Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air by Melissa Scott, Jo Graham Page A

the chart table was clear and the radio equipment displayed to full advantage, then stepped up into the cockpit. “How’re we doing?”
    “Fine.” Mitch gave her a sideways glance. “Tower says we’re giving the Air Marshal a ride later this afternoon?”
    “That’s right.” Alma swung herself into the pilot’s seat, and reached for the headphones so that she could bring Tiny into the conversation. “Signor Pozzi said the he asked if we could take him today instead of tomorrow. Something about his schedule. Any reason we can’t?”
    “We’ll need to gas up,” Tiny said.
    Alma glanced at her own fuel indicators, each tank reading less than a quarter full. “So we will. Can you take care of that, Tiny?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I’m good,” Mitch said, and Alma checked her watch.
    “Right. They’re opening the gates in five minutes.”
    The rest of the day passed quickly, a steady stream of visitors passing through the hangar and onto the Catalina. Pozzi had assigned each plane a watchman to help control the traffic, and Alma waited just inside the hatch to greet the newcomers and keep count herself. Most of the visitors were ordinary civilians, come to gawk at the planes, but there were delegations from other teams, checking out the competition, and a trio of sober businessmen who asked careful questions about fuel and gross weights and examined the cabin fittings to see what they were made of. Duralumin, Alma repeated, duralumin and woven wicker, and was glad to usher the last of them off the ship. A bustling family took their place, a mustached man who held firmly to a boy of seven or eight who only needed a mustache of his own to be a perfect miniature of his father, followed by a plump wife and a pair of tired-looking daughters. Alma greeted them in Italian, receiving a curt nod from the man and a wide-eyed stare from the boy.
    “Papa!” He tugged against his father’s hand. “Papa, that’s a lady!”
    The man looked both annoyed and embarrassed, and Alma gave him her best smile. “I’m the owner and the pilot, so if you have any questions, I’d be glad to answer.”
    “Of course, thank you,” the father said, and turned his son toward the passenger compartment. His wife followed, but one of the girls hung back a little, looking doubtfully up at Alma.
    “Really?”
    “Really,” Alma said, and then the girl was tugged away, her mother scolding her for being rude. Alma sighed — sometimes she got tired of having to explain herself — them straightened her shoulders and turned to greet the next group with a smile.
    By three-thirty, she was thoroughly tired of answering the same questions, especially from people who assumed she was the interpreter, and she wasn’t entirely sorry to see larger group bustling down the length of the hangar toward them.  She ushered the last group of visitors ashore, then stuck her head through the forward hatch.
    “Mitch! The Air Marshal’s on his way.”
    “Right.”  A moment later, Mitch joined her by the main hatch.  Tiny peered down at them from the flight engineer’s seat.
    “That coffee’s just about new, ma’am,” he offered.
    “Thanks, Tiny.” Alma looked at Mitch. “How’s it looking up there?”
    “What I can see of the harbor looks fine,” Mitch answered. “Looks like the wind might have died down a little.  You want me and Tiny to do the pre-flight?”
    “Do the first part.  I’m going to invite Signor Balbo to the cockpit if he wants.”
    “He’ll want,” Mitch said, and she nodded.
    “Yeah, I figured.”  Balbo’s party was getting closer, almost to the base of the gangway, and she drew herself up again, dredging up a smile that she didn’t feel. Yes, there was Balbo himself, not as resplendently dressed as he’d been at the ball, but very neat in his belted uniform, impeccably tailored, with a double row of ribbons above his pocket and an odd cap, pointed fore and aft, on his curling hair. There were other