Page 40 of Flight of Dreams

Silence.

“But given the fact that I saw you in the belly of this ship not half an hour ago, I would say that you and I are both people for whom exceptions are made.”

“I don’t—”

The American holds up a hand to stop him. “No point in lying. I don’t care what you were doing. You are clearly ambitious and clever, but those are tools that you should make the most of elsewhere. The only question you need to answer, Herr Franz, is whether or not you would like to make a bit of extra money.”

The cabin boy clears his throat. “Of course,” he says. “But not if I’ll get in trouble for it. I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“You won’t get in trouble. I can promise you that. Simply ensure that the dog is cared for. And if anyone asks what you’re doing back there, you can tell them the owner paid you to care for it since he isn’t allowed in the cargo hold.”

“You own that dog?”

“No. But no one else needs to know that.”

Werner considers this proposition for a moment. “What’s its name?”

“Owens.”

“Is that actually his name?”

“Hell if I know.”

“What if it won’t answer to Owens? Dogs are smart.”

“Trust me. It will answer to anything.”

“Why are you doing this? Why pay to care for an animal that isn’t yours?”

Sometimes a bit of compassion and decency is reason enough to do something out of the ordinary. This isn’t something he will say aloud, however. “That dog doesn’t deserve to be abandoned, starved, and left to shit itself.”

“I’ll do it, then. But you will pay me up front.”

The American pulls a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and hands it to Werner. “Agreed.”

The boy scrutinizes this windfall for a moment as though to make sure it isn’t counterfeit, as though he’d know the difference. Then he tucks it into the small breast pocket of his steward’s coat. He gives the American the serious nod of one gentleman conducting business with another.

“Now I’d like to know what we’re having for breakfast. I’m starving. And I’m also quite interested to learn everything you know about a certain passenger on board this airship.”

“Which passenger?”

He rocks back on his heels, arms crossed, anticipation written into the lines around his mouth. “Leonhard Adelt.”

THE NAVIGATOR

Max descends into the control car for his shift and feels the charged atmosphere immediately. He has missed something important. An argument most likely. There’s palpable tension in the air. No one makes eye contact or speaks. The officers look like a pack of angry dogs, hackles raised, spines stiff. There’s a feral look to Commander Pruss, an aggressive slant to his mouth.

Colonel Erdmann has observation duties this morning, and he has removed himself to the edge of the utility room. He watches, concern evident on his face.

Max sniffs out the situation carefully. “What’s wrong?”

Christian Nielsen stands in the navigation room glowering at a set of charts spread on the table. He jabs them with an angry finger. “Headwinds.”

“And?”

“We’re three hours behind schedule.”

It was Max’s affinity for logic and order that drew him to navigation in the first place, but it is his capacity for problem-solving and maintaining order that keeps him in this position instead of reaching for command of his own airship. Already his mind is ticking through potential issues, looking for a solution. A loss of this magnitude can easily happen over the course of an entire trip, but for it to happen overnight is highly irregular. Max inspects the instruments on the wall above his desk, looking for the culprit. A broken clock or a malfunctioning triangulation gauge. He even pulls the compass from his pocket to double-check the gauges. But nothing is out of sync.