"That’s not actually why I’m here."
"Copper wire is much too cumbersome…Produces too much waste heat…"
"Doc!"
Newcombe’s gaze snapped up to meet Dodge’s stare. His eyes seemed enormous in the thick lenses.
"Doc, something really bad has happened and I need your help."
When he finished telling the story — every brutal detail — all the scientist could say was, "Oh."
It had also been a long night for Jocasta Palmer, constantly awake and on the move, tailing the fellows Schadel had put on the scent of Dalton, whoever he was and the police detective that was protecting him. During the long train ride however, Jocasta, now wearing the appearance of a dark-haired, frumpy spinster on holiday, managed to leapfrog Shady’s goons — though she could not help but notice their amateurish cloak and dagger games — and now followed that pair as well. She even managed to sit at the table in back of them in the dining car and followed their conversation with great interest.
It wasn’t hard for her to figure out which man was which. The older fellow with the stern manner — identified alternately as Agent Fuller and Tom — was plainly the policeman, which meant that the handsome lad….
Tsk, she thought. Where have the years gone that I now think of this strapping fellow as a youngster?
…could only be the redoubtable Mr. Dalton, also known as "Dodge;" the very same man that seemed to have supplanted Zane Falcon in the ranks of Hurley and Hobbs’ band of do-gooders. He looked nothing like Falcon of course; Dodge’s features, though somewhat tanned from outdoor pursuits, were pale and unmarked compared to the weathered visage of the Army captain that had once almost won her heart. Still, there was a determination in Dalton’s youthful eyes; she suspected that his heart was very much like that of her former paramour.
She left off reminiscing about the days she had shared with Falcon and snapped her attention back to their conversation.
Were there any lingering doubt that she had picked the right pair of gents, they were swept away as she followed their discussion. There was mention of the artifact she now carried in her luggage, they called it simply "the Staff," along with a great deal of discussion about something called "the Outpost."
Dalton then proposed visiting an Army fort in Maryland, near the nation’s capital. Army fort, Jocasta thought. That will take some doing.
She pushed her dinner plate away and noisily exited the dining car, testing her disguise by intentionally drawing attention to herself. The scene did not go unnoticed, neither by the men she surveyed nor the pair of spies that also watched them; sometimes it was better to attract notice and thereby hide in plain sight. But as soon as she was back in the Pullman car, she moved as swiftly and stealthily as a stalking panther, back to her private car. She had a lot of work to do and not much time.
Her labors paid a handsome dividend, however. A small incentive of cash expedited her, still attired in her old maid get up, to the front of the line when disembarking and her taxi cab raced away toward their declared destination while the other groups were busy trying to hire a car. By the time she reached the gates of Fort George Meade, her forged identification papers were ready and she was admitted without hesitation. Her head start gave her time to reconnoiter the base and determine the location where she would find the scientist Dodge intended to meet. The facility was remote and the security considerable, but she had faced much worse and remained undaunted. She stole into the laboratory and found a niche in which to hide.
The net result of her efforts was that Jocasta Palmer heard every word uttered between Dodge Dalton and Dr. Findlay Newcombe. What she saw and heard would have left her speechless were she not already mum to avoid detection, yet somehow it all made a sort of mad sense. She dimly recalled flying over the streets of New York, yet until she saw Newcombe floating about the room, it had not occurred to her that something…supernatural…had been at work.
"Oh," Newcombe repeated, scratching his frizzy head. "This is a setback. I had hoped to get a chance to examine the Staff more closely."
"Doc, I don’t think you understand." Dodge was growing exasperated. "In the wrong hands, the Staff could cause unimaginable harm to America, to the whole world!"
Jocasta thought about the odd length of dull gray metal, still hidden in a secret pocket under her skirt. How could something so plain, so banal, wreak havoc on the civilized world with all its aeroplanes and motorcars, science and technology? For a fleeting instant, she considered revealing herself to the compelling young man and declaring that all was not lost, but she suppressed the impulse. There would be plenty of opportunities to make such a stunning and beneficent revelation.
"Oh, yes. I suppose it could." Newcombe fidgeted for a moment. "So, ah, what are you going to do about it?"
"We," Dodge stressed the collective, "are going to get it back."
"Excellent…er, oh. We? And where exactly do we start looking for it?"
"Do you remember that I told you how the exoskeletons were attracted to the Outpost, almost like a magnet? I think that whoever has the Staff is going to try to use it the same way: to find the Outpost and capture all its technology and treasure; things that we haven’t even uncovered yet. We have to get there first and set a trap."
Newcombe nodded enthusiastically for a moment, then abruptly stiffened. "Ah, Mr. Dalton, forgive me for bringing this up, but the Outpost is somewhere in the Southern polar region, isn’t it? It’s very cold there; no, let me correct that, it’s very, very, very cold. Our summer is their winter in the Southern Hemisphere. In the polar region that means about an hour of faint daylight every day; the rest of the time it’s dark and bitterly cold and there’s something called the katabatic wind — harshest wind on the planet — that constantly blows down from the pole. Even if we had a plane specially modified to withstand those conditions to get us there, we’d freeze to death the moment we stepped outside."
The scientist had become unusually animated as he ticked off the deadly details and Dodge found it impossible to resist a grin. "That’s why I came to you, Doc. If anyone can figure out a way to get us down there, it’s you."
"I…but…" Newcombe sputtered like a small engine about to stall, then closed his mouth and settled into deep thought. "Well, there is one way."
High above the North Atlantic, a unique airplane rushed headlong into twilight. The craft was not so much unique because of any particular design feature nor because it was one of a kind. In actuality, the Consolidated Aircraft Company Catalina was a rather popular new model with the US Navy and it was the fact of its being owned by a private interest rather than the military that made it an oddity in the world of aviation. Somewhat less remarkably, it had been equipped with experimental retractable landing gear for amphibious operation.
The other curiosity about this plane was the gender of its pilot; Amelia Earhart’s ill-fated exploits notwithstanding, the world of aviation in the late 1930’s remained dominated by men. But Molly Rose Shannon had always loved flying and so when the President had made a spectacular gift of this plane to the fearless foursome that had rescued him, she had naturally assumed the role of chief pilot.
Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the determination had been made to quit New York and look for answers in London of all places and Molly’s opinion of that decision — reached without her consent no less — had not changed. Yet, she had trusted her father’s judgment for as long as she could remember and had he ever led her astray?