharing a laugh. She was funny and a little off beat. She could be disarming when she wanted to and her smile still entranced him beyond measure. Zoya’s blatant beauty made him uncomfortable, and she knew it. She was used to it. Although she had been an awkward looking child, she’d developed into a stunning woman. Most men she encountered stumbled accommodatingly before her, but she tried not to abuse these natural gifts. She was determined to be respected for what she could do. Fort was the first man in a long time who didn’t seem to acknowledge her beauty but sometimes it seemed like he didn’t appreciate her skills, either. The former didn’t bother her at all, but the latter annoyed her intensely.

  “Thank you, Leroy.” She smiled. His heart melted a little inside his chest, enough that he started to perspire.

  As much as he didn’t want to, Fort had to accept that he was getting woozy from the quick infusion of multiple shots of alcohol into his system, especially after a harried and sleepless night. “Both of you out of here. I could use a little lie down.” He strolled back into his workshop and swept the remaining stack of newspapers off his worn couch and collapsed in a heap. Ripley looked over at Zoya and shrugged. She returned a droll look before rolling her back off the door frame in a turn and strutting off down the mezzanine. Ripley paused and looked as Fort buried his head into his arm and some loose papers. Ripley’s face tightened as he pulled the door shut. He was becoming quite worried for his friend.

  CHAPTER 4

  The overwhelming morning sunlight came through the roman blinds, casting a red hue over the large meeting room. Albeit they weren’t on the top floor, but even three floors down from the top of the tallest building in New York City, the light was amazing. Cyrus liked using this space. He sat with his back to the windows at the brow of the Fuller Flatiron building looking at the various men’s faces staring back at him. With his audience bathed in the deep reddish light, he could see every line and movement in their faces perfectly. He also knew his face was cast in a thin veil of shadow. For Cyrus, a man who liked being in the shadows, the effect pleased him.

  To say that this room contained the richest and most powerful men in the world was an understatement. The combined wealth alone of this handful of men was greater than the remaining wealth of the entire United States. For most humans, wealth was power; but not for Cyrus – he knew true power was influence, and he wielded it with a velvet glove. He had an uncanny ability to make others want what he wanted. Some of the men in this room feared him, some admired him, but most wanted to be him. This was an unusual feeling for these gentlemen. John Morgan had never wanted to be anyone else, yet he hung on to Cyrus’ every word. Nelson Aldrich crushed his political opponents and answered to no one, yet he yearned for Cyrus to like him. Mr. Warburg and Mr. Schiff, each independently powerful men, behaved like sycophants around Cyrus. Both the senior and junior Rockefellers were in attendance; but John Sr. seemed less impressed than everyone else and his eyes kept drifting to the notably empty chair.

  Cyrus had been speaking almost entirely uninterrupted for the last forty minutes. He knew he had most of these men onside. He had met with each of them separately and in smaller groups several times over the last few years, but this was the first time he had brought them all together. He explained his plan, the expected timeline and ultimate results. He assured them that if they played the parts he required, within a few years they alone would control the second most powerful economy in the world and leverage it upwards until they controlled the world. A few copper companies and small banks would have to be sacrificed, but the rewards would be endless.

  “When our assets are all in place next year,” Cyrus continued, “we’ll manufacture the afor
ementioned crisis and the government and remaining banks will beg for relief and our assistance and that’s when the trap will snap shut on them. The best part of it is that they will give us control willingly…”

  The nonplussed elder Rockefeller interrupted the dashing, goateed man mid-sentence. “And what about the good Baron? Where is he? I thought he wanted to play as well.”

  Cyrus did not appreciate being interrupted. It was a rare event. He tolerated the disrespect limitedly. He adjusted his tie before responding. “Mr. Cassel still sees this as a country of upstarts and refuses to set foot on the land. When the time comes to finalize our documents we will hold our meetings on Jekyll Island off Georgia. This will accommodate his predilection and serve our discretion. Furthermore...”

  “Upstarts?! If that’s what he thinks, why should he be involved?” the elder Rockefeller interjected. “We don’t need some kingsman from Europe telling us what to do. This country already fought a war to throw out these European monarchs and their lap dogs.” His words dripped with vitriol.

  Again he speaks over me, Cyrus thought. He stared at the older man with an intensity that made the other men in the room quiver. He seemed to be looking through him, into his skull, and it made Rockefeller shrink in his chair.

  “Mr. Rockefeller, I do not care about kings or countries. Nor do I bother with petty politics or old grudges. What we are doing is seizing control of the future. Let the pedestrians have their opinions on these things. If they give us control over the currency, let them elect a duck or crown a dog. I do not care. It’s the currency that is important. The men who own that, own everything. Now, do not interrupt me again.”

  The old man felt a wave of fear and respect wash over him. The novel emotion was so strong, it left a taste of old pennies in his mouth. He swallowed hard and nodded silently in acquiescence. His son had never seen such behavior from his father.

  Duncan, the Mayor of New York City’s right hand man, assisted Cyrus from time to time. He sat at the back of the room near the door with a devilish smile as he fidgeted with an ornate ring on his finger. He marveled at Cyrus’ ability to control a room of powerful men. He acknowledged he still had a lot to learn from this man.

  Cyrus lowered himself back into his chair when he felt a telltale vibration in his waistcoat. It was always unexpected, but seldom so poorly timed. Again, his pocket watch discreetly vibrated. He pulled it out, undid the clasp and looked at the time. Unfortunately, this signal required his immediate attention.

  “I’m sorry gentlemen, but I must leave now. Duncan will see you out and make sure you each receive your documents. Good day.”

  And with that, he stood up and walked straight for the door. Duncan stood up with a puzzled look.

  “Duncan, see that each member is taken care of. We will talk later.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, burning with curiosity as Cyrus exited the room.

  Mr. Warburg leaned in toward the two Rockefeller’s and whispered with his heavy German accent, “I have looked it over entirely. It is a done deal whether you are in or you are out. Why not be on the winning side, ja?”

  Cyrus strode down the regal hall to the elevator and went to his apartment and opened the door. He took out a briefcase with an intricate lock and opened it. He ably connected some wires to an antenna outside his window. He then proceeded to type out a signal on a strange version of a telegraph key. Within seconds he received a coded response and it made him grind his teeth. They had lost the mercury.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Nimbus airship loomed large in the style of a classic zeppelin. She was exactly 150 feet long in an oblong, copper-plated football shape on top of a massive wooden gondola. She was magnificent by any standard with shiny copper plates enveloping it attached to a gigantic rigid steel structure inside that was traditionally used to hold massive gas bags to create lift. She had four small propeller turbines, two on each side for steering control with a large propeller on the rear for forward propulsion.

  It was still morning and sunlight was beginning to shine brightly through the windows on the bridge of the ship. There was a round hatch opened on the very top of the vessel, allowing a column of sunlight to enter into the interior. It was quite spacious in spite of the extraordinary machinery inside. Giant concentric metal tubes, almost as big as the ship itself, were suspended inside the space. The tubes were housed in bearings and geared together. When they were disengaged from the main drive, they moved effortlessly by the push of one’s hand; but when one ring was moved, they all moved inside each other in some beautiful and bizarre geometric forms of rings inside rings of tubes. They resembled an enormous model of electrons circling the nucleus of an atom.

  Once Ripley and Zoya entered the enormous copper envelope of the airship, Zoya showed him what she wanted him to do with the spool of cable. It took her no time to effortlessly climb up to the ceiling of the engine room. Zoya was wearing a harness that suspended her from the ceiling and was clipped to a heavy cable running the length of the ship. If she ever left the engineering world, she could easily make it as a trapeze artist in a traveling circus. Fortunately her current employment allowed her to enjoy both realms. She moved along the heavy cable upside down, threading a smaller cable through the girders in the ribs of the vessel. She moved with the confidence of someone comfortable in strange workspaces, maneuvering with the strength of a mountaineer combined with the grace of a ballet dancer. She easily unhooked her tethering clasps to move around obstacles, free climbing when necessary.

  Ripley unspooled the cable from the floor. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, but watching her was making him nauseous. He had both a nervous stomach and apprehensive disposition, so as he watched her scurry around the top of the airship at a dangerous pace and height, he began to fail miserably at suppressing his anxiety.

  “Really, there must be a better, or at least safer, way to do this?” Ripley called up to Zoya.

  “Maybe. But not faster, and no one wants to set the staging up in here again. It’s very tedious.”

  “I'm much better with tedium than I am with this.” Ripley started to look pale and sweaty. “In fact, I’m sorry, but this is making me lightheaded and I'm worried that I might pass out.”

  “Don't watch me, Leroy. Look at the spool and make sure it doesn't tangle. Tell me a story.”

  “I-I-I'm feeling a little wobbly on my feet.” Ripley teetered.

  “Tell me more about that man who was so upsetting to Mr.Fort. Who is he?”

  Ripley sat down and watched the spool slowly turn. Through a porthole window, Nikola popped his head up to poke a distrustful glance at Ripley, then oddly slid back down. Ripley shook his head before admitting, “I don't really know much about him. But listening to Charles this morning has jogged my memory of the story.”

  “Would you tell me? Please? It seems important,” Zoya prodded.

  “Well, it is quite important, actually. In fact, that story is how this ship came to be.”

  “Well, now you must tell me,” Zoya implored.

  “It was back in 1897, in Texas. Charles was there doing an investigation, as he was prone to do. He got a room at the local boarding house run by a widow, I think, and interviewed as many people as he could.” Ripley paused for a few moments, lost in thought.

  Zoya dangled in mid-climb and looked at the little man below. “Leroy? Hello?” Zoya joked. “Are you going to continue?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Ripley responded, shaken from his reverie. “I just remembered the boy. That poor boy. Charles had befriended the landlady’s son and used him as a local guide. I got the impression that he was helpful. Charles really liked him.”

  ***

  It was yet another hot day. Fort wasn’t used to this weather; but then again, even the locals were complaining about the heat. There was no escape. It got inside of one’s body with each breath. Nonetheless, there was research to do and answers to find. “Garfield! Which way to the crash site?”

  “The Proctor farm
? This way!” Garfield keenly responded. He was a portly boy, but light on his feet. He had an extra pep in his step this day because he was enjoying the attention from an adult male figure. Garfield hadn’t had much of that in his life. His father had died of consumption when the boy was quite young. His mother suffered from bouts of melancholy after her husband passed away. She did her best to provide for the two of them by doing some sewing and letting rooms for temporary borders, but the little town of Aurora already had a small hotel and didn’t require too many rooms to rent. Garfield knew they were poor but never really minded. He loved his mum and really just worried about her happiness.

  A large, railed fence and thick hedge of Texas sage ran along the Proctor lane. The destroyed windmill could be seen in the distance behind the house. As they rounded the bend, Fort noticed a gatepost on either side of the driveway. He looked over at Garfield, whose shoe had come undone. “Tie your shoelaces, son. A man of action must always be prepared to bolt, to seize the day.”

  Garfield immediately dropped to the ground. “Yessir,” he said as he dutifully tied his lace.

  Fort continued to stroll, walking slowly further around the bend, until there was a clear view of the house and outbuildings. He stopped between the two tall gate posts and leaned his arm out on one of them. Garfield thought that he looked quite wise. “From my time adventuring and exploring,” Fort explained, “I learnt the value of being prepared for whatever comes next.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Like noting the placement of the sun, always knowing where north is. The length of shadows for time. Always having an escape route planned when in tight quarters. Well-tied shoes. You know, those sorts of things.”