Clementine (The Clockwork Century 1.10)

He smiled widely, spreading his thin lips and showing no sign of teeth. “As you wish. And the transportation in question is…shall we say…dirigible-like. It’s an experimental craft, barely large enough to support two passengers, I won’t lie to you there. It’ll be cramped, but the trip will be fairly brief. ”

“To cover one hundred and fifty miles?”

“Oh yes. If we leave now, we’ll be able to catch a late lunch in Kansas City, if you’re so inclined. Though…I’m sorry. I don’t mean to presume…”

She told him, “You can presume anything you like if you can get me to Kansas City by lunchtime. ” She rose from her chair, collected her large and small bags, and stood prepared to leave until he likewise stood.

“I can hardly argue with that. We might have a bit of a trick getting your luggage aboard, but we’ll see what we ca

n manage. This way,” he said, opening his arm and letting her lead the way around the corner, into a hallway where a tall set of narrow stairs led up to another floor.

“Up…upstairs?”

“That’s right. The Flying Fish is upstairs, on the roof. She’s a little too small to sit comfortably at the passenger docks; if I left her there, I would’ve simply met you at the gate rather than compelling you to find your way to my office. But I’ve constructed a landing pad of sorts, and I keep her lashed to the building where she’s available at a moment’s notice. ”

He reached out to take Maria’s heavier bag, and she allowed him to tote it as she led the way up the steps. She asked, “Is that typically necessary? To have a small airship at the ready?”

“Necessary?” He shrugged. “I couldn’t swear to its absolute essentialness, but I can tell you that it’s mighty convenient. Like now, for example. If I didn’t have a machine like the Fish, then I’d be forced to assign you to a train, or possibly bribe your way onto a cargo dirigible heading further west. There aren’t any passenger trips between here and Kansas City, you understand. ”

“I was unaware of that,” she said, reaching the top of the stairs and turning on the landing to scale the next flight.

“Yes, well. We may be the capital, but we’re by no means the biggest urban area within the state. Or within the region, heaven knows,” he added as an afterthought.

Maria paused, looked back at him, and he urged her onward. “It’s only the next flight up. Here,” he said. At the top of the next flight there was a trap door in the ceiling. Algernon Rice gave the latch a tug and a shove, and a rolling stairway extended, sliding down to meet the floor.

He offered Maria his hand and she took it as a matter of politeness and familiarity, not because she particularly needed the assistance in climbing the stairs without a rail. But she’d learned the long way that it was easier to let men feel useful, so she rested her fingers atop his until she had cleared the portal and stood upon the roof—next to an elaborate little machine that must have been the Flying Fish.

“As you can see,” he said, “she isn’t made for comfort. ”

Maria said slowly, “No… I can see she’s made for one man’s convenience. It looks rather like…” she hunted for a comparison, and finally settled upon, “A wooden kite, strapped to a hydrogen sack. ”

Algernon Rice’s smile finally cracked enough to show a hint of even, white teeth when he said, “That’s not an altogether unfair assessment. Come, let me show you. We’ll have to strap your belongings under the seat for the sake of balance—and speaking of the seat, it’s a single bench and we’ll have to make the best of sharing. ”

“That’s fine,” she said, and she meant it, but she wasn’t really listening to him. She was examining the Fish.

The Fish could best be described as a personal-sized dirigible, affixed snugly to an undercarriage made of a light, unfinished wood frame that was open to the elements—though somewhat shielded by the bulbous balloon that held it aloft. The balloon was reinforced with a frame that could’ve been wicker, or some other light, resilient material; and it was fuller at its front than at the rear.

“What a remarkable machine,” she said.

Algernon Rice took her large bag and a length of hemp rope, and he began to tie it into place. “It’s small and light, but the speeds it can reach when the tanks are fired…well, I might have to ask you to hang onto your hat. They don’t hold much of a burning capacity, really, because it usually isn’t required. I’ll refuel in Kansas City, at the service docks, and make my way back home by bedtime. ”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” she murmured, and came to stand behind him to watch him work. When they were both satisfied that her bag was secure, they withdrew to the passenger compartment and Mr. Rice looked away while Maria organized her fluffy, rustling dress into a ladylike position inside the little wooden frame.

Then he slung a satchel over his suit which, he explained, contained basic repairing tools and emergency supplies, “Just in case,” and he made some adjustments to the rear booster tanks—neither one of which was any larger than a dog. Finally, he climbed onto the seat beside her and showed her where best to hold on, for safety’s sake. He donned a pair of aviator’s protective glasses and handed Maria a secondary pair, which she could scarcely fit over her hat and onto her face.

While she adjusted herself, he told her, “I hope you’re not easily sickened by flight or other travel, and if you have any sensitivities to height or motion, I’d advise you to brace your feet on the bar below and refrain from looking down. ”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she assured him and indeed, she braced her feet on the solid dowel while she gripped the frame’s side.

With the pump of a pedal and the turn of a crank, a hissing fuss became a sparking whoosh, and in only a moment, the Flying Fish scooted off her moorings and hobbled up into the sky.

The experience was altogether different from flying on the Cherokee Rose, with its accommodating seats and its heavy tanks, its lavatory and galley. Every jostle of every air current tapped at the undercarriage and sent it swinging ever so slightly, in a new direction every moment or two. It was a perilous feeling, being vulnerable to insects, birds, and the very real possibility of toppling off the bench and into the sky—especially as the craft climbed higher, and crested the last of the buildings, passing the edge of the town and puttering westward over the plains.

Algernon Rice spoke loudly enough to make himself heard over the pattering rumble of the engines and the wind, “I ought to have warned you, it feels like a rickety ride, but we’re quite safe. ”

“Quite safe?” she asked, determined that it should come out as a formal question, and not as a squeak.

“Quite safe indeed. And I hope you’re warm enough. I also should have warned that it’s cooler up here, the higher we fly. Is your cloak keeping you satisfactorily comfortable?” he asked.