Edward considered just walking up to the front gate of the yard and sending his calling card to Gideon
via
the carbine-carrying Red Indian guards, but he dismissed the thought almost immediately. Such a re-introduction to his friend after so long an absence would seem so . . .
mundane
, and worse, unstylish. Edward had always been a bit intimidated by his chum's affluence and social position, and even more so by his indifference and disdain for it. Gideon's indefatigable self-confidence and boldness was infectious and alluring, but it could also be overwhelming. Edward could not match it in volume, so he had always sought to complement it with his own, more subtle accomplishments. A common handshake at the gate just would
not
do for the occasion of their reunion.
Gideon's yard was a large one, on the outskirts of the sprawling Aeroport Paris, as remote as it could be from the center of the busy port's activity and yet still be attached. It took a train and a carriage ride to arrive there from his Spartan accomodations, and when he did arrive the mean dirt track that linked it was already soaked through from the rain, leaving a long, desolate stretch of Parisian mud to trod through. Gideon's installation was remote, but not alone: there were similar compounds ringing the entire periphery of the busy transportation hub, some private enterprises, some leased by governments friendly to the Empire to care for their diplomatic and national airships.
Each one had a painted sign identifying it -- Gideon's yard's read
Le Société Panthères de Ciel, Ltd.
, a curious and somewhat barbaric name for an airship concern. Edward had the coachman merely pass the yard's gate, then turn about and pass it again before depositing him at a supply shed and custom's house half a mile away. The man seemed irritated at the extra distance, but a generous tip insured his courteous departure.
Edward mumbled something about a better view to the civil servant on duty, a junior assistant customs officer of some sort who was intent upon his lunch, and the man waved him in. He made his way up to the tiny three-storey "observation tower", one of many along the wide stretches of the Aeroport, designed to allow passengers, guests, and ground controllers a better view of the sprawling complex. From here you could see the dozens of mooring towers which seemed to be constantly busy with new ships arriving and old ones departing from all over the continent. There was even a brass telescope there, so that the various numerals and symbols upon their flanks could be more readily espied for a mere two
sous
-- though the overcast and constant drizzle made such attempts overly ambitious. Edward made use of it, but it wasn't the ships aloft he turned it upon.
He scanned the breadth and length of Gideon's yard, where a dozen sheds clustered around a massive wooden hanger that looked like an enlarged barn. The entirety was enclosed by a wooden fence nearly four meters high. The perimeter of the compound was patrolled by some dusky-looking carbine-toting natives of some distant land, who seemed eager to shoot at someone. There were no less than five of them at the gate, itself, and when a few beggar children who seemed to haunt every aeroport he'd ever been in came near, the guards wasted no time in turning them briskly away.
The more Edward watched, the more he grinned. Whatever Gideon was doing in the yard, he did
not
want it known, that was certain. The utilitarian iron mooring tower that peeked up over the sheds was empty, at the moment, but there were two more keen-eyed lookouts ensconced therein, with long, wicked-looking rifles at the ready, constantly searching the area around the yard. All in all it reminded Edward more of a fortress than a manufactory.
But a manufactory it was. Carts and lorries of all description seemed to be gaining access, once they presented their credentials to the guards, though Edward could see that the crew inside insisted that all materials be off-loaded in the foremost part of the yard, well-away from the hanger. Upon retiring, every vehicle was subject to close scrutiny before it was allowed to leave.
This, then, would be a challenge, Edward decided, as he abandoned the observation tower.
Less so, it turned out, than he'd hoped for. It took only ten francs under the desk to the attendant to discover that Capt. Becker's ship, the
Victrix
, was scheduled to return from a brief trip to Berlin near sunset -- if, the bitter clerk added, the sun deigned to show it's face today before retiring. A brief walk down the muddy road that swung around the yards provided Edward with the only other essential piece of information he needed to gain access, and the roots of a plan began to form. Yet merely appearing as if out of nowhere was not sufficient to appease his desire for an impressive arrival. He took steps to ensure that his appearance would be memorable.
He took his supper at the wine shop where waiting passengers took their comfort before they embarked, paying far too much for fare that would have made any self-respecting Parisian shudder. While there, supping on the upper porch where he had a reasonable view of Gideon's mysterious yard, he was able to monitor who was allowed in, and who was stopped at the gate by the armed savages that seemed to be everywhere. Edward sketched out some notes in his notebook while he observed, and noted Gideon could have easily been raping innocent schoolgirls by the wagonload within. But any Parisian
gendarme
would have balked at trying to get past the private army of dark-skinned warriors and their gleaming guns to preserve their virtue.
The interior of the compound held numerous sheds and huts, all surrounding the massive building the fence barely contained. A few of the huts were nearly full houses, and one in particular was easy enough to pick out as Gideon's residence. It was a legitimate house, at lease four or five bedrooms, and it had several servants who went back and forth between it and the gate, or it and the kitchen, or it and the biggest building. If there was a brain behind the hum of activity, it was there. But before he got into there, he had to get past the gates.
Several deliveries arrived while he watched, and Gideon noted that they were each well-searched at the gate, their identities and business no doubt identified, before being aloud to pass within the compound, proper. The walls were regularly patrolled, and the towers at the edges of the yard were constantly manned by his friend's soldiers. And twice while he sat there observing Edward witnessed a savage patrolling the exterior of the fence with a brace of fierce-looking wolfhounds.
It was a formidable defense, to be sure, but as Uncle Pete never failed to remind him, the greater the visible defense, the easier it was to penetrate it once you understood its weaknesses. His uncle used the metaphor of an old widow: though she might protest mightily on the basis of her morality, she was just as willing as any maiden to part her legs when approached properly. By the time Edward had finished his meal and a second glass of
vin ordinaire
, he knew exactly how to get this metaphorical widow to spread like a whore.
* * *
"So who is that mysterious whore Billy's seein' in town?" Tayanita asked Marta casually as she swabbed an acrid smelling concoction of liquid latex on to a broad canvass sheet in her "laboratory". It bore little resemblance to the pristine German laboratories she'd seen, the French versions at the University and the Academy of Science or even the hastily-built labs back in the Oklahoma Kingdom. Indeed, it was little more than a shed tacked on to the massive hanger building, but it was where she and her
protégé
, Marta, worked on the millions of questions that needed to be answered before the
Argo
could be successfully built and launched.
She was testing the comparative weight ratios of rubberized canvas, which the French and British used as the outer envelopes for their airships, compared to the cotton denim cloth the Germans and Italians preferred. The outer envelopes did not need to be gas-tight, of course, as the interior lifting cells were, but they did have to be water-tight, fire-resistant (if not fire proof) yet strong enough to hold together under the punishing conditions of the atmosphere -- but not weigh more than absolutely necessary. Every kilogram of unnecessary weight was a loss.
The Atlan girl shrugged as she continued to stitch together the denim sheet that was next to be coated.
"I am not certain," Marta answered, cautiously. While she loved her friend dearly, the issue of William Bonney had been a sore spot for both of them. "She must be
