After a while, he surprised himself in a yawn. The book made a soporific to rank with Jameson. He set it down and got into his pyjamas. After his earlier nap, he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, but surprised himself again by dropping off almost at once.
“Get down, you damned fool!” Bushell shouted. A shot rang out. But instead of watching Felix Crooke fall, he felt an explosion of light in his own head.
His eyes flew open. A morning sunbeam had stolen through the slats of the blinds and was hitting him in the face. “Jesus,” he muttered. The dream had been terrifyingly real. He groped for his pocket watch. It was a little past five. The dining car wouldn’t be open for breakfast yet, and he’d wake Sam if he did a lot of moving around. That meant going back to The United Colonies Triumphant. He turned on the reading lamp in his bunk. The book was better than his nightmare - but not much.
Samuel Stanley woke up less than half an hour later. He blinked to see Bushell already among those present, then let out a wry chuckle. “We must be getting used to climbing out of bed at these appalling hours. I didn’t think that was what the papers meant by a fate worse than death, but I could be wrong.”
Bushell dogeared the book with a grunt of relief and slid out of bed. When he pulled up the blinds, he grunted again, this time in surprise, and gave back a pace from the window. The train might have been transported to a new and different world while he and Stanley slept. The Rockies that separated Vancouver from Albertus had vanished behind them. Instead, the Northern Rockies Special rolled through flat farmlands, punctuated here and there with low, rolling hills.
“Are those wheatfields out there?” Stanley also seemed startled at the overnight transformation of the world.
“More likely rye or barley,” Bushell answered. “We’re still pretty far north.”
“Mm, maybe so.” Stanley also got up. His mind quickly went to more immediately relevant matters:
“What time do you suppose the diner opens?”
“Six if we’re lucky, seven if we’re not.” Bushell unbuttoned his pyjama tops. “I intend to find out how lucky I am.”
His luck was in. He and Stanley systematically demolished their breakfasts, then sat at the table while they fortified themselves from a strong pot of English Breakfast tea. “Damned if I know how the Russians take it without milk all the time,” Stanley said, pouring a generous white stream into his cup. Bushell quoted Herodotus: “ ‘Custom is king of all.’ They’re used to it that way, so for them it tastes right.” He wondered if custom was all that bound the NAU to England. Had the American colonies broken away all those years ago, would they now think of their independence as natural and right?
He shook his head. It wasn’t the same thing.
The train pulled in to Regina at half past one. The airship was due to leave for Astoria at 2:05. “We’re not going to make it,” Stanley said as they recovered their bags and flagged a cab.
“The hell we’re not.” When the driver opened the boot of his steamer for their baggage, Bushell told him, “Ten quid - no, fifteen - if you get us to the airship port in time for the flight to Astoria.”
The cabbie touched a forefinger to the brim of his cap, then pulled out his pocket watch. He whistled softly. “Won’t be easy, gents, but I’ll do my damnedest. Hop in.”
Afterwards, Bushell decided Regina’s constables slept on the job. If they hadn’t, they would have cited the cab a dozen times, maybe more. He wondered if he was going to live through the wild ride to the southwestern outskirts of town. But the cab pulled up to the waiting airship at seven minutes of two. “I will be damned,” Samuel Stanley said reverently.
Over and above the fare, Bushell handed the cab man a green ten-pound note and a purple fiver. The fellow helped them carry their bags to the airship and gave them to the handler while a supercilious clerk declared, “You gentlemen are lucky this flight did not depart without you.”
“Don’t you take that uppity tone with us,” Stanley snapped. Had the clerk been white, he would have flushed. As it was, he stamped their tickets with altogether unnecessary force, thrust their stateroom keys at them, and pointed to the ladder without another word.
As soon as Bushell and Stanley climbed aboard, that ladder was moved away from the passenger gondola. Pumps were noisily sucking water ballast from the airship. “Welcome to the Prairie Schooner, gentlemen,” the steward said. If passengers arriving at the last possible minute upset him, he didn’t show it.
“Thanks,” Bushell said. “Is the bar to port or starboard?” The steward pointed to the left. To Stanley, Bushell added, “I’d say we’ve earned watching takeoff from there this time.”
Stanley swept off his fedora and bowed. “Motion seconded and passed by acclamation. First round is on me, too - I never thought we’d get here on time.”
“O ye of little faith,” Bushell said.
“If I had little faith, I never would have got in the cab with that madman. Come on.”
They’d just walked into the bar when, light as a feather, the Prairie Schooner floated away from the ground. The floor developed a list. Once on a stool, though, his feet resting on the brass rail, Bushell felt altogether at home. “Here’s to getting into Astoria at six tomorrow morning, and out again an hour later,” he said, lifting his glass of Jameson high before he drank. Stanley joined him in the toast. The bartender raised a grizzled eyebrow. “Good luck, gents,” he said in a gravelly voice. Both RAMs ignored him.
Bushell watched prairie go by under the Prairie Schooner till it was time for supper, and then till it got too dark to see. The land was green and flat and dotted with lakes and ponds of every imaginable size and shape. “There must be ten thousand of them down there,” Stanley said.
“Easily,” Bushell agreed.
He went to bed in his stateroom reveling in the prospect of being able to sleep undisturbed till half past five. And, sure enough, at exactly that hour, a burst of static announced the ceiling speaker coming to life:
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’re about thirty-five miles outside of Astoria, on our final approach to O’Hare Airship Port. I regret to have to inform you, though, that wireless traffic tells me all mooring masts at the airship port are currently occupied, and several airships are already floating above the port, awaiting their turn to land. Because O’Hare is so busy, these things do happen from time to time. We regret the inconvenience. We’ll get you down on the ground just as soon as we can, I promise you. Meanwhile, enjoy a little extra sleep. Thank you.”
The speaker crackled again, then fell silent. Bushell got out of bed with an oath. He dressed fast enough to satisfy the most irascible training sergeant and dashed for the lounge. Sam Stanley burst in not thirty seconds behind him.
The newly risen sun shone off farmland and forest, and reflected brilliantly from Lake Michigan. Astoria’s never-sleeping factories threw columns of smoke into the air. A light breeze from out of the east brought the harsh smell of industry to the Prairie Schooner. With it came a barnyard reek; along with its factories, Astoria was a great livestock center.