The Language of Bees - Laurie R. King [162]
The owner was there, looking fresh as a terrier, and greeted me a good morning.
“I don't suppose you had any messages during the night, for me?” I asked her.
But she had not had a message to assure me that Holmes had resolved the issue on his own. Nothing to transform my Valkyrie ride through hell into a placid, unadventurous, puffing, ground-based train-ride back to the warm, dry, August-kissed South Downs. I would even process the honey from the other hives, I pledged, were it to absolve me from climbing back into that aeroplane.
But, no message, telegraphic, telephonic, or even telepathic.
I followed the obscenely cheerful driver out onto the rain-shined street, and he drove me to the hay-field.
Javitz was there before me, his young admirer lingering at a distance. My pilot looked no better than I felt. Still, his hands were steady as he poured me a cup from a thermal flask filled with scalding coffee.
He walked away and finished his check of our various levels by torch-light. I cradled the coffee to its dregs, and dropped the cup back onto the flask. When he came back, I handed it to him, and glanced up at the glass-wrapped passenger chamber with loathing.
Instead of offering me a hand, as he had before, he leant back against the wing and lit a cigarette. “It's ninety miles, more or less, to Thurso,” he began. “That weather report you saw me with, back in London, warned me that the wind was building, and it's out of the north-east. That's why we came across the mountains from Edinburgh instead of following the coast-line.
“But from here on, we don't have a choice. Even if we keep inland, we'll get the wind. The weather's going to be bad,” he said bluntly. “It's expected to blow itself out by tomorrow, but today's going to be rough. And when we leave Thurso, it'll be worse.” He studied me in the half-light. “This could kill us.”
Since I had come to work with Holmes, I had spent rather more time than most women my age in contemplating my imminent death. Gun, knife, bomb—I had faced all those and survived. Death by fire would be terrible, and drowning awful, but relatively quick. Falling from a great height, however, with no control, no hope, no avoiding the knowledge of a terrible meeting with the earth: That would be forever.
I swallowed: It would be easier, if I only knew. If I were certain that we were on the right track, that my presence in Orkney was the only hope for Damian and his Estelle, I would not hesitate to risk my life, or that of this brave man who had blindly done all I asked, and more. If I were sure …
I met his eyes. “I can't lie to you. There is a good chance that we are chasing a wild goose. We may get to Orkney and find our quarry has never been there, never had any intention of going there. And before you ask, yes, I knew it before we left London. My partner and his brother both disagree with me, and are hunting elsewhere.
“Two things I am certain about: One, that I could be right. And two, we only have today. Right or wrong, tomorrow will be too late for two lives, one of those a child. If I could fly this machine myself, I would. If your professional judgment decides that it is insane to go into the air today, I'll see what I can do by train.”
Javitz tossed away his cigarette end and said merely, “Okay. Let's see how things look in Thurso. Lad,” he called. “Help us get the machine turned around.”
When the 'plane was facing the other way, he handed me up, then scrambled past me into his own seat. Our eager helper took up his position at the front, and when Javitz gave him a shout, he yanked the prop with all his young strength and passion. Instantly, the roar of the engine assaulted our ears.