Pursuit Chapter 23

Chapter 23

It was Martin Godfrey, a vole from the BBC who asked it:

“Keeping away from the subject of your race-plane for the moment, Your Grace...can you give us anything more regarding the announcement you plan to make the day of the Pilot’s Reception?”

Normally, Katie would have smiled and responded to the question with a playful inquiry of her own, something on the order of, “Would you also pester Houdini to reveal the secrets of his tricks?”

But not when the announcement in question was something as serious and important as the one she was planning to make.

“I really can’t give anything away just yet, Martin.” she said, “As what I’ll be saying involves the efforts of a number of very fine furs, not merely myself, it simply wouldn’t be on for me to say any more than I already have . I can tell you that it involves a project that for me, has become very fursonal over the past year. Other than that, I’m sorry, but I can’t comment any further.”

“All right, then...” the vole started to say, but before he could begin his follow up, Drake Hackett appeared at Katie’s side and whispered rapidly in her ear. Katie looked at him, nodded tightly, and returned her attention to the crowd of reporters.

“Very quickly, ladies and gentlefurs...for those who might be unaware, I will be making the announcement at 2 PM, the day after tomorrow, at the Songmark Academy auditorium.” She focused again on the BBC reporter. “My apologies, Martin. Please go ahead.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” said the rodent, not at all bothered by the interruption, “May we assume, at least, that it’s related to aviation, then?”

“You may,” said Katie, deciding that she had to give him something, “Specifically to one of the hazards of aviation, one that has been much on my mind for some time.”

There was more scribbling of pencils, and then Katie pointed to the reporter for The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, a badger by the name of Ross Whitney.

What happened next was something almost every reporter in the warehouse would be grumbling about for days afterwards...all but one, in fact.

That one reporter was Jacques Lassier, Lord Casterley’s fur, who just happened to be sitting directly in from Ross Whitney, and who also happened to be a fisher, a species capable of moving very quickly when the need arose.

And so, before the Philly Evening Bulletin’s reporter could even begin to pose his question, Lassier was on his feet, having mistakenly believed Katie was calling on him. ( Or that was what he would say afterwards. )

“Oui, Your Grace. Jacques Lassier Daily Mail. Now that you have returned to racing, do you still insist that what happened at the 1935 Thompson Trophy Race was NOT planned in advance?”

If looks were lethal, the mustelid would have been dead on the floor before he could have finished his inquiry...and every reporter in the warehouse would have been listed as a co-perpetrator. Not only had Lassier broken one of the cardinal rules of journalism by jumping another reporter’s question, the one HE had posed was such a low blow, even the Chicago Trib’s correspondent was giving him the evil eye.

“Christmas...what Casty must be paying this creep.” was all Katie could think of at the moment.

And speaking of Lord Casterley...

“I’m sorry,” she said to the fisher, with the innocent expression of a yearling filly, “I didn’t quite hear you. WHICH paper are you with again?”

“The Daily Mail,” the mustelid answered, folding his arms and regarding her with a look that was half smug, half impatient.

Katie cupped a hoof to one ear. “I’m really sorry. WHICH paper?”

“The Daily Mail.” repeated Lassier, beginning to sound irritated.

The pinto mare shook her head apologetically.

“Sorry...which paper?”

“The Daily Mail!” the fisher responded. Now, he was almost shouting.

“Oh...uh, the Daily Mail?” queried Katie, appearing downright chagrined, as if this were her first press conference ever. “You mean Lord Casterley’s paper?”

In response, the insides of M. Lassier’s ears turned scarlet and his voice became a screeching rasp.

“Oui, the Lord Casterley’s paper!” he cried, in total exasperation...and loud enough for everyone in the warehouse to hear him.

Katie slapped her forehead in such an exaggerated burlesque of epiphany, that one of the other reporters would later swear he saw a light-bulb go on over her head.

“Ohhh, right.” she said, also loud enough for everyone to hear. “LORD CASTERLEY’S paper. Well, in that case, I’ll be happy to answer your question; Yes. And I’m sorry, but no follow-up. You weren’t who I was calling on.”

This was greeted by a chorus of snickers from the other journalists, most of whom had grasped at once the purpose of Katie’s actions; she had just publicly accused Lord Casterley of feeding that question to Jacques Lassier...and she had done it in such a way that His Lordship would be laughed out of court if he ever tried to sue her for it.

Katie would love to have left the podium right then and there. She’d be completely within her rights, and Jacques Lassier would take the brunt of the other correspondents’ anger for chasing her away.

She did not do this, however. Running away had never been her style, and it wasn’t going to become her style now.   She pointed again to Ross Whitney. (It was only fair.)

“Just wondering Your Grace.” said the badger, rising to his feet with an appreciative nod. “The Schneider Cup rules have undergone quite a number of changes since you were last involved. Do you feel that these alterations have been for the better?”

“Very much so, Ross,” Katie answered, nodding, “Because the whole point of those changes to the Schneider Cup rules was to simplify them. There isn’t an air race pilot alive that doesn’t appreciate rules that are easy to understand, believe me.”

“Are there any further changes you’d like to see?” Ross asked her. Katie frowned slightly before answering...and it was an answer that would come back to haunt her on race day.

“Well, I think they can drop the one about the race-planes having to sit in the water for six hours before the flag drops. That rule might have made sense back in 1913, when it was still pretty difficult to build a pontoon-float that was both airworthy and seaworthy...but that’s hardly the case today.”

When the badger had finished jotting down his response Katie looked over the group and said, “One more question, Ladies and Gentlefurs.” And when the expected shouts subsided, she pointed to a doe antelope in a floral dress.

“Hello, Your Grace. Anne Chestnutt, Cleveland Press. As you know, the National Air Races are also about to get under way. Just wondering who your favorites are to take the Bendix and Thompson trophies this year.” Several of the other reporters immediately favored her with jaundiced looks. Given that Jacques Lassier’s question had been about virtually the same subject, it was a potentially explosive line of inquiry.

Fortunately, Katie was neither distressed by this question, nor was she angered. In fact, when she responded, it was with no small measure of enthusiasm.

“In the Bendix, my money’s on Jackie Cochran. She’s a helluva good pilot and that Seversky she’s flying is a helluva good airplane.” She winked, adding, “and she’s female, of course.”

A light dusting of laughter followed, and then Katie continued.

“As for the Thompson, it’s Roscoe Turner and the Pesco Special...all the way.” and unable to resist, she grinned and added, both affectionately and from the heart, “About TIME that big lummox finally built his own race-plane.”

There was more laughter, and then Katie said, “And that will be all for this morning. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlefurs. I have enjoyed talking to you.”

This was greeted by a brief, standing ovation, during which Katie took a short bow, and during which she observed Jacques Lassier making good his escape. No matter. The fisher had just effectively destroyed his chances of ever working for any publication other than Lord Casterley’s.

And when Casty found out that his ringer had been trumpeting both his paper’s name and HIS name all over the press briefing like that...M. Lassier would be lucky if the grey cat retained him as an assistant copy-boy.

When the pinto mare was came down the steps again, she made sure to pose several times for the photographers, turning whichever way they asked her and making sure always to stand where the light was good.

Then she and Drake were out the side door, and headed for the Spontoon tower to file her flight report. By now, the sky was darkening rapidly and horsetails of rain could be seen descending from the advancing clouds.

“This a daily thing?” Katie asked, remembering the clockwork precision of the New Guinea rains. Drake shook his head.

“No, comes and goes. One day rain, the next none. Never lasts for more than an hour, two hours tops when it comes through, though.”

“That’s good.” said Katie. The last thing she, or anyone else wanted was for the Schneider to run in a rain squall. There was a soft rumble of thunder, and the heeler quickly spread open an umbrella over their heads.

“Huh? Where’d you get that?” asked Katie, surprised. She hadn’t seen him carrying an umbrella a moment ago...or had she?

“Had it stashed in the warehouse, just in case.” The canine told her, “Them rain-clouds have been threatin’ since before you landed.“ At that moment, as if on cue, the first droplet spattered against the umbrella’s canopy. There was another drop, then two more drops, and then all at once, the rain was falling in fast, cold sheets, turning everyone nearby into ghostly silhouettes and sending them scrambling for cover. Katie instantly pulled closer to Drake under the umbrella, as much to be heard over the hammering of the raindrops as to shelter herself.

“Listen,” she said, “There’s one other thing I need you to do for me.” And related the story of her run-in with Athena Moorefield. “I don’t know, but this girl could be a problem for me later on, Drake.” Katie told him when she had finished the story, “And I’d rather not take any chances. Do me a favor and you see what you can find out about her, ‘kay?”

“Right, I’ll mention her when I see Keith.” the heeler answered, clearly unhappy that his employer had been here less than a day and had already made a new enemy...and one from a powerful family at that. ”If there’s anyone here’ll know anythin’ about her, it’s him.” he said, then added a little sigh that spoke volumes more than the words he’d just uttered.

Katie responded to this with a smile that was weariness on wry.

“As if I don’t have enough on my plate with the Fascists, the Nazis, the Japanese military, AND Lord Castermere around. I know Drake...I know.”

The rest of their walk to the tower was conducted in a hurried silence.

Their destination was not the actual control tower itself, of course, ( that was merely a pilot’s expression. ) but the building near its base, a stucco affair in lime-green, with a tiled roof and an intricately carved teakwood door. This was the headquarters of the SIAA or Spontoon Island Aviation Authority.

It was a busy place that morning. There were several other aviators also waiting to file their reports, and Katie was obliged to take a number and wait her turn, never mind who she was, or that she was here to compete in the Schneider; it was strictly first come, first served in this office..

Still, it could have been worse. There were plenty of chairs along the wall, and Katie could sit while she waited instead of having to stand, which she did, settling herself in beside a seat occupied by a polar bear and snuffling contentedly. This was the first time she’d been off her hooves since climbing out of the Little Engine’s cockpit.

“Now, there’ll be a water taxi reserved and waiting to take you over to South Island when we’re done here.” said Drake, taking the seat next to hers.

A number crackled over the loudspeaker, “27....number 27.”

Katie looked at her own number; 29...not too bad.

No one got up, and the number was repeated.

“27...number 27.”

Someone called from the behind the counter, “Hey, Bjorn that’s you. Wake up, already, fella.”

“Oops,” said the Polar Bear seated beside Katie, and got quickly up from where he’d been immersed in his Nevil Shute novel.

“Quite the little pilot’s fraternity they have around here.” the pinto mare observed to her companion. In the States or in Britain, it would have been, ‘Tough luck bruin, you had your chance.’ and back to the end of the line for him.

“Yeah., there is that.” said the heeler, “Spontoon’s been a magnet for air cargo ever since the Althing signed those air-trade agreements with Australia and America.”

Those agreements had allowed for those respective nations to lease bonded warehouses on Spontoon Island, where air freight could be processed through customs while waiting to be transhipped to Australia or the US, instead of being further delayed at it’s destination. The arrangement had turned out to be so successful, that Britain and Japan had quickly followed suit.

And the Althing’s coffers had swelled considerably.

Needless to say, as the owner of International Air Freighters, (Formerly The International Dirigible company ) Katie MacArran was not unfamiliar with this arrangement. Though she had never herself been aboard on any of the previous occasions, this would be far from the Republic’s first visit to Spontoon. Nor was the island off the beaten path for any of the company’s cargo planes. In fact, IAF held the lease on one of the largest warehouses on Eastern island. It was the firm’s major transhipment point for air cargo passing between the US and the Far East.

It was also where Katie’s OTHER plane was parked, patiently waiting it’s turn.

“28...Number 28.” the speaker crackled, and a portly, mustachioed pig, dressed all in crimson, got up from his seat near the far door and headed for the counter. As he passed by where Katie was sitting, she thought she noticed something vaguely familiar about him. She was just about to remark upon this to Drake when....

“29...number 29.”

Katie got up, stretched and went towards the next open counter-window. It was there that she learned the other reason that Spontoon Island was such a Mecca for air-freight. After the clerk, a terrier who wore his cap pulled halfway down over his eyes was done entering her flight log, he asked for her passport.

“Any fursonal goods to declare?” he asked, taking a ledger and opening it. Katie’s ears locked upwards in surprise.

“Uh...don’t I have to go to customs for...?”

“We do it all in one place for arriving pilots,” the terrier interrupted gruffly, “Save’s a lotta time. Now, any fursonal goods to declare?”

“Uh, no.” said Katie, impressed in spite of the dog’s brusque manner. Shortly after signing the trade agreements with the great powers the Althing had launched a program to streamline the customs processes, recognizing that time was money for cargo in general and air cargo in particular. It had been a remarkably effective effort. Paperwork that required two days to process in Sydney or San Francisco took only two HOURS to finish up on Spontoon Island. Small wonder that the place was now the largest air-freight hub in the central Pacific.

The terrier was just finishing up, when a hippo in dungarees appeared and tapped him on the shoulder. “What, Lenny?” queried the canine, looking over his shoulder at the arrival. By way of response, the hippo nodded towards Katie, handed a folded piece of paper to the dog and said something she could not overhear. The terrier took the paper, read it, frowned, then pushed it through the counter window towards Katie.

“Sorry to inform you, Your Grace.” he said, in a testy voice that was anything but apologetic, “But we got a message from the Republic a while ago. She’s experiencing some engine trouble and she’ll be arriving about three hours late.”

“Ohhh,” groaned Katie, masking her satisfaction, “Well, can you boys do me a favor and send her a message acknowledging my safe arrival on Spontoon?”

“Done and done.” said the hippo, who turned and quickly departed.

When they left the SIAA building, the rain had stopped and the sky was a deep-blue bowl, dotted only here and there with cottony clouds. Drake Hackett wanted to see Katie the rest of the way to her cottage, but she insisted on continuing along by herself.

“I’m a big girl, Drake.” she told the heeler, “I think I can find it. Anyway, I want to check in at Shepherd’s first and make sure everything’s okay with Maggie and the others.” Margaret ‘Maggie’ Bronstiel was the wife of her crew chief, Zeke Bronstiel. She had flown in the previous day with their two children in tow. So had Artie’s Wister’s wife Lisa, and Geoff Thistlewaite’s wife Joanna, along with their young son, Andy.

“Besides,” she added, “You’ve got some other things to do right now.”

“Right then,” said Drake, shrugging laconically, “You’ll find your water taxi waiting for you at the second dock. Look for the white one with the red-striped canopy; name’s the Sea Horse.”

Katie let out a short horse-laugh. “Trust you to find one with such an appropriate name, Drake.”

“Well, I do try.” said the canine, with a short laugh of his own, “Oh, and I took the liberty of chartering her for your exclusive use for the rest of race week.”

“Good thought,” said Katie, clasping his paws in appreciation, “I’ll see you back here this evening when the Republic arrives.”

“Right-o.” said the Heeler, and then with his tail tucking upwards between his legs, he added, “Uhhh, Y’ Grace?   Before y’go I just want to say I’m right sorry about what that bludger, Lassier pulled at the presser.” The fur on the back of his neck stood up and began to stiffen. “Not to worry...he’ll pay for it. You have my word on...”

Katie waved him off before he could say any more.

“Forget it, Drake. Even you can’t get the jump on everything. And leave Lassier alone. That’s an order.”

“Wha...?” said Drake, looking more than a little nonplused, “Well...if you say so, Y’Grace.” Letting a transgression as big as Lassier’s slide was very much out of character for his employer.

“Yeah I say so,” answered Katie, tossing her head in the direction of the warehouse, “It’s not him I want, it’s the bastard who put him UP to that stunt.” She folded her arms, “You say Casty almost got kicked off Spontoon and he’s had several run-ins with the harbor patrol?”

“Er, yeah, that’s right.” The heeler answered, a slow realization beginning to dawn in his features.

“Uh-huh.” said Katie, “Anyone covering that story?”

“Not that I’m aware.” said Drake, whose tail was now wagging rapidly. Ah yes...now THIS was more like the Katie MacArran he knew and respected.

“Good,” she said, ‘Then I want you to put one of the Observer’s reporters on it right away...and see if you can shmooze that local paper, the Spontoon Mirror into picking it up.”

Drake Hackett laughed heartily. To have THAT story appear in the local Spontoon paper?   A sheet named The Mirror, no less?

They’d be able to hear Casty yowling clear back to Fleet Street.

“With pleasure, Y’ Grace.” he said. “I’ll get on it soon’s I’ve seen Keith.” He glanced over his shoulder at a tall red-and-white light-house; actually the Spontoon Island airship mooring mast.

“All this time and that Nazi-loving gallah still hasn’t forgiven you for beating him over the R-100.” he said. Katie responded to this by immediately shaking her head.

“No Drake....that’s not why he still holds a grudge against me.”

“It’s not?” asked the canine, raising an ear, “What, then?”

Katie folded her arms and narrowed her eyes, a sardonic grin slicing it’s way around her muzzle.

“He can’t forgive me for being RIGHT!”

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