The Martian Falcon (Lovecraft & Fort) (11 page)

CHAPTER 17
The Bel Geddes

LaGuardia International Aerodrome sprawled across a thousand acres of northern Queens on the waterfront between the East River and Bowery Bay. After O’Malley left, Lovecraft and Fort took a cab from Fort’s apartment to Terminal 2, which operated domestic flights.

As they got out of the cab, both looked up as the air was shaken by the thunderous drone of an airliner taking off. The vast silver chevron of a Bel Geddes Number 4 swept majestically overhead, its twenty propeller engines clawing at the air and hauling it up into the cloud-mottled sky. Lovecraft wondered how something so huge could get off the ground, let alone climb to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet and fly for hours.

In spite of his trepidation, in spite of all the doubts he had begun to entertain about the wisdom of accepting Fort’s job offer and the perils to which it had exposed him, Lovecraft was looking forward to this journey.

They made their way into the terminal building, where Fort bought two two-way tickets to Denver at the sales desk. Then they checked in their travelling valises with an immaculately uniformed young woman who smiled an immaculate smile at them and wished them a pleasant journey.

Twenty minutes later, their plane was ready for boarding. Lovecraft looked through the panoramic windows of the departure lounge and was gratified to see that it was another Bel Geddes Number 4. The boarding tube, all polished oak and thick carpeting, connected the departure lounge with the main embarkation hatch in the starboard pontoon.

The airliner was a thing to behold, a steel behemoth with nine decks and a wingspan of just over five hundred feet. Beneath the shallow V of the colossal wing which formed the main fuselage, and which contained suites and staterooms for overnight flights, each pontoon contained five decks marked by circular portholes peppering its flanks. A small lookout tower stood at the port and starboard wingtips, while the engine section with its twenty propellers – ten facing forward and ten aft – was a smaller echo of the main fuselage, and was mounted towards the leading edge on two sturdy pylons directly above the flight deck.

Looking at the aircraft, Lovecraft briefly recalled his dislike of the skycrawlers drifting through the air above New York, which seemed so emblematic of the city’s profound otherness, and realised that there could be no comparison with the magnificent object standing before him now. The skycrawlers represented the ugliness of commerce, unfettered and unheeding, a base pursuit of the bottom line that was its own reason for existing.

But the Bel Geddes… this was
romance
, a great sweep of silver whose natural habitat was the blue void of the sky and the countless unknown destinations beyond. Lovecraft could hardly wait to get on board.

He and Fort joined the line of passengers making their way through the boarding tube, which took them into the main embarkation foyer on deck three of the starboard pontoon. From there they climbed to deck five on a wide Art Deco staircase that would not have been out of place in the finest Long Island mansion.

As they made their way forward to the vast observation lounge at the front of the aircraft, with its armchairs and settees all upholstered in rich burgundy leather, Lovecraft glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of the main dining room and the lozenge-shaped stage at the rear, where the orchestra were busily setting up their music stands and unpacking their instruments. The dining tables were all bare, save for their immaculately pressed white linen tablecloths: the dining staff would wait until the airliner had levelled off at its cruising altitude before setting them and serving lunch.

Mindful that this was Lovecraft’s first flight, Fort moved quickly towards the front, choosing two armchairs close to one of the fourteen huge square windows set into the gigantic fuselage’s leading edge. Fort took out his tobacco pouch, rolling papers and matches and tossed them onto the ornate smoking table between the two chairs, while Lovecraft looked through the window, eyes wide with anticipation.

When embarkation had been completed, the air trembled slightly with a sound like distant thunder coming from above as the propeller engines roared into life and the airliner began its leisurely movement away from the terminal building and onto the taxiway. The engines settled into a steady, mildly soporific drone which could not be completely silenced even by the soundproofing between the decks.

A gentle yet authoritative voice issued from hidden loudspeakers throughout the airliner’s interior. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ it said. ‘I am Captain Everett C. Parker, and on behalf of my crew, I would like to welcome you aboard Transcontinental Flight 19 to Denver, Colorado. We will be cruising at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet, and our flight time to Denver will be six hours and thirty minutes. I hope and trust that you will have a pleasant flight. Thank you.’

Fort rolled and lit a cigarette and glanced at Lovecraft, who was leaning forward in his chair and watching rapt as they approached the main runway.
Queer bird
, he thought. Capone was right: he
did
belong in a library, but he had proved that he could keep his head in a crisis, and that counted for a lot in Fort’s line of work.

All the same, Fort wondered if he had done this mild-mannered fellow a disservice in offering him the job. They had already come within a hair’s breadth of death at the hands of Sanguine’s crew, and Fort doubted that the sailing would be any smoother from here on in. Lovecraft appeared to scare easily, but he kept his nerve in spite of it, and that, Fort reflected, was the true mark of courage.

The airliner reached the main runway, turned and paused, as if gathering its strength for the long climb ahead. Then the drone of the engines rose in pitch and Lovecraft and Fort were pushed gently back into their armchairs as the Bel Geddes accelerated along the runway. The deck pitched up at a shallow angle as the airliner left the ground, and Lovecraft caught his breath as the distant skyline of New York sank beneath the lower edges of the forward windows. There was a faint mechanical whine as the eighty wheels comprising the craft’s massive undercarriage withdrew into the pontoons.

‘And we’re off,’ said Fort.

‘Miraculous!’ whispered Lovecraft.

*

The first lunch sitting was an hour after takeoff. Lovecraft and Fort went aft through a wide, arched doorway into the dining room and took a table near the port bulkhead as the band began to play a Bix Beiderbecke number.

‘How do you like your first flight so far, Howard?’ asked Fort as they both looked over their menus.

‘Astonishing,’ Lovecraft replied. ‘More so than I expected, in fact. Normally, I’m not one to sing the praises of modern technology, but this… well, this is entirely different.’

‘How so?’

‘I suppose because it embodies mankind’s yearning for discovery, for travel to distant and unknown places, to seek and to find that which is unknown, to divine the true nature of existence, and man’s place therein.’

Fort glanced at Lovecraft over the top of his menu. He smiled and shook his head. ‘Man’s place in the true nature of existence, huh? I don’t think you’ll find that in Denver.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Lovecraft replied with a smile of his own. ‘But I’m willing to bet we
will
find it in Colorado Springs – or at least a clue to it.’

Fort glanced at him again, this time more thoughtfully. ‘Yeah… I guess you could be right, Howard.’

A waiter drifted over and asked them if they were ready to order. Fort chose the prime rib, while Lovecraft decided on the East Indian lamb curry with rice.

Fort raised an eyebrow. ‘You like that stuff?’

‘Indeed!’ enthused Lovecraft. ‘I was introduced to it not long ago by a friend and correspondent, Mr. E. Hoffmann Price. I like spicy food exceedingly, and I’m hoping that this dish will be particularly vigorous…’ He glanced around at the other diners. ‘Although I suspect my hope will be a forlorn one.’

‘How so?’

‘The galley may well be hamstrung by the dull trepidation of the pedestrian American palate,’ Lovecraft replied, with apparently genuine sadness. ‘I have little doubt they would prefer the kind of curry that’s safe for women and children – a pallid, gutless, quite innocuous sauce; not the blighting, blasting, searing curry of the true Indian fashion, one drop of which has been known to draw blisters from a Cordovan boot.
That
is the kind I crave.’

‘Well,’ said Fort after a brief hesitation. ‘Good luck.’

‘I take it you don’t particularly care for exotic cuisine, Charles?’ said Lovecraft.

‘I don’t mind it, but my stomach does. Plays hell with me afterwards.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

Fort shrugged. ‘I can live with it.’

‘Your friend, Father O’Malley…’ Lovecraft began.

‘What about him?’

‘A rather strange chap – but evidently well-connected.’

‘Right on both counts,’ Fort smiled.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘Longer than either of us care to remember. Before he joined the priesthood, he was a boxer. Could have gone all the way, but he found a higher calling. That’s how he got his nickname: Father O’Blivion. Got a left hook like you wouldn’t believe, which he still uses on occasion.’

Lovecraft raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘One of his specialties is guiding street punks onto the path to righteousness. Well… I say “guide”, but it’s more accurate to say he
punches
them onto the right path. And very few of them stray afterwards. One conversation with Father O’Blivion is enough for most.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Lovecraft quietly.

‘Anyway,’ said Fort, ‘why don’t you tell me a little bit more about yourself, Howard?’

Lovecraft gave him a quizzical look. ‘Why? What do you wish to know?’

‘Well, if we’re going to work together, we should get to know each other, don’t you think? We’ve hardly had the chance, so far, and we’ve got more than six hours to fill.’

Lovecraft considered this. ‘Very well. Let me see… I was born on August the twentieth, 1890 in Providence, Rhode Island. When I was three years old, my father, Winfield Scott Lovecraft, was confined to Butler Hospital following a complete collapse while on a business trip to Chicago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Fort. ‘What was the diagnosis?’

‘The doctors told my mother that he had suffered a general paralysis – nervous exhaustion brought on by overwork. I regret to say that he never recovered. He died five years later. I was raised by my mother, Sarah, my aunts Lillian and Annie Phillips, and my maternal grandfather, Whipple Van Buren Phillips.’

‘Must have been a pretty bad shock for you all,’ said Fort.

‘Of course,’ Lovecraft nodded absently. His eyes had suddenly become unfocused, looking over Fort’s left shoulder. ‘My mother also died in Butler Hospital.’

Fort raised his eyebrows. ‘Was she there for… the same reason as your father?’

‘Similar,’ Lovecraft replied. ‘My mother was of a peculiarly depressive cast, and suffered from frequent bouts of hysteria. She was committed to the hospital six years ago, where she died two years later.’

Fort was beginning to regret asking Lovecraft to talk about himself. The poor guy’s family history seemed to be one of unmitigated tragedy.

Lovecraft caught his expression, and gave a small smile. ‘That said,’ he continued, ‘I must add that my childhood was one of utter contentment. Following my father’s death, the position of family patriarch was assumed by Grandfather Whipple, who was a highly successful businessman, and it was in his library that my love of literature was kindled.’ The small smile grew broader. ‘Yes, it was there that I encountered the
Iliad
and the
Odyssey
for the first time, where I first read
The Arabian Nights
, and so many others. It was there also that I developed my interest in science – chemistry and astronomy in particular – and where I first conceived my intention to become a professional astronomer.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ asked Fort.

The smile vanished and was replaced by an expression that, to Fort’s eyes, seemed to combine both anger and shame. ‘Mathematics,’ Lovecraft said, as if the word were the name of an old enemy.

‘Mathematics?’

‘It was the subject with which I had most trouble at school, in spite of my great fascination with it. In fact, I confess that I completely failed to master it, which as you know is a requisite for entry into the field of professional astronomy. I suppose that one could say this resulted in a breakdown of sorts; in any event, I came to feel at an inappropriately young age that life no longer held any meaning or promise, that the death of this one dream signalled the death of all dreams.’

‘What turned you around?’ asked Fort.

‘The UAPA,’ Lovecraft replied.

‘The United Amateur Press Association.’

‘I suppose one could say that that splendid institution saved my life, for I had been contemplating suicide for some time. But in the UAPA, I found companionship and likemindedness, and I have made many splendid friends as a result of my association with it.’

Fort nodded. ‘Why did you move to New York?’

Lovecraft told him about the failed marriage to Sonia and her departure for Cleveland after only a few months.

Fort sat back in his chair as the waiter brought their lunch. ‘Jesus, Howard, doesn’t look like you’ve been served a whole heap of luck so far.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lovecraft replied as he leaned forward to take in the aroma of the lamb curry. ‘I have my health and my writing. I need little else beyond that.’ He took up his fork and tasted a piece of lamb.

‘How is it?’ asked Fort.

‘Something of a curate’s egg, I’m afraid. The meat is tender and flavourful, but as to the sauce, it’s as I feared: a pale approximation of what it could have been.’

Fort suppressed a smile. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘That’s not to say that the dish is a failure,’ Lovecraft added hurriedly, anxious that his disappointment not be taken for impoliteness. ‘It’s still thoughtfully prepared, and the necessary spices are all present and correct.’