These reminiscences were interrupted by the sound of Haka-ti’s indignant yowl, the first word either cat had spoken since Athena Moorefield had made her less than graceful exit.

“Hey, you...this private hanga!”

Katie turned, and saw a slightly bow-legged red panda come trundling through the gate, followed by a matching pair of golden-haired monkeys.  He was dressed for the occasion in gray khakis with a gray forage cap perched on his head, and a cartridge-belt encircling his waist   From behind the his back, protruded a folded three-section staff, one of the most difficult to master of all kung-fu weapons.  And under each of his shoulders, he wore an Astra 400 Semiautomatic pistol.

“It’s okay, boys.” the pinto mare said to the pair of cats, “He works for me.  Hey, hello Shang.”

“Hello, Miss MacArran.” the panda called back, with a big, hearty smile...and in flawless English, “Sorry we weren’t here for your arrival.”  He frowned, looking around the dock and sniffing as though trying to catch a scent. “Is there some kind of problem, Miss?  I thought I heard  screaming a moment ago.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle, Shang,” Katie told him, smiling, “and don’t worry about not being here.  Turns out I got in early.”

She turned to Haka and Paoluu.

“Boys, this is Shang Li-Sung...my chief of security.  He’ll be in charge keeping an eye on my race-plane for the duration.”

“Hello,” said Shang, offering each of them a paw.

“Hello,” answered Haka, taking hold of it with an uneasy grip.  This panda seemed to be carrying more weaponry than the average Naval Syndicate destroyer.

“Hello,” said Paoluu.  A bit more vocal about his misgivings than the other feline, he added, “You pretty heavily armed, huh?”

Shang grinned, revealing long rows of gold-capped teeth.  “It’s the old principle,” he said, “the larger the amount of force you’re willing to put on display, the smaller the chance you’ll need to use it.”

“Is Drake here?” Katie asked the panda. 

Shang nodded and said, “Yes.  He should be along in a few minutes.” He pointed over her shoulder to where the Little Engine was tied up. “That plane of yours created something of a stir when you came in, so I imagine he’s got his paws full at the moment.”

Drake Hackett was Katie’s chief publicist and spokesfur

“And who are these boys?” she asked, nodding at the pair of monkeys, both of whom were carrying short bamboo staffs...and had short shotguns slung around their shoulders. 

Shotguns...yes, of course.  Katie sighed wearily, and shook her head.

“Something wrong, Miss?” Shang inquired again.

“No,” said Katie shaking her head once more.  Nothing was wrong, just ironic.  The weapons the two pandas were carrying MAF-13 quick-firing trench shotguns.

The first three letters stood for Moorefield Armaments Fabricators.

“These are the brothers Chu Fo-Ji and Chu Lee-Wan.” Shang was telling her. “They’ll take the first watch in guarding the plane....once you get her inside, of course.” he paused, raising a finger as though something had only just that second occurred to him.  “Ah, but their English is only just passable, Miss MacArran.  If you wish to say anything to them, I suggest you speak in Mandarin.”

Katie did just that.

“Take good care of my plane, brothers.  I can count on you to do this?”

To her considerable surprise, the pair became ramrod straight. “We will guard your plane with our lives, Dragon Eye Mistress!” declared Chu Fo-Ji, and both of them pounded  their staffs on the ground.

Katie’s jaw almost hit the ground as well.  Dragon Eye Mistress.  That was what she had been called back when...

And their accents. Could these brothers be from...?

“You’re...from Nanking?” she asked them, speaking slowly and in a quavering voice.

“Yes, we are.” said Chu Lee-Wan.

“We were among the lucky ones, though.” added his brother, quickly, “Our family escaped to Hong Kong three months before the city fell.  That’s where our mother’s three brothers all live with their families.”

“But we heard what you did there after we departed.” said Chu Lee-Wan, puffing out his chest a little, “No one will touch your plane while we are guarding it, Dragon Eye Mis...”

“Please do not call her that.” said Shang Li-Sung, stepping quickly into the discussion.  “Remember, there are many Japanese here for the airplane race. You must call her either Your Grace, or Miss MacArran ”

“Yes, Shang.” said the monkeys nodding deferentially to the panda and then to Katie.

“Your Grace?” came a tentative query from outside the gate.

Katie froze in her tracks and her heart skipped a beat.  It was not HIS voice she was hearing.  It was too low in pitch and too full of gravel.

But that accent!  It was the same, exact accent with which her father had always spoken.

Katie turned, and saw a quartet of otters standing at the gate.  She turned quickly to the Chu brothers speaking rapidly in Mandarin.

“Eh?” said one of otters, cocking his head, “If yer don’t mind me askin’, Your Grace, wha’d yer just say t’ those lads?”

Katie wanted to slap her head.  Good God...THIS otter’s accent was almost an exact duplicate of Mary Fallon’s!

“If the next one who opens his mouth sounds like Grandpa Joe, I swear I’ll scream.” she said to herself

To the otter she said, “I was telling him that you’re okay to come in here.” she lowered her head, studying the four, “You would be the McCraddens...of Superior Engineering?”

“Aye, Your Grace.” said the lead otter, the one with the Scottish accent, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice “That we are.”

He pushed open the gate and came through, offering a paw as he approached.

“A pleasure to make you acquaintance, Your Grace.  Malcolme McCradden.”

“Catherine MacArran.” Katie responded, taking his paw and pumping it warmly.  She did not bother to mention her title.  Malcolme McCradden, it so happened, hailed from roughly the same part of Scotland as the MacArran clan.  His hometown of Banff was located on the north coast of the Grampian peninsula, to the east of the city of Inverness.  Strathdern was south and slightly to the west of the city.

And when it came to disdain for those who put on airs, Grampian furs made Glaswegians look downright tolerant.  This was one otter around whom she had better NOT assume her Scottish aristocrat’s fursona...not unless she wanted him to tell her to take her business elsewhere.

His paw, she noted was as rough and dry as a rawhide shoe, the paw of someone who had learned his trade the hard way...by doing it.  He was of average height for his species, with bright, inquisitive eyes and muzzle ringed by the mustache of fur common to all otters.  He was dressed for the occasion in dungarees, a short-sleeved work-shirt, and an old fisherman’s hat that probably dated from the last century.  His good-luck hat, she was certain of it.

“I appreciate your taking the time to drop by like this.” she said, and meant it..

“Nae problem y’grace,” the otter rumbled, airily, “Superior’s only right up the way after all...an’ besides, we wanted to have a closer look a’ yer Schneider-Cup plane.” He waved a paw at the trio of otters, standing in his lee, “Fairst thing, tho’ I should introduce the lads t’ ye.  Duchess MacArran, these are my three sons, Padraig, Daffyd, and Cedric.”

The first one to step forward was Padraig, or Paddy as he asked her to be call him.

Taller and thinner than his father, with reddish hair and shorter facial fur, he wore a pub shirt and docker’s cap, had a cigarette pegged into a corner of his mouth and what seemed to be a perpetual smirk engraved on his muzzle.

He was a walking Blarney Stone.

“Well, ‘tis certainly a pleasure t’ make yer August acquaintance, Yer Grace,” he said, in a voice flavored with two parts treacle to one part Guinness Stout, “And I’m certain that wi’ Superior engineerin’s help, yer’ll be leavin’ the other Schneider Cup racers in th’ dust come Sunday after this.”

Katie lifted an eyebrow.  Ohhhh, brother...and how much do you want for that land in Florida again, Padraig?

“Well, considerin’ that this is a seaplane race, laddie.” she said, falling naturally into the Scot’s bur of her sire, “I should na’ think anyone’ll be leavin’ ANYONE else in the dust.”

This rejoinder drew a sharp bark of laughter from Paddy’s father and brothers...well, two of them anyway.  The third just kind of grunted a little.

He was the next one to introduce himself.

“Daffyd McCradden.” he said, taking her paw and shaking it twice, very quickly.

And that was all he said...whether out of shyness or because he was simply closemouthed, Katie couldn’t tell.

Daffyd was easily the shortest and most heavyset of the quartet, with a full black beard and forearms the size of roofing beams...as if someone had grafted Popeye, the Sailor’s arms onto Bluto’s body.  He was Superior’s resident mechanical expert, so Zeke had told her, and seeing him now for the first time, Katie had to admit Daffyd McCradden certainly looked the part of the engine jockey.  He was clad in a sleeveless t-shirt, and dungarees so stained with grease, they were probably more waterproof than his fur by now.

The last to step forward was the youngest, Cedric, who was also...Mmmmm...Cedric was a cutie, wasn’t he?  Even if he did look almost completely out of place among the others.  Of much lighter build than his siblings, he looked more like a waiter or a hotel clerk than an engineering specialist; black pants, white shirt buttoned up all the way, and even a tie.

Katie sighed inwardly.  In another time and place, she might have liked to get to know Cedric McCradden better...but not here, and definitely not now.

It had been almost three years since Katie had last been involved with someone...and though she was finally feeling as if she might be ready to take the plunge again, she still had some healing to do. And Cedric most definitely wasn’t someone who could help her in that regard.  He was at least twelve years her junior for one thing, and for another, when he introduced himself, HIS accent was a dead ringer for Oliver Twist asking, “Please sir, can I have some more?”

No...not what she needed right now.  Not at all.

These thoughts, musings, whatever-- they were interrupted by the gruff voice of the senior McCradden.

“And tha’ would be y’ race-plane tied up t’ the dock over there, would she?”

Katie’s regard for Malcolme at once jumped several notches.  Without any prodding on her part, he had referred to the Little Engine in the feminine.  This was clearly someone who understood how much of themselves aircraft designers put into their machines.

“That’s her.” she said, a note of preening in her voice, and why not?

Cedric let out a low whistle. “Cor...she’s a real beauty, isn’t she?”

Katie forced herself not to wince and began to chant a silent mantra. “Don’t-say-it-don’t-say-it-don’t-say-it-don’t-say-it-don’t-say-it-DON’T-say-it!”

Paddy said it. “Aye...an’ the planes a real beaut as well.”

Katie wanted to groan...or scream.  Yes, it had been  meant in a complimentary way...and she might well have taken it as such...had she not already been treated to umpty-million variations on that same joke.

But now Daffyd made a short observation: “Hm...Merlin.”

“Yes, that’s right.” said Katie, regarding him with bit more respect than a second ago.  Anyone who could tell she was running a Merlin in her plane from a good 15 meters away was a fur who knew his aircraft engines.

She stepped back a bit to address the quartet as a group.

“S’long as you’re here, boys, would you mind helping me get my little girl into her hangar?”

“Why certainly, Y’ Grace.” said Malcolme, smiling agreeably, “C’mon, lads...let’s help the lady get her plane tucked up.”

Before any of them could move, Paddy spoke up

“Uh, first Da...shouldn’t we work out first how much this is gonna cost her Grace?”

“Och, give it a rest for once, son.” said his father, sighing wearily.

In short order, they had the Little Engine inside the hangar and out of the water, her floats resting snugly on a pair of low trolleys.  It was still hot inside the hangar, but Katie had sent Haka and Paoluu up topside to get the roof vents open.  Between that and the open front door, the air inside the enclosure was slowly becoming more tolerable.

“Really lovely aircraft.” Cedric observed once more as they rolled the Engine into her resting spot, “Rather puts me in mind of the XP-37.”

“Oi, lad!” said Paddy, slightly aghast. “Yer insultin’ the lady.”

The Curtiss XP-37 was one of the most beautiful pursuit plane prototypes ever conceived...and also one of the doggiest.

The insides of Cedric’s ears flushed to a glowing crimson.

“Uhhh, right...sorry Your Grace.”

“Don’t apologize to HER, y’bollocks.” said his brother, sounding mildly disgusted. He buffed a paw over the Little Engine’s lower wing, adding, “This here’s the lady yer insulted.”

Katie was beginning to like these otters more and more...not because to the deference they were showing to her airplane but because even Padraig, whose field of expertise was supposed to be the business end of Superior’s operations, knew what a flying fiasco the XP-39 was.

The Little Engine was rolled to a stop and the chocks inserted in the trolley wheels.

“Oh,” said Katie, “Before I forget, I need to make sure of something.  Did the parts and fuel additives I had shipped over from America arrive okay?”

“All present an’ accounted for, yer grace.”  It was Paddy.

“Good.” Katie nodded, “My boys’ll be bringin’ in the rest of it aboard the Republic.  Oh...and how’s your supply of 100 octane av-gas?”

“Got tanks full.” said Daffyd, the most words he’d strung together so far. “Only...” he shuffled one foot uncomfortably.

“What?”

“Well, Merlin engine uses 87 octane, dun’ it?” the otter said these words as if they were a final statement from the gallows.

Katie smiled.  “Not THIS Merlin, Daffyd. We’ve made a few special modifications for the Schneider.”  She pointed at a step-ladder, laying stacked against the wall,  “Someone want to grab that?  I’ll show you what I mean.”

Paddy and Cedric brought it, and a moment later, they were holding it steady while Daffyd perched climbed up and raised the cowling.

“Mmm, “ he said, peering inside, “Two stage supercharger...haven’t seen one like this before, though.”

“Our own design,” said Katie.  Actually it was mostly HER own design.

The stocky otter grunted approvingly, “Hrm...fuel-injection.” He pulled his head from under the cowling and turned to look at her “‘Nother o’ yours, y’grace or’d Rolls finally decide t’ use heads?”

Katie’s smile turned lopsided.  The otter was exactly right.  Despite the obvious success of fuel injection in the Messerschmitt-109, Rolls Royce was still declining to follow Willy Messerschmitt’s lead and install it in any of their aircraft engines.  In her opinion, it was the stock Merlin’s one and only Achilles’ heel.

Clearly that was an opinion shared by one Daffyd McCradden.

If only...dammit!  Katie had hope that Daffyd, a welsh fur like Trevor Cadogan, might be able to get her chief mechanic to lighten up a little. 

Fat chance!  Daffyd was turning out to be about as talkative as the average tree-stump; not at all the kind of guy to help lift Trevor’s melancholy spirits.

In the meantime, Daffyd’s gaze shifted sideways;

“Four-blade propellor?”

“That’s MacArran Aeronautics UK’s new Quadrant variable pitch propellor.” she told him.  The MacArran Trident prop was the standard propellor used on the Hurricane and Spitfire.   It was this that had prompted Katie to try running a Merlin in the Little Engine in the first place...just to see if it a four-bladed propellor would make a difference.

Yes it did...but it was the engine that made the biggest difference.  Even with a three-bladed propellor, the improvement in the Little Engine’s performance had been nothing short of staggering. 

Daffyd closed the cowling and began to descend the ladder.  That was when his father took the opportunity to clear both his throat and the air.

“Suppose now’s as guid a time as any t’ bring this up, your grace.  As ye’re bringin’ in crew of yer own for th’ Schneider, I was wonderin’ exactly wha’ ye’re expectin’ from Superior Engineering.”

Katie folded her arms and nodded.  It was a fair question and not at all unexpected.

“Well, the thing is Mr. McCradden...assuming there are no unexpected problems, I could probably compete with the crew I have now...well, at least through the qualifying runs.” Her expression turned wry, “Only I have yet to fly in an air-race where something unexpected DIDN’T happen...or where I didn’t need all the extra paws I could get when it did.”

“And I’ve yet to see such a race.” said Malcolme with a wry smile of his own.

“Right.” Katie went on, “And for the big race itself, that’s when we pull out all the stops...and that’s when I’m REALLY going to need the services of Superior Engineering.  My crew chief, Zeke Bronstiel tells me you boys really have it on the ball.  And if that’s what he says, it’s good enough for me.” 

“Well, we should certainly be able t’ accommodate yer in that regard, Yer Grace.” said Paddy, turning on the shmooze again, “Now as regards th’ financial side of it...”

He was ( mercifully ) interrupted by new voice, coming from the doorway.

“Hullo?” came the inquiry, in a slangy Aussie accent, “Y’ in there y’ grace?”

Katie cupped her paws to her mouth. “Yeah, Drake.  C’mon in and join the party.”

The door opened, and in stepped a red Queensland Heeler, dressed in white ducks and a broad-brimmed drover’s hat.

“Drake, these are the McCraddens of Superior Engineering.  Boys?   Like you to meet Drake Hackett, my chief publicist.”

“‘Ello, lads.” said the heeler, stepping forward with an outstretched palm, “Pleasure to make yer acquaintance.”

Drake Hackett’s title of publicist was either woefully inaccurate or woefully inadequate, depending on your point of view.  Katie simply referred to him as such because there was no real term for the services he actually performed on her behalf.  Yes, he was her publicist, but he was also her spokesfur, her sometime literary collaborator and her chief troubleshooter...or more accurately, the fur in charge of heading off trouble before it started.  He was also the dog who could be counted on to deliver the straight dope on this or that furson or event whenever Katie needed it.  A former newspaper reporter, in fact, one half of the former team of Bume and Rang, Drake had a genuine knack for digging up information...and when it came to smooth operating, there was no one who could touch him.  Drake was one of those types who could sell ice to a Siberian...and make him feel guilty for taking it at such a low price.   It was not these qualities, however that had endeared him to Katie MacArran.

How could she NOT like someone who also possessed one blue and one brown eye?

( The fact that Keith Lawton, the Schneider-Cup’s able and energetic organizer, had once been the OTHER half of Bume and Rang didn’t hurt Drake’s standing with Katie either. )

Drake briskly shook paws with each of the McCraddens, lingering over his exchange of greetings with Paddy.  When it came to delivering a snowjob, these two were an almost perfect match.  At one point Katie saw Daffyd looking at the sole of one shoe as if he’d just inadvertently stepped in something.  She could only respond with a small, tight nod.  Yes, it WAS getting thick in here, wasn’t it?

She decided to put an end to this, before they were stuck here all night.  Much as she valued Drake Hackett's services, sometimes he NEVER knew when to wrap up.

“Uh, ‘scuse me, Drake...but has there been any word from Anton Steinberg yet?”

“Oh yeah.” said the Queensland heeler, never missing a beat as he turned around.  Reaching inside his jacket, he produced an envelope marked Trans-Pacific Telegraph, which he fielded over to Katie. “Desk clerk over at Shepherd’s gave it t’ me.”

“Okay,” said Katie, thumbing open the envelope a little irritably.  Drake actually would have been well within his rights to have read it himself first.

“Anton...Steinberg.” said Malcolme, slowly tapping a finger against his chin.  “Know that name from somewhere, don’t I?”

“He’s that cinema producer, da.” said Paddy, “Yer know the one...Does all of Sophia Bianco’s pictures.”

“Och, aye.”

Katie unfolded the telegram and read the first two lines.  Then she waved it aloft and let go with a small neigh of triumph.

“We sold it, Drake.  He’s agreed to our latest offer.”

“Oh, bloody excellent.” said the heeler and then to the McCraddens he explained, “Mr. Steinberg’s just purchased the film right’s to the memoirs Her Grace and I wrote of her experiences in Papua and New Guinea, ‘Gold From Hell’.”

“Och, good on yer, Your Grace,” said Malcolme.

“‘Is that.”concurred Daffyd, “Great book.”

“‘Course HE thinks engine manuals make fer an excitin’ read.” said Paddy.  And Malcolme and Cedric both let loose short laughs.  Then Cedric did another Oliver Twist.

“Did things...really happen like that, Your Grace.”

Katie knew she shouldn’t talk about it...the trap-door always sprung open beneath her when she did.

And she also knew she was GOING to talk about it...



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(Malcolme, Padraig, Daffyd, Cedric McCradden characters developed by Steve Gallacci.)