Chapter 53

“But what you may NOT be aware of,“ Albert Kohl was saying to Father Cork, “is that whenever Voltaire was losing the game, he would overturn the chessboard.”  At once the black cat’s voice became a perfect burlesque of Gallic hauteur, “Imagine spending two hours moving little bits of wood to and fro.  One could have written an act of tragedy in the time.” Then, with hardly a noticeable shift in tone, he resumed speaking in his own tongue, “But when he himself was winning of course, he would play the game out.”

They were seated at the chess table in Albert’s drawing room, playing on a set one whose pieces were a far cry from the ‘little bits of wood’ Voltaire had once disparaged; this particular chess set had once belong to the notorious Lady Howe, sister of the British commanders in the American war of Independence, Admiral Richard Howe and General William Howe.  It was said that on this very board, her Ladyship had once played a game with no less a furonage than Dr. Benjamin Franklin. 

Having once been the property of such a lady of note, it was hardly surprising that this particular set was a work of art.  The board was constructed of mother-of-pearl and dark blue lapis, and with pieces that were equally exquisite; alabaster and onyx, intricately carved  in the shape of 18th century Guards and Grenadiers, and then meticulously painted, right down having to the proper military insignia.  Once, when Father Cork had made bold to ask Albert how much the set was worth, the cat had just smiled and asked, “You mean in dollars...or in lives?”

Albert had never explained what he’d meant by that, and Father Cork had wisely never asked him.

Now, the cat was saying, “Rather amazing wouldn’t you say?  Perhaps the Enlightenment’s most brilliant philosopher becoming so petulant over a mere GAME.  Oh, and by the way...check”

Father Cork groaned, shut his eyes, and let out a breath between his teeth.   Albert had done it to him again -- held him distracted with his words while his paw had moved a chess-piece, sight unseen.  Sure enough, when the grasshopper mouse looked down at the board, there was his king, now held at bay by a castle and two pawns...and he had not the slightest idea as to how the feline had accomplished it.

“Fear not, good Father,” Albert smiled as he rose from the table, “for there is a way out of your dilemma -- if you can find it.  In the meantime, you must excuse me for just a few moments,” He held up the envelope the priest had given him a only few moments before. “Business before pleasure and all that.”

The black cat turned without another word and, disappeared through a heavy, pepperwood door.

On the other side was his private study, a room into which only his trusted Jacques was permitted to trespass.  Outwardly, it was the prototypical domain of an English gentlefur: heavy timbers and white plaster, vaulted ceiling (with lazily turning fans), a wall dominated by shelves of books (most of them unread), leather chairs of heavy wooden construction (each with it's own Ottoman), and, of course, the ubiquitous ornate Victorian desk, complete with inkwell, letter opener, sealing wax and a magnifying glass...all neatly arranged on an oversized blotter.  The air smelled faintly of lemon oil and tobacco.

But as with every thing else in Albert’s villa, first glances could be deceiving.  For example, the obligatory shotgun over the mantlepiece was not a double-barreled Holland & Holland but a pump action Remington... always kept loaded and with a round in the chamber.

And always kept cocked with the safety off.

It was also far from the only firearm in the room.  One desk drawer contained a loaded Webley-Vickers revolver, and still another pistol was concealed in a hollowed out book on the library shelves.  The umbrella in the stand by the corner held a blade of the finest Damascus steel, and the letter opener laying across the desktop was of the same metal and honed to the sharpness of a lancet.

It was this that Albert picked up now, as he heaved himself into the oversized, red-leather, swivel chair behind the desk, the springs squeaking and groaning against the weight of his enormous bulk.

“I’ll have to remind Jacques to have Tin’hoo take a look at this chair,” he reminded himself as he slid the blade into the envelope that Father Cork had given him, “one of these days.”

He sliced it open and extracted the pages within, then reached for the magnifying glass. 

As a rule, Albert eschewed the use of reading spectacles whenever possible; they allowed him to see what was on the page, but rendered everything else a blur.  If he wanted to look at the clock, or search the shelves of books for a particular volume, they had to be removed, put back on again afterwards, and then adjusted to fit.  That wasn’t necessary with a magnifying glass; you simply picked it up or set it down as needed.

There was silence in the room as he read, punctuated only by the ticking of the clock and the mewling of seagulls wheeling somewhere high above the roof.  As he scanned the words that Marzipan ( Jan De Laaren’s code name )  had observed on the lips of Air Chief Marshal Ballory and Major Finlayson in the Colonial bar, the black cat’s expression, and his breathing, remained unchanged.

When Albert finished the last page, he set the papers aside,  folded his paws behind his head, and leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling and thinking.

Certainly the information was important, though not so earth-shattering that he had needed to be notified immediately.  (He was neither surprised, nor angry; it was hardly the first time one of his agents had overestimated the value of a piece of information.)

“And better to overestimate than underestimate it.” he reminded himself. “Besides this IS the most important bit of intelligence Marzipan has picked up so far.  Honestly, I was beginning to wonder I was doing, stealing that idea from Canaris.”

Recruiting deaf-mutes to read the lips of foreign diplomats had originally been the brainchild of Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of the Abwehr, the SD’s rival foreign intelligence service,.   Albert had first heard about it shortly after he had first been recruited, and had initially paid it little mind....until a chance meeting with Jan DeLaaren at a New Year’s fete two years previously.

He leaned back further in his chair, steepling his fingers and tapping them rhythmically against one another.

Albert Kohl was no student of air-power; in fact, he had never flown in his life and had no desire to break that routine.  Truth be told, there was nothing he loathed so much as Speed-Week. With every approach of the Ides of August, he would pray fervently that this year’s Schneider-Cup competition would also be the last.

On the other paw, Albert WAS a student of realpolitik.  And according to Marzipan, at one point Air Chief Marshal Ballory had stated quite specifically that the Duchess of Strathdern’s air-racer-cum-pursuit-plane-prototype enjoyed the fursonal blessing of the American President, Franklin Roosevelt.

You didn’t get THAT kind of benediction unless you had something pretty important on your plate.

As for Jack Finlayson and George Gordon Ballory, if their names were familiar to the ebony furred feline, their histories were not; he would need to know at least a little bit more about them before deciding how best to proceed.

With a weary sigh, he rose heavily from his desk and waddled over to the bookshelves.  Fortunately the volumes he required were all stacked waist-high; he would not need to summon Jacques to assist him.

A moment later he was back at his desk, along with four well-used copies of Who’s Who...the 1934 - 1937 editions.   A moment later, he knew all he needed to know about the bear and the raccoon his agent had observed speaking to one another in the Colonial.  Air Chief Marshal Ballory it seemed was no less than the chief architect of the modern RAF.  As for Jack Finlayson...vas der TEUFEL was he doing still ranked as mere Major with his long list of accomplishments?  Had he been Luftwaffe officer, he would have easily been wearing a General’s stripe by now.

Albert looked at the papers again, picked them up, set them down...then rose and scooped up the books he had taken and lumbered back to the shelves.  By the time he had returned to his desk, his mind had been made up.

Albert gathered up the papers and the magnifying glass, and then plodded back towards the bookshelves once again...but now to a different location, in the corner of the room where the shelves ended.  This time, he pulled out only a single volume, but he did not open it or even look at the cover.  Instead he reached inside the space where it had been placed, fumbled for the handle, found it, pulled hard and twisted down.

There was a soft click as the section of bookshelves disengaged itself from the wall...and then it was turning outward like a door, rolling smoothly on brass casters and turning easily on the hinges that Jacques always made certain were kept well oiled.

Attached to the backside of the section of shelves was another, smaller desk, much more Spartan than the first, and containing only six items: an electric bell, a telegraph key, something that resembled a truncated music stand with a clip at the top, a pair of reading glasses, and a one-foot-square, wooden box, fastened shut with a small brass lock.  It was the key to this lock that Albert now produced, seemingly from thin air.

What was inside the box was an almost a perfect metaphor for Albert’s house; at first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary typewriter.

A closer examination of the contraption however would have revealed that the keys were all mounted on vertical posts and that there was no typewriter ribbon...or even type.  Instead, set directly behind the keys, was a series of electrically lit letters of the alphabet, and behind this, three empty slots, secured by a hinged lid.  Now, Albert opened the front of the machine, to check on the electrical connections.  On the inside of the box, two logos had been embossed into the surface with woodburning tools.  The first was a simple rectangle bearing the words, ‘Klappe schliessen’, and the second logo, ovular in shape, contained a single word in stylized, runic script: ENIGMA.

Satisfied that the connections were working, Albert unlocked and slid out the desk’s single drawer.  Inside were two items, another smaller, wooden box, and a small, untitled, leatherbound notebook, held closed with a strap.  Laying the box aside for the moment, Albert, unfastened the closure on the notebook and opened it, leafing through the pages until he came to August, 1938.  He spent a moment studying it through the magnifying glass, then reached for the box and opened the lid.

Inside, nestled in green baize, were three items that resembled flat, leaden spinning tops; these were the Enigma machine’s rotors.  After re-reading the instructions a second time, Albert opened the small lid at the back of the machine and inserted the first rotor in the center slot, the second rotor in the right slot, and the third on the left.  He then double-checked to make sure that he had inserted them in their proper place and order, and closed the slotted lid again.  Through each of the little display windows beside the slots, a letter was now showing.  After fastening the lid securely closed, the black cat picked up the magnifying glass and the notebook, flicking through the pages again, until he found the one dated for the current week.  He then began to carefully rotate each of the rotors until the letters ‘S’...‘Q’ ...‘L’... were showing.  Sitting back again and rubbing his eyes, he allowed himself a quick moment of disgust. Without notable exception, the officers of the SD were a strutting lot who prided themselves on displays of toughness...and it was trait that showed through right down to the settings for their cipher machines; whatever the three-letter setting for a given date might be, it invariably stood for one obscenity or another.

And today’s setting was no exception; SQL...ScheisseKUEbeL...bucket of shit.

In his criminal days, Albert had made it a point to avoid working with furs who affected pretensions of masculinity...and he didn’t appreciate dealing with them in his present circumstances either.  Unfortunately, that came with the territory when you worked for the Sicherheitdiest.   And so, he had learned to tolerate the quirk. 

He took the papers from the envelope, clipped them to the music stand, then rose, waddled back to his big desk, and pressed the buzzer, reminding himself for the Nth time to someday have one installed on the coding desk as well.

A moment later, there was knock at the door.  “Come.” said Albert, and Jacques Silverstein entered without a sound. 

The fossa said nothing as he stepped into the room, merely looked over the set-up and nodded his understanding.  Albert nodded back, and then the two of them traded places; Jacques taking the chair behind the big desk while Albert returned to the coding machine.  Seating himself once again, he scooped up the much-loathed reading glasses from the desk top and put them on.

“Are you ready, Jacques?” he asked, squinting at the blob that a moment ago had been his valet/bodyguard.

“Jawhol, Herr Pratt.” said the fossa, raising his yellow notepad so that his employer would be able to see it.  For his own part, he was too far away to read what was written on the notes his employer was preparing to transcribe -- and didn’t want to.  That he was serving the greater glory of the Reich was knowledge enough for Joachim ‘Jacques’ Silverstein.

“Sehr gut,” said Albert, “then let’s begin.”

He turned and pressed a key, the letter ‘T’.  There was a soft click as the three rotors turned and then one of the display letters was illuminated. 

“P.” said Albert, and Jacques immediately wrote the letter down.

He then pressed ‘H’, and another display letter glowed.

“A”
He pressed ‘I’.

“L”

Then ‘S’

“F...and space”

Then he pressed the key for ‘I’ again, and once more the rotors turned...but this time instead of ‘L’, the letter ‘G’ was illuminated.

That was the beauty of the Enigma machine; it shifted alphabets with every keystroke -- and only someone who knew the precise rotor settings and insertion sequence would be able to unlock the message he was transcribing.  Otherwise, even with an Enigma of their own, they  might as well be attempting to read braille with mittens on.  Even the German consulate wouldn’t be able to decode Albert’s message; it would remain perfectly safe and secure until it reached the Prinz Albrechtstrasse, in Berlin.

It took approximately 45 minutes to encipher the transcript of Jan DeLaaren’s observations, after which Albert was finally able to remove those damnable reading glasses.

“All right,” he said, rubbing his eyes once more.”just give me a moment, Jacques.” 

Ignoring the fossa for the moment, he flipped back the machine’s slotted lid and extracted the rotors, restoring each one to it’s proper place in the baize-lined box as carefully as if it were a Faberge egg.  He then returned the code-book to the drawer, locked it, and pointed to the pad still held in his underling’s grip,  “If there’s anyone still at the consulate, send that out tonight; otherwise it must go the first thing tomorrow morning.” He got up, collecting the papers Father Cork had brought, and stuffed them rather haphazardly back in the envelope. “Then tidy up in here, if you would.  I believe I have kept the good Father waiting long enough.”

The fossa clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “Zu behfel, Herr Gordon Pratt.” but he did not move...not until the cat had tossed the envelope containing the original message into the fireplace, splashed it with paraffin and thrown in a match.  And even then, Jacques remained where he was until the papers were completely consumed.  Only when there was nothing left but ashes did he take his place at the coding desk.  Propping the yellow note pad on the music stand, he pressed the button beside the telegraph key, and waited.  He did not expect there to be anyone in the German Consulate’s coding room at this hour and was surprised when the bell beside the key rasped cheerfully in response.

Jacques pushed the button two more times in rapid succession, then pressed his finger to the telegraph key and commenced to tap out message he had just transcribed.

Albert Kohl, meanwhile, was just rejoining Father Cork at the chessboard, and was pleased to see the grasshopper mouse had not yet figured out how to extricate his king from the predicament in which the cat had left it.

He was about to take his seat again, when a shadow passed across first one, than another of drawing rooms’s picture windows, sweeping the room into dim, sepia tones.

“What the devil?” said Albert peering outwards towards the lagoon, “Squall rolling in?  Rather fast for this time of year, I should think.”

“No,” said Father Cork, who had seen that particular shadow in New Guinea, many times before. “It’s the airship Republic, coming in to dock at Eastern Island.”

And it pleased him to no end that Albert Kohl was not so infallible after all.


For all intents and purposes, the passing of that shadow should also have been a routine sight to the piebald English Hunter / Mustang mare now standing at the foot of Eastern Island’s Zeppelin mooring mast; she had seen the Republic make literally dozens of such landings, and much trickier ones, in both the Iso Valley and elsewhere.

And yet, gazing upwards, hoof clasped to her Panama hat to keep it from being swept away by the backwash of the Republic’s engines, Katie MacArran could not help but feel a thrill of adrenaline.  This was her airship...hers.  The R-100 had been two steps away from the boneyard when Her Grace, the Duchess of Strathdern had stepped in to save her, then refitted her as a cargo ship and renamed her the Republic. 

Oh certainly she had not done it alone...and she would never forget those who had been there to help her.  But saving the R-100 had been her crusade, her idea from the very beginning.

She could not resist a few quick glances to see if Lord Casterley was in the vicinity.

He wasn’t, but there were plenty of other members of the press gathered to watch the Republic come in.  Even so, the event was not the carnival that it might have been, that it WOULD have been only two years before; there were no banners, no bunting, no brass-band, and only one newsreel crew, a trio of furs from British Pathe who would clearly have preferred to be spending their early evening somewhere else.. 

Quite simply, the arrival of the Republic in the Spontoons was not a particularly big news item; only a year earlier the world had been stunned by the horrible, breathtaking footage of the Hindenburg catching fire over Lakehurst New Jersery.  After than, any other news involving an airship was strictly an anti-climax.

However, the Republic had not come merely for the show and spectacle, and neither had the majority of the spectators.  In fact, even if Katie had not been competing in the Schneider-Cup, her dirigible would still be here...truth be told, she’d been here for every Speed Week since 1935.

That was also what had brought most of the press to the mooring mast this fine evening; they had come not to praise the Republic but to appraise her.  As in years past, space aboard the great airship had been hired out to some of the various news agencies for the Schneider Cup Race and the other Speed-Week events; she was to serve as a floating press gallery and broadcast booth....and this year was going to be very different than the previous ones.  With the Hindenburg in ashes and the Graf Zeppelin in mothballs, the Republic was now the only game in town.   The International Air Freight Company had been practically able to name any price for press space aboard the her, and even so there had been no shortage of takers.  Both NBC, and the BBC would both have live feeds to be beamed to the states and beyond via the LYRC tower.  Then there were newsreel crews: both Universal News and RKO Pathe had reserved choice location for their cameras.  (The former of these had been accorded a prime spot at no extra charge.  Katie owed Universal a big one.)  Walter Winchell also had a place reserved, and so did reporters from the San Francisco Examiner, The New York Times, Reuters, the Associated Press and a slew of other publications...including of course, the London Observer, the Daily Mirror, and News Week magazine.

As the dirigible fastened itself to the masthead, making a sound like a gigantic vault door closing, the crowd let up a small cheer.  And Katie wished again that she’d had time to change clothes.  Ah well, at least she’d managed a few moments alone to comb out her mane and tail.   Not perfect, she had decided, giving her self a quick, final once-over in a compact mirror, but passable.  She would have loved to have been at the top of the mooring mast to greet her crew as soon as they stepped off the airship, but knowing how awkward things could be in that crowded space, she had elected instead to wait downstairs instead...and even then she wasn’t at the spot closest to the door.  That place she had yielded to the wives and families of her crew, who now stood directly beside the mooring mast’s entrance, kept separate from the press by a thick, velvet rope. (Drake Hackett’s handiwork.)

“Is Daddy up there?” she heard a small voice ask   Glancing sideways, she saw that the question had come from a young mustelid in short pants, about 5  years of age.

“Yes he is, Andy.” said his mother, a trim stoat femme name Joanna, the wife of her fuel specialist, Geoff Thistlewaite. “We’ll be seeing him in a minute.”  Beside her, Maggie Bronstiel, Zeke’s wife was also waiting, along with their two children, Jake and Jessie.  Though her face held the placid expression of a housewife awaiting the mail delivery, Katie MacArran had to chuckle inwardly as she observed the Dutch Blue rabbit-doe’s left foot beating an impatient tatoo against the concrete..

It was feeling Katie knew and that she didn’t want to know.  She didn’t want to think of Carl again, not now.

But of course, she did.  Would she ever know that feeling, ever again?  Was there really such a thing as a second chance?

Now, high above waiting crowd, the Republic’s forward nose hatchway dropped open like a drawbridge, and a slow trundle of ant-like figurines could be seen crossing into the mooring mast.   A minute later, Katie heard the whirr and hum of electric motors as the elevator began its laborious descent.

It seemed to take an eon to reach ground level; at one point, she heard Maggie Bronstiel muttering under her breath, ‘What, that thing got arthritis or something?”  She suspected that what must have made it doubly frustrating for the rabbit-femme was the fact that the ground crew had already taken up their positions below the cargo door, and the first load was already on it’s way earthward.  For her part, Katie just smiled in satisfaction.  The International Air Cargo Company hadn’t become such a hugely successful operation by NOT running a tight ship.

Finally the elevator reached ground level and the doors opened.

The first one off was Zeke, his acknowledged place as chief of the Little Engine’s race crew.  When she saw him, it was too much for Maggie.  She leaped over the rope and went running to greet her husband.  Zeke spotted her with less than a second to spare and turned towards her just in time.

And then, there they were, embracing in a passionate screen kiss, Jake’s glasses off and held away in an outstretched paw, leaning forward to cradle his wife in a pose that would have taken first place in any tango contest.

THAT one was good for a few popping flashbulbs, and Katie heard Drake growling angrily to himself, “Damn!  KNEW I should have had someone here from the Mirror.”

In the meantime, Artie and Geoff were also greeting their families, and if their reunions were not quite as ardent as the Bronstiels’, they were every bit as heartfelt.

The last to exit the mooring mast were the two bachelors, Toby Moran and Trevor Cadogan.  It was not a pleasing sight.  Judging from the looks the packrat and Welsh Corgi were giving one other, there had been more than a little friction between them following the launch of the Little Engine from the airship’s mooring bay.

Oh well, as long as they were on the same page in time for the qualifying runs.

Now the group began making it’s way towards where Katie and Drake were standing.

She did not extend her hoof for any of them to kiss; given who they were and in what capacity they worked for her, it would have been a ludicrous gesture.  Instead, she shook each of their paws firmly, telling each one in turn, “Welcome to the Spontoons.”  She would have like to have followed up with a brief address to the crew as a whole, but at that moment the reporters began shouting their questions, effectively drowning out whatever it was she might have had to say.  She could thank Maggie Bronstiel for that, (though she wouldn’t.) The lapin’s passionate reunion with Zeke had been tantamount to throwing a steak into a kennel as far as the press was concerned. 

“Ah well,” thought Katie, her shoulders dropping in stoic resignation, “‘Tis a far, far better thing I do'...and at least there aren’t THAT many of them.”

She turned to face the throng of reporters, raising her hooves in the manner of King Canute, vainly attempting to order the tide to go back from whence it had come.

“I’m sorry boys, but my crew are pretty tired right now and want to get to their hotel.” She clenched a fist behind her back for a second, “However, if you wish, I would be happy to take a few of your questions myself.”

Just as the pinto mare had known they would, the reporters immediately forgot all about her race crew...and every single one of them had only ONE question for her.

“Your Grace, was that really Major Jack Finlayson we saw flying the Little Engine earlier?”

Katie forced herself not to grimace.

“Yes boys, that was him.”

This revelation produced a low hubbub amongst the reporters, something Katie had expected, and a reaction in other quarters that she had NOT anticipated.  From behind her, she heard a collective gasp, and when she looked over her shoulder, there was a specturm of different expressions on the faces of her race crew.  Toby Moran was baring his teeth, Geoff Thistlewaite had his paw over his eyes, Trevor Cadogan appeared even more mournful than usual, and Artie Wister was looking at her as if she had just pulled a rattlesnake out of a hat. 

Katie could feel her ears trying to lay backwards; she wanted to tell her crew that the Little Engine was HER Goddam race-plane, and could let anyone into the cockpit she damn well pleased.

Of course, she would do no such thing, not with the press watching anyway...and besides, standing slightly away from the others was Zeke Bronstiel, who knew a few things they didn’t.  Tapping a finger against his muzzle, the Professor’s expression was merely thoughtful, as if he understood that she must have had a damn good reason for letting the raccoon fly the Little Engine, but hadn’t quite worked it out yet.

Meanwhile, another reporter was raising a pencil, a cat in shabby shirtsleeves and fedora, with a cigarette in his mouth, and voice like a metal rasp.

“Hmmm, yes...well, why would you have allowed this, Your Grace?  A Schneider Cup racer letting another pilot take a spin in their race plane is...well, it’s hardly something you might call precedented.”

Now THAT was a question Katie was ready for.

“I was showing the Major my plane earlier and he...expressed some doubts as to her capabilities.  We began to argue, and finally I told him that if he didn’t believe me, he was invited to see for himself.”

“Uh-huh,” said the feline, regarding his notebook for a second, “But what I really want to know is, WHY you would have made that kind of challenge?”

“Because,” said Katie, looking very serious, “You mentioned precedents a second ago.  Well, as far as I’m concerned there’s one thing here that takes precedence over all else...and that’s being the first one past that finish pylon.  Do you realize that before today, I had never SEEN the Little Engine in flight?  This was my chance to assess her from the outside looking in for the very first time...and if you can’t trust Jack Finlayson at the controls of your plane, well, whom can you trust?”

This was met by murmurs and nods of assent from the press...and also a couple grudging nods from Geoff and Toby.

“Which brings me to my other reason for allowing Major Finlayson to fly my plane.  What race pilot in their right mind would NOT want a few tips from, let’s be honest, the greatest air racer of all time, especially if he’s familiar with how your race-plane handles?  If raising a few eyebrows is the price I have to pay for that kind of valuable information, then I call it a bargain, the best I ever had.”

Now even Toby was looking subdued.  Of course this wasn’t the real reason she had let the Major fly her plane, but everything she had said just happened to be the truth, and the packrat knew it.

“What were some of the tips he gave you, then?” asked another reporter, a young Brittany Spaniel femme with a Canadian accent.

Katie grinned and wagged a finger back and forth.

“Now, now...you wouldn’t want me giving my secrets away to the competition would you?”

The reporter’s expression immediately became more sheepish than canine, and a few of the others around her began to murmur and shake their heads -- Where the heck have YOU been, lady?  Of course Her Grace won’t answer THAT question; no Schneider Cup racer in their right mind would. 

The Brittany sighed wearily, but then straightened up again. “Then might I ask whether or not you found the Major’s flight to be as valuable as you hoped it would be?”

Katie smiled.  It was a good recovery.  This femme was not unskilled, merely inexperienced.  Might have to keep an eye on her, the Observer was always on the lookout for bright, young talent.

“Very much so, I’m pleased to say.” she answered, then glanced over her shoulder again.  Her crew was still not comfortable with what she had done, but now at least they could live with it.  She returned her attention to the reporters.  “Okay, one more.”

“Do you have any idea as to why Major Finlayson accepted your challenge?” asked an armadillo.

“Sorry,” said Katie, smiling again, “But I really can’t speak for the Major; I’m afraid you’ll have to ask HIM that question.  And that’s all for now, boys.  Good evening and thanks for coming.”

And with a wave of farewell, she and her crew were off.

Drake, as always, had been fastidious in his preparations.  When they arrived at the water-taxi dock, they found their baggage already stowed aboard the tour boat the Heeler had engaged as a private ferry.  As Katie stepped off the gangway she observed that no detail had escaped the canine’s eye; there were plush cushions on every seat, and the pulpit-bar near the stern was open for business and attended by a liveried nutria.  This last particular was especially appreciated by Artie and Geoff, who made a beeline in that direction as soon at the boat shoved off.

“Now,” said Drake, clasping his paws and leaning when everyone had gotten settled, “We’ve got a lovely buffet set up in one of Shepherd’s meeting rooms.  You can either eat there or,” Here he looked at Zeke and Maggie, “if you’d prefer to dine in more intimate surroundings, there are waiters standing by to bring your plates up to your rooms.”

This was met with exchanged looks and murmurs of approval from the crew, and then it was  Katie’s turn, “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t join you boys, but Jim and Mary Spanaway are here in the Spontoons and I promised to have dinner with them tonight.”

No one objected to this; in fact, Zeke and Maggie appeared grateful for the fact that she was leaving them to their own devices for the evening.  So, to a lesser extent, did the Thistlewaites and the Wisters.

Her declaration did, however, raise a question from Trevor Cadogan.

“That reminds me,” he said, in his thick Welsh brogue,  “Speakin’ of not joining us, where all were the McCradden’s when we docked, then?  Seems to me they would have been there, being as we’re all gonna be working together.”

Katie wanted to give Trevor a double dose of her one blue eye.  Artie was right; this corgi could turn CHRISTMAS into a dour occasion.  Fortunately, Zeke was there again, and he’d been consulting with the family of sea-otters long before even Katie had met them.

“It’s no surprise really.” he said, “The McCradden clan are camera shy bunch...especially Daffyd, their resident mechanic.  Doesn’t care one bit for the limelight.”

Trevor, who was every bit as reticent about confronting the press as his fellow Welsh-fur immediately withdrew his inquiry, “Mmmm, aye,” he grunted.

“However,” said Katie, deciding this was as good a time as any, “If it’s all right with you boys, I thought we all might have a little get together tomorrow evening at one of the locals.  Errr, Drake, did Paddy ever get back to you on that?”

“Yes, he did.” said the heeler, smiling with barely restrained anticipation  “Pub over on Meeting Island called the Harp and Thistle.  I went over and had a look-see while you were meeting with Major Finlayson.  Lovely place...100 different kinds of brew.”  He grinned, “Including Odenwald and Lassiter’s Reef, by the by.  Good food too; I had lunch there, and there’s great music as well, place really jumps after 9, so the locals say.”

Katie nodded and looked at the others again.

“How’s that sound to you boys?”

It was Geoff who answered first. “Sounds a great idea to me, Your Grace.  Like my old dad always said, y’ never really know a mel till you’ve shared a pint or two with ‘im.”

The response from the others was equally positive, except for, to Katie’s considerable surprise, Artie.

“Uh, well.” said the Douglas squirrel, looking around uncomfortably as though a fly were circling his head, “Uh, Miss MacArran...it’s not that I don’t like the idea, but...well you know, being American rather than British, well...I, uh d-don’t...”

His words were cut off by a dry bark of laughter from Drake.

“Don’t worry y’ head about it, sport...I checked.  The Harp & T doesn’t only serve the beer warm.”

He laughed again, and this time the others all joined him...including Artie, although HIS guffaws were ones of relief.  Then Drake turned to Katie again.  “However, I think you should be aware Y’Grace, that I was the one ended up having to make the reservations.  When Paddy tried, he got shown the door right quick, so his Da told me; seems there’s been a couple of, er, ‘incidents’ with him at the Harp & T in the past.”

“What sort of incidents?” asked Katie, concerned.

“Dunno.” said the canine, with a shrug. “Malcolme never said and neither did the gaffer.  What I do know is that she only agreed to have us there in exchange for fifty guineas up front and a written promise to pay afterwards for any damage Paddy causes.”

“Hmmm,” said the pinto mare, stroking her muzzle with a thoughtful finger, “Sounds like we’d better bring Rabaissu along, just in case.”

“Good idea, that.” said Drake, nodding his approval. “Even a drunken Irishfur’ll have second thoughts before gettin’ rambunctious ‘round THAT lion.”

“My thoughts exactly.” said Katie.

When they reached Shepheard’s boat dock, a phalanx of liveried bell-hops was there waiting for them, and quickly began to transfer their luggage to a row of flat-bed carts.  Though their work was both brisk and efficient, the task wasn’t accomplished quite as rapidly as when the bags had been put aboard the tour boat...and that was what gave Zeke his opportunity to take Katie aside for a moment.

“Pardon me for making a lot of assumptions here, Miss MacArran,” he said, “But did your decision to let Major Finalyson fly the Engine have anything to do with what’s under her engine cowling?”

Katie sighed, regarded the pier timbers for a second, then looked up and nickered.

“Mnh-mnh-mnh-mnh-mnh-mnh-mnh-mnh, what do YOU think, Zeke?”

The rabbit closed his eyes, and pressed two fingers against the bridge of his glasses, his voice becoming a soft groan.

“TOLD you he’d hate it.”

“Yes, you did, Zeke.” said Katie, the edge of her own voice becoming sharper, “But what you didn’t tell me was anything I didn’t already know.  And forgive me for telling you what you already know, for the 100th time, but we either race with a Merlin or we forget about taking the checkered pylon.”

A voice began to call from over on their left, faint but unmistakable for it’s brassy resonance.

“Zeke?   Come on hon, they got everything loaded and ready to go.”  There was a brief pause, “And YOU better be too, bub!”

The insides of Zeke’s long ears flushed red for just a second, and a silly smile appeared briefly on his face.  Seeing this, Katie had to stifle a snicker.  Ahhhh, males...so strong and bold in battle, and so utterly helpless when confronted with the subject of sex.

But then Zeke’s paws went into his pockets and his face became serious once again.

“Gotta go...but just tell me this.  Did the Major’s flight change his mind at all?”

Katie sucked at a corner of her mouth.

“Ahhhh, let’s just say he’s wavering, Zeke.”

“Okay, good enough.” the rabbit answered, and then hurried off to join his wife.


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