Circumpolar!

by Richard A. Lupoff

Genres: Science Fiction; Military Sci-Fi; Space Opera

Synopsis

ANTARCTIC SAVAGES - PREHISTORIC MASTODONS - FLYING FORTRESSES - PARALYSING RAY GUNS - GRYPHONS - WATER-WITCHES - LOST CONTINENTS - WONDERFUL FLYING MACHINES...AND MORE! Coming soon - the most fantastic contest ever conceived: An airplane race pitting Amelia Earhart, Charles Lindbergh and Howard Hughes against Manfred von Richthofen (the Bloody Red Baron), his kid brother Lothar and Princess Irina Lvova of Russia! Which team will be the first to complete the never-before-attempted round-the-poles flight? Warning: On this doughnut-shaped alternate Earth it is impossible to fly off the edge!

Release date: August 27, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 320

Sample

The glittering colored lights atop the new El Cortez Hotel winked like beacons in the black subtropical sky. Making a low-level overland approach, Lindy banked his spunky little Pitcairn biplane and swung the craft past the hotel tower. He gunned his engine and waved at startled celebrants, fashionably garbed for dinner atop San Diego’s newest landmark, as they gawked at the Mailwing. They could actually look down at the biplane as it swept past them, headed toward the city’s Mission Bay wharves.

Lindy fed fuel to the Wright Whirlwind radial to pick up a little extra altitude. He shot a quick glance at the airspeed indicator, nodded, then cut his engine. With a couple of desperate pops the Whirlwind quit. There was sudden silence in place of the steady drone that the radial had provided on this last leg of Lindy’s flight, since his refueling stop at Vegas.

Now the engine’s roar was replaced by the whisper of cool night air whipping through the open cockpit. The whine of the slipstream over the Pitcairn’s fabric-covered wings and taut guy-wires created weird harmonies that sounded like a chorus of disembodied spirits.

Guiding the biplane through a long, graceful glide, Lindy passed over mast-studded Mission Bay and Coronado Island with its posh resorts, then curved briefly over the inky Pacific waters. He swung the Mailwing back over North Island, pulled his goggles down over deep blue eyes, and searched for the flares that should mark the landing strip. He’d spoken via long-distance trunk wire with his friend Howard Hughes before taking off from Vegas, and Hughes had promised to see to it that the landing strip would be prepared for a night arrival.

As promised, the flares were there, sputtering their lurid glare in twin rows.

Lindy dipped the nose of his plane, kicked the flaps to hold his airspeed down. The Pitcairn’s rubberized wheels kissed the hardpacked grassy runway once … twice … then settled and began to roll. The tail-mounted landing skid scraped. Lindy permitted himself a sideways glance as the plane rolled smoothly to a stop. He pushed himself erect, stiff from the long cross-country flight.

Even as Lindy stepped from the open cockpit of the Mailwing he flinched at the sudden glare as a pair of bright lights blazed into life. A self-starter whined, a powerful engine caught with a throaty roar, and the lights sped onto the runway, leaping forward eagerly. The twin glares were blinding, the engine’s roar deafening.

Lindy squinted, trying to shade his eyes from the glare. The car roared closer and closer.

At the last moment Lindy made his move. He dived sideways, slid under the fuselage of the Pitcairn. He grabbed a wooden landing brace, swung upright and thrust himself forward, peering across the fuselage of the plane.

The car swerved to a halt with brakes screeching, its tires skidding on the grass runway. With the glaring headlights no longer blinding him, Lindy could see the car’s driver leap to his feet, vault over the roadster’s closed door without bothering to lever it open, and hit the runway at a sprint, headed for the Pitcairn.

The man was almost skeletal, close to half a foot taller than Lindy, with narrow shoulders and huge rawboned hands that stuck out past his cuffs. He headed straight for Lindy. The flier recognized him and clambered back over the aircraft, hitting the wing-mount braces with one boot, the cockpit with the other, and landing with both feet firmly on the hard-packed grass.

The taller man halted. In the confusing illumination of the auto’s headlights and the still-sizzling flares, Lindy could see the man’s face break into a grin that suggested a laughing, moustachioed skull. The man yanked off his felt hat and flung it into the air with a joyous whoop. The two men flew together, embracing and thumping each other’s leather-jacketed backs.

“Lindy, you nut! What kind of landing was that? You didn’t take off light on fuel and run out again, like the other times?”

Lindbergh drew back from Hughes’s embrace, laughing. “Nothing like that. You know what it’s like up there, Howard—just you and the sky. Especially the sky! Just you in a sweet little ship like the Mailwing!”

“Sure I do.” Hughes retrieved his battered hat. He jammed it back onto his dark head and led the way to his Marmon roadster. “But what’s that got to do with a deadstick landing?”

Lindbergh halted with one foot on the roadster’s running board. He drew off his flying helmet and turned his eyes skyward. A Pacific breeze tossed his curly sand-blond hair forward and he shook it away from his eyes.

“Up there, Howard, with no one but God for company, with the moon in disk and ten thousand stars all around—somehow I don’t want the sound of a mill reminding me that I’m in a machine. That I’m an intruder in the sky, that I don’t really belong there.”

He paused and shrugged. Laughed at himself. “I guess I’m a poor poet, ain’t I?”

Hughes put the Marmon into gear and released the hand brake. “Compared to me you are. But I guess I savvy. You still gave me a scare coming in that way, though!”

Lindy changed the subject. “How are things here? Is the big ship ready to fly? What do the Ryan boys have to say?”

Hughes threw Lindy a grin. “I’ve been breathing down their necks so hard they cringe every time I walk into the hangar. But they’re good workers there. Bill Bowlus runs ’em like Trojans. The mono’s ready to take off. I’ve been testing her for a week with Don Hall. She’s one sweet ship, Lindy.”

“You haven’t had her up, though?” Lindbergh’s dark eyes showed concern.

“By God, Swede! You act like a nervous bridegroom afraid some sheik’s going to deflower his virgin sweetie before he can do it himself!”

Lindy’s face grew hot. “You needn’t be vulgar!”

Hughes let out a guffaw. He’d manhandled the Marmon off the impromptu landing strip now, and was guiding the roadster through the black palm-lined streets of Coronado toward the shingled ferry building.

“I’m sorry, Swede. I keep forgetting your northern reserve. But no”—he paused—“don’t worry. Nobody’s had your sweet ship into the air. And I’ve warned ’em all down at Ryan’s that nobody’s to give her an air trial till you arrive and do it yourself.”

Lindbergh grunted his thanks coolly.

Hughes guided the Marmon onto the ferry and locked its wheels. The two men climbed from the roadster and walked to the ferry’s bow. The lights of the city danced on the water like fireflies.

“Don Hall ordered everything himself. Tach, airspeed indicator, altimeter, fuel gauge, oil pressure …”

Lindbergh looked up from the water where the ferry’s prow was throwing a wedge of foam before the craft. “Both compasses, as I specified?”

“Hall thought the magnetic would be best.”

“We’ve been over this before,” Lindy insisted. “We don’t know what it’s going to be like on the other side. I want the earth-inductor, too!”

“Relax!” Hughes started to clap Lindbergh once more on the shoulder, then held back. “I told him you want both, so he had ’em put in both. They’ve even got the fuel and oil drums ready. Everything’s set. We should be on our way next week.”

Lindy grunted again, satisfied. The ferry pulled into her slip and both men climbed back into the Marmon. Within a few minutes Hughes was guiding the auto through darkened streets, past shuttered haberdasheries and closed filling stations. He turned the roadster up a steep hill, dropped it into second gear and gunned the powerful V-12 engine.

“She’s got a sweet mill in her, Swede.”

“The Ryan?”

“I meant the Marmon. But the Ryan has, too. Hall and Bowlus over at Ryan’s wanted to put in a high-powered Pratt and Whitney. They doubt that the Wright has the horses to lift the ship over those ice walls down at the rim.”

“You didn’t let ’em, did you?”

Hughes shook his shaggy head. “Not a chance. I told ’em that you knew what you wanted and you had confidence in the Whirlwind.”

“That’s right. Three-twenty horses is plenty enough, and it’s a sweet-running, reliable engine. Gets the best range out of a tank of juice, too, and that’s going to be crucial. Not like this boat of yours, Howard!” He grinned and slapped his palm on the outside of the Marmon’s alloy door. At last his good humor was returning.

Hughes agreed. “Don’t I know it, Swede! Especially once we get across the ice wall and onto the other side. Who knows what we’ll find there?”

“That’s half the fun of going.” Lindy smiled. “Not that I’ll mind collecting my share of Mrs. Victoria Woodhull Martin’s fifty thousand! That money’s been there a long time, and I aim to see that it doesn’t gather dust any longer than it has to!”

Hughes guided the Marmon into the curving driveway of a hotel and set its parking brake. He tossed the keys to a smartly uniformed bellman and vaulted from the car. Lindy followed suit.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Hughes said. “Glad to see you’re still peppy after all that flying tonight. You feel up to meeting a friend of mine?”

Lindbergh said, “Great with me.”

They made their way up a tiled walk and into a stucco-covered, Spanish-style building. Above the entryway curved a graceful arch spelling out El Cortez in turquoise blue letters.

Hughes led his companion across the glittering lobby and into a filigreed elevator cage. “Sky Room,” he grunted to the operator. Then, to Lindbergh, “Wait till you lay your eyes on her!” Hughes grinned broadly.

“Her!” Lindy echoed. “I thought you’d chosen another aviator to make the try with us. You didn’t say anything about a woman.”

“That’s right, I didn’t! But I didn’t say I’d picked a man, either, Charlie. You assumed it. But you’ll—whoops, we’re here.”

The elevator swayed a couple of times, then settled. The operator slid the gate open and Hughes and Lindbergh stepped out. “There she is,” Hughes announced.

They crossed the Sky Room, dodging waiters and tables. The room was glassed in, overlooking San Diego, Mission Bay and Coronado.

There was a stone fireplace in the center of the room. A young woman sat beside it in an overstuffed leather chair. The air was chilly here, high above the city, and the blazing wood fire made the room comfortable. As Lindbergh and Howard Hughes approached, the young woman lifted her gaze from the flames. A look of recognition crossed her face and she advanced to greet the two aviators.

As she did so she was momentarily backlit by the dancing flames. The unusual lighting turned her circle of curly, light red hair to a halolike nimbus.

She held one hand out to Howard Hughes, the other to Lindy. “You must be Charlie Lindbergh,” she cried. “I’m Amelia Earhart. Howard’s been filling my ears with the most wonderful yarns about you! He thinks you’re the grandest airman in the world! If you’re anywhere near as good as Howard says, we can’t lose this race.”

Lindbergh thought he could feel electricity flowing from the woman’s hand. He surveyed her, found her almost as tall as he, and if anything, even slimmer. She dressed unconventionally, forsaking the customary skirts for a pair of aviator’s jodhpurs and boots. She wore a white satin blouse open at the neck, and a grin that illuminated the lounge.

Lindy looked down at the hand that he still held, noticing its strength. “Well, I shall try and live up to my billing,” he managed to stammer.

Hughes laid his huge hands on their shoulders and guided them back to the chair Amelia had vacated. “You’ll have to forgive me, Swede. I knew you’d love Amy once you met her, but I was afraid you’d object to flying with a woman if I told you in advance.”

Lindbergh crouched on the edge of a leather chair close to Amelia Earhart’s. Hughes had plunged his lanky form deep into another. An octagonal table with a tooled-leather top stood in the center of the trio.

The sandy-haired Lindbergh gazed seriously at the woman. “Please don’t be offended, Miss Earhart. But this is a very serious enterprise. There’s a prize of fifty thousand dollars at stake. And more than that—our very lives will be on the line throughout this flight.”

“I quite understand,” the woman replied. “I know all about Victoria Woodhull and her prize.”

“And you understand what we have to do to win it?”

“I know the terms that Mrs. Woodhull Martin set. We can either travel to the Arctic, traverse Symmes’ Hole there, make our way all across the bottom of the world, and climb back over the ice barrier at the South Rim to complete our journey …”

Lindy nodded in affirmation.

“Or,” Amelia resumed, “we can make our way over the ice barrier first, and perform the circuit in the opposite direction. South to north instead of north to south.”

“That’s exactly right,” Lindbergh agreed.

“And Mr. Bowlus down at the Ryan company is just finishing up a monoplane that Mr. Hall designed for us to use,” Amelia finished.

“The Spirit of San Diego,” Lindbergh breathed proudly.

A cynical smile crossed Howard Hughes’s rugged face. “Courtesy of our sponsor, the San Diego Union newspaper.”

Lindbergh leaned back in his chair, stretched his long legs toward the fireplace, steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I’m sorry to put you through this grilling,” he said. “But before we can sign you on as a member of the crew, I’ll need to know something of your qualifications.”

“Let me at the controls of that Ryan Special and I’ll show you my qualifications!” Defiance sparked in her eyes.

Lindbergh rubbed his chin.

Howard Hughes laughed out loud.

“But if you’re afraid that I’ll ground-loop your precious monoplane and delay your departure for the ice wall, let me reassure you, Mr. Lindbergh. I’ve done plenty of flying. I learned on a little Kinner Canary up in Santa Monica. I’ve handled Jennies and a dozen other kinds of aircraft since.”

Lindbergh sat up, interested. “Could you name a few?”

“The Stinson biplane, the Curtiss Carrier Pigeon, the Douglas M-2—”

“I was pretty fond of the M-2 myself,” Hughes interrupted. “I like the Liberty mill. Four hundred horses, Charlie!”

“Horses, horses! That’s all you think about!” Lindbergh made a fist and smacked it on the arm of his leather chair. “It isn’t just horses that make a good craft, it’s a subtle balance of design and power. And if we’re going to beat our rivals …”

The fire crackled in the silence that he left.

“Do you want me to go?” Amelia pursued. “I was in England last year during the Russian Tsar’s visit to his cousin George the Fifth, and toured the British aircraft works. Alliot Roe has taken out a license on Señor Cierva’s autogyro, and I took up his experimental model. A fascinating craft—flying her was a real challenge—but what grand fun it was!”

Lindy flung his hands in the air. “I surrender!” he yelped. “Unless you’re a prize liar, young woman, you’ve flown more kinds of machine than ninety-nine per cent of the male aviators alive. And if you can handle the Ryan as well as you can talk about aircraft, you’ll make a fine member of our crew.”

“We’ll need every bit of flying talent we can get!” Hughes put in. “Not only is it a terrific task to make this trip at all—the competition is getting damned hot! Or haven’t you been keeping track, Charlie?”

Lindbergh said, “No, I’ve been too busy trying to earn a living. I know there are others after the Woodhull prize. But flying the mails between Chicago and St. Louis, you know, with barely time for a shower and a shave between flights …”

He paused.

“… who else looks ready to make the jump?”

Hughes unzipped the front of his leather jacket and reached inside for a much-folded newspaper. He laid it on the tooled leather table top, spreading the creased pages to make them lie flat. Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart leaned forward, the woman’s fluff of flame-tinted hair brushing the lean Swede’s sandy waves.

The newspaper had a large photo on its front page. It showed two men and a woman in flying costume standing before a huge four-engined monoplane.

Lindbergh’s eye went directly to the plane. “Look at that,” he whistled. “Strut-mounted radials. But where are the props? Oh.” He grinned. “Shaft-driven pushers.”

“I know those men,” Amelia Earhart said. She touched two graceful fingertips to the gray images. “Those are the famous German aviators, the von Richthofen brothers. But I don’t recognize the woman.” She indicated the slim figure standing between the two men.

The woman in the photo wore an aviator’s costume of white leather, a startling contrast to the black flying suits of the two men. The white leather costume was generously trimmed in matching fur.

“Interesting configuration,” Lindbergh added. “Unconventional design, but she looks airworthy. Powerful craft. Huge. Hmph. Looks like the kind of thing Ernst Udet would come up with.”

“Combined German-Russian crew”—Amelia read the caption aloud—“pause during tests of their airliner Kondor at Tempelhof Aerodrome near Berlin. The aviators plan to attempt the circumpolar flight via Symmes’ Hole in competition for the Woodhull Martin Prize.”

Howard Hughes signaled to a waiter while Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart studied the photo. The waiter brought three glasses filled with a rich concoction of coffee and liqueurs topped with whipped cream. As he set the glasses out, Hughes gathered up his newspaper and slid it back inside his flying jacket.

“Paper doesn’t say who’s behind the Kondor flight. Don’t suppose you’d care to guess. Swede? Amy? Okay.”

He looked around cautiously, leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Friedrich Wilhelm is sitting there in his palace, far above politics, where a proper monarch is supposed to stay nowadays.”

The others nodded.

“And the old Kaiser is cooling his heels on the other side of the border in Holland, all guilty and contrite over setting off the One Year War back in ought-twelve.”

“I almost wish that war had gone on a few years longer.” Lindbergh sipped slowly at his glass. “Or else started a few years later. Man, I’d have loved to fly a Sopwith or a Spad or one of those little Curtiss Tripes we were building. But as soon as Roosevelt got back into the White House in ’13, he got our side so revved up, the Hun never had a chance. And I was too young to fly!”

A wry grin crossed his face.

“Just as well,” Amelia said. She laid her long fingers across his wrist. Lindbergh started to flinch away, then left his hand where it was.

“I was working in a settlement house,” Amelia said, “when we got into the war. It was quite an experience, helping those little children. A real melting pot. I think I picked up a smattering of every language from Chinese to Choctaw—not omitting Russian and Rumanian.

“But when the wounded boys started coming home, I switched over to an army hospital and—Charles, you wouldn’t have wanted to live through some of the things I heard about. Or come home like some of those boys. Believe me.”

Howard Hughes cleared his throat. “What this all has to do with the Woodhull Martin Prize …”

Amelia Earhart withdrew her fingers from Lindbergh’s wrist, lifted her glass and leaned back in her chair. Lindy laughed nervously and turned to Hughes.

“What this has to do with the prize,” Hughes repeated, “isn’t just the prize. I have a feeling that Friedrich Wilhelm is up to a lot more than patronizing scientific advancement. He and his old daddy are still as thick as thieves, and the pair of them are huddling with their cousin Alexei in Petrograd every chance they get.

“They’re using the Berliner Staats-Zeitung as a conduit, but you can bet that the marks come out of the imperial treasury one way or another! Big Willy and Little Willy and that Russki Prince Lvov are out to get control of the Hole, and to get ahold of whatever’s on the other side of the disk. If they can do that they can come down on any country in Europe or Asia or North America and then we’ll be in for a rumpus that’ll make the One Year War look like a pigskin pep rally!”

“Oh, come on, Howard,” Lindbergh scoffed. “You’re seeing spies under every bed and conspirators around every corner. All that political stuff is over my head. I want to fly! I want this flight for the adventure of it. And for the glory, too. I won’t deny that.

“I won’t deny wanting the money, either. But don’t pull us all into international intrigue, that’s not our game!”

“Okay, Swede, okay. But what I’m saying is, with the Kondor that close to takeoff—I don’t think the newspaper photo was a put-up job—we’d better get airborne as quick as we can.”

“I was hoping for some air tests,” Lindbergh said. “I don’t like the idea of a cold flight.”

“Me neither. We all need to get used to flying the Spirit. Especially you, Amy.”

“I’ll make myself useful,” she said.

“I know.” Hughes smiled. “I picked you ’cause we can use a hot navigator as well as a third pilot. Two could probably do the trick, but three’ll make it a lot easier. But we really need a navigator.”

“I can handle both jobs.”

“This all sounds fine to me,” Lindy said. “But if we’re going to push up our departure, and do our familiarization as we go, then we’d better get in a map session right now. You have the charts, Howard?”

Hughes rose from his chair. The others followed him toward the elevator, Lindbergh casting a look behind to see the city once more through the Sky Room’s tall windows. “We’re checked into a suite a couple floors down,” Hughes rasped. “One room for us, Charlie, one for Amy, and a sitting room. The charts are there.”

They rode downstairs. Hughes led the others to their suite, unlocked the outer door and swung it open. Charles Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart stepped past Hughes, into the lighted sitting room.

Simultaneously they gasped.

Clothing and papers were strewn about, empty bureau drawers lay on the thick carpet, even the pictures had been torn from their places on the walls.

The suite had been ransacked!

Princess Irina Lvova shrieked with mock alarm as the bullet-headed driver swung the huge, powerful Maybach onto the bridge. “Lothar,” Irina cried, “Lothar, not so fast!” She clung desperately to the leather arm-rest, her long, platinum hair flying in the chilly springtime afternoon.

Lothar von Richthofen geared down from seventh to sixth as the heavy automobile jounced along the ancient, cobble-stone-paved bridge. He was bare-headed, his warm astrakhan cap lying unheeded in the empty rear seat of the car. He was bundled in a gray military greatcoat with mouton collar. Although the afternoon sun shone pale and watery through a low sky, beads of sweat like drops of glycerine shone on his naked skull and forehead.

The rumble of the Maybach’s more than twenty-five hundred kilos across the Spree Brucke drowned out the Princess’s laughing protests and the loud music pouring from the saloon’s radio speakers.

Von Richthofen shouted angrily and sounded the horn of the Maybach as a farmer’s cart hove into sight a few car’s lengths ahead. The farmer turned his head, his eyes popping. He jerked back and shouted frantically at his nag, trying to pull his wooden cart to the side of the roadway.

The Maybach swerved, nearly avoiding the farmer’s cart. Only the front fender of the auto struck the rear of the light cart as Lothar swung the vehicle around and back. The wooden slats of the cart flew before the impact of the saloon like a bundle of straws in a winter storm. The cart lifted off its crude axle and spun once in the air, then landed with shattering impact on the roadway. Farmer and horse alike lay on the cobblestones, moving their limbs feebly.

Princess Irina slid around so she could see the scene behind the still-moving saloon. Other vehicles had halted and a man had jumped out of a car and run to the aid of the injured farmer.

Von Richthofen gunned the Maybach through busy streets, settling at length to a steady rate of progress along a broad, tree-shaded thoroughfare. A steady string of curses hissed from between his teeth. He clasped the steering wheel tightly in leather-gloved fists.

“Fool,” the Princess sneered. “He should be whipped for that! Why did you not stop and beat the mongrel, Lothar? Oh, you soft Mitteleuropeans!”

“We have no time,” von Richthofen snapped back. “We are expected at the Reichskanzlei.”

The Princess sniffed angrily. “I hope you will at least send a messenger back for the man’s name. I am sure that the paint is scratched and he may have smashed a lamp on your automobile. One must not let them get away with vandalism, Lothar.”

“Petty details.” Von Richthofen geared down to fourth, ran one gloved hand across his brow wiping the sweat away before it could drop into his eyes. “You are right, Princess, but I have no time for such pettiness. Here—here is the Kanzlei.”

He pulled the Maybach to the curb behind a glittering Graf und Stift SP8. “You see? Manfred is here waiting for us. Now we’ll hear about promptitude and keeping the Kanzler waiting.”

A gray-clad soldier leaped from his post at the entranceway of Wilhelmstrasse 75. He opened the door for the Princess Irina and helped her from the car. Von Richthofen let himself out of the driver’s door, ignored the soldier’s snappy salute and hustled the Princess up the steps of the Kanzlei. A second saluting soldier stood at the front door while a liveried lackey pulled the door open for Lothar and Irina.

Inside the Kanzlei a tall red-bearded man, properly dressed, paced impatiently. He whirled at the entrance of the Princess Irina and her escort, hurried across the marble floor to meet them.

“Your Highness.” The equerry bent over Irina’s white-gloved hand.

“Bodo,” she replied, nodding.

“Captain von Richthofen.” The equerry made a quarter bow.

“Graf Alvensleben.” Von Richthofen returned the gesture curtly.

“Please to follow me. The others are already assembled. The meeting has already commenced. You should understand, Captain—we do not keep the Kanzler waiting.”

Lothar did not offer a response.

The equerry, Graf Hans Bodo von Alvensleben, ushered Lothar and Irina through a high doorway into a huge room. The chamber was dominated by a single gigantic desk. Chairs, tables, windows, were all cut to larger-than-human scale. They dwarfed all who stood or sat in the room.

Over the great dark desk hung two portraits done in dark oils and framed in ornate gilt. One showed a thin, sharp-featured, prematurely white-haired man of early middle years. He wore a hussar’s dress uniform, bearskin busby on one arm, the other hand resting on the hilt of a dress sabre. His tunic was covered with colorful orders and decorations.

The other portrait was of a huge, heavyset man with white muttonchop whiskers and black, piercing eyes sunk deep into a fleshy yet powerful face. His garment was a spartan field-gray military greatcoat. He wore a military cap and a single military decoration suspended by a ribbon from his collar.

The chamber was hot and stuffy despite its cavernous dimensions. Great stone hearths dominated either end of the room, and logs were piled high and burning fiercely in both.

Beneath the two portraits a thickly built man sat behind the great mahogany desk. He wore whiskers like those of the gray-clad man in the second portrait, but these whiskers were a rusty brown. His features, too, resembled those of the painted figure.

Seated across the desk from him were two more men, one in conservative civilian garb, the other in a trim uniform bearing the insignia of an aviation squadron officer.

The newcomers halted a few paces from the desk. The equerry, Count von Alvensleben, bowed to the heavyset man. “Herr Kanzler, I regret the tardiness with which—”

The chancellor waved him to silence. “All right, Bodo. Let us just go on.”

“I regret, mein Kanzler… unavoidably detained …” Von Alvensleben bowed deeply. “I am sure that the Hauptmann … your most valuable time … our most gracious Russian guest, the Princess Lvova, the young Tsar’s cousin …”

“Bodo!” the chancellor roared. The equerry quivered into silence.

“Bodo,” the chancellor repeated softly. “Bodo, I’m not my father, you know.” He gestured significantly at the portrait hanging behind his desk. “They called Otto von Bismarck the Iron Chancellor for good reason, Bodo. But what do they call Herbert von Bismarck?”

He held up one hand, gesturing to the equerry. “No, don’t tell me. I think I know already, and I don’t want to hear it. Let’s just get on with our business.”

The chancellor stood up and leaned forward, putting his weight on his two hands. “Herr Udet, here,” he nodded his heavy head, “tells me that his aeroplane Kondor is ready to depart. Our two pilots, Major Baron von Richthofen and Captain von Richthofen. And our most gracious guest and passenger, the Princess Lvova.”

“Ja, mein Kanzler.”

“And I will bring to your attention, Your Highness.” The chancellor bowed slightly to Irina. “And Captain.” He nodded frostily toward Lothar. “Two most important communications that were received by me this morning.”

He shuffled the papers on his huge desk, found the two he sought an