Ganymede (The Clockwork Century 3)

When they were gone, leaving a cloud of dust and the last echoes of their accompanying machine behind them, she was more alone than not. A pair of ancient colored men with fishing poles chatted on their way to the river. Two dark-skinned children chased a puppy across the road and into a ditch, then ran into the field and toward the forest on the other side. One woman sat reading a newspaper on the stoop of a laundry, while behind her the wet, swishing clank of the clothes-washing devices rumbled and roared indoors.

Josephine knew where the warehouse was, the one where Ganymede would be parked and stored. But it felt ill-advised to go stampeding toward it, so she didn’t. She opened her parasol and held it up, covering herself in a thin black shadow as she strolled in the general direction of the river.

It wasn’t far, barely two blocks before she could smell it in earnest when the breeze kicked air across the wide, muddy expanse of the thing, bringing it up to rattle her parasol and infiltrate her nose. Another block, and she could see the corner of the building in question.

She hesitated.

Should she simply approach it and knock? If the men were inside, they’d surely look first and not merely open fire on anyone who dared give a tap at the door. Anything else would topple past caution into counterproductive paranoia. But what if someone saw her? Most of the bayou knew about the mystery ship, if not its precise location or purpose. Almost everyone was aware that this was an operation against Texas, and therefore, almost everyone agreed

to cooperate in a display of blanket ignorance.

Almost.

She made up her mind and assumed her best, most confident posture. Avoiding the huge double doors, she instead approached a person-sized door and gave it a series of raps that said in no uncertain terms that she was here on business, and she had every right to be.

From inside came the sound of absolutely nothing.

She listened, leaning her right ear toward the door. Maybe she caught the distant susurrus whistle of muffled whispers. Maybe she noted the scrape of a boot heel as someone tiptoed carefully. Or maybe she heard only rats and seagulls bickering within. Maybe there was nothing to hear.

No.

With a pop, the door unstuck itself from its humidity-swollen frame, revealing only a narrow slot of the darkened interior, and a fraction of a white man’s face.

Only one eye greeted her, a hazel-colored orb offset by a darkly arched awning of an eyebrow. The eye showed neither surprise nor recognition. But it did not show concern or alarm either, and momentarily the door opened a few inches farther to reveal Cly’s engineer.

He was wearing a floppy brown hat and chewing on the wooden end of a matchstick. He was half a head shorter than Josephine, and he looked at her with his chin angled slightly upward—still fixing her in that cool, dead gaze that told her nothing.

He said, “Hello, there, Miss Josephine. ”

“Hello, there, Mr. …” She wanted to say Trout, but she knew it wasn’t correct. Troost, she remembered.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything’s fine. I was hoping I could speak to Captain Cly. ”

Kirby Troost’s teeth worked around the fraying match. “Well, then. I guess you’d better come inside. ” He opened the door to admit her, then shut it fast behind her.

Inside, the warehouse was not as large as she’d remembered it, from the one time she’d been there a few months previously. Then again, last time she saw it, the place hadn’t been stuffed with two large flatbeds and the Ganymede—which had been covered with an assortment of tarps roped down over the sides and concealing most of its details.

The interior was shadowed. Most of the light came from a row of small windows up near the ceiling. The rest came from two strands of electric lanterns, hanging from the ropes somebody had strung from two sets of rafters, fizzing and popping.

“You covered it up,” she observed.

“They did. ” Kirby cocked his head toward a back door, leading to an alley near the river. Then he said, “I mean, your bayou fellas did it. I didn’t much see the point, myself. Anybody who looks in here will get a gander at that thing, wonder what the hell it is, and take a look underneath the wrappings, regardless. ”

She peered up at the loosely swaddled craft, wondering where they’d found so many big scraps of tarp. “Still, I suppose it feels safer this way, rather than leaving it exposed. ”

“It’s not exposed. It’s got a whole building over it. ”

“At any rate, Mr. Troost, could you tell me where the captain has run off to? I don’t see him. ” For that matter, she didn’t see anyone. Troost was the only warm body present. That didn’t precisely worry her, but she wasn’t particularly comfortable with his presence, either. Something about the little man bothered her. He reminded her of someone or something unpleasant, or perhaps it was only the impertinent way he spoke and moved. He was entirely too comfortable everywhere. No one should feel so immediately at home at the drop of a hat.

“Could I tell you where he’s at for certain? No. I could make a guess or two, or you could wait until he gets back. I believe he’s gone down the road to that little bar, the one three or four blocks east. We’ve been coming and going in shifts, and hanging around the one hotel New Sarpy sees fit to maintain. It wouldn’t do anybody any good to see a bunch of men coming and going from this warehouse. I don’t care if your brother says everyone in town is a friend of ours. ”

“Almost everyone,” she murmured.

“Yeah. Almost. Almost means room for error, and I don’t like it. So we’re taking turns, just hanging around. One or two of us at a time. But Cly isn’t much of a drinker, and he’s keeping an eye on Houjin, so I predict he’ll get bored and swing this way within the hour. ”

Josephine said, “Hm,” surveying the scenery with a critical eye. Then she asked, “Are you from Seattle?”