“Can you hear it?” August asks. “The engine. I can’t adjust it with that thing broken.”
Max can hear the engine. And he can also feel a slight shudder in the floor beneath him. This engine is working out of sync with the others. The mechanics have the noisiest job aboard the airship, and Max has never quite known how they don’t lose their hearing within a week. The cacophonous roar of the diesel engines drowns out everything but the loudest yell. It’s an alarming sound and Werner has backed himself up against the wall, hands over his ears and face scrunched in concentration. Max suspects that this is a defensive position and that the boy is waiting for Max to cuff his ear. The thought is tempting.
All of the mechanics wear thick leather aviator caps and earplugs beneath the flaps, but he knows that they rely mostly on lip reading and a sign language of sorts—adapted shorthand for the temporarily deaf. Each of them is limited to short double shifts, two hours during the day and three hours at night. The downtime is supposed to provide a respite from the noise, but since their quarters are located near the stern, they never really escape the deafening clamor of the Daimler-Benz motors. Max knows that the mechanics often wake when the engines are shut down for midair repairs. The silence is startling to them. It’s an odd job, this, and few men are well suited for it. Given Werner’s response to the danger and the noise thus far, Max would guess the boy is not one of them. Not that Max can blame Werner. He would sooner quit aviation altogether than spend one full day in this engine gondola, dangling over the Atlantic Ocean, slowly going deaf, and—depending on their destination—either half-frozen or melting right out of his uniform. Max Zabel aspires to consistency, calmness, and, above all else, self-control. He is a man who avoids extremes at all costs.
THE CABIN BOY
Werner watches Max lean closer to the dial. Max thumps it with an index finger, and the glass case wobbles at his touch. “Oh,” he says. “That explains it.”
The face of the dial is thick glass rimmed with metal. Max spreads his palm across the surface, fixing each finger at a point around the edge. He gently rotates it, and removes the dial face. The needle stops spinning altogether.
“The face came loose,” he offers by way of explanation, holding it up. “The needle won’t read accurately unless it’s pressurized.”
It would never have occurred to the cabin boy that he could simply pluck off the face of the dial, but Max has done it without the slightest hesitation. Max rubs the cuff of his sleeve against the glass to wipe away his fingerprints and then carefully holds it by the metal rim and pops the face back onto the dial. The needle wobbles uncertainly for a moment and then begins a lazy rotation around the numbers until it quivers to a stop, the arrows at each end pointing directly at nine and three.
August Deutschle jumps into action, adjusting the engine speed to correspond with the dial reading. Within seconds the revving evens out around them. Less of a shudder and more of a hum. Werner drops his hands to his side and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“You,” Max pokes Werner in the breastbone, hard, with one finger, “are damn lucky I actually knew what to do.”
The reprimand hurts the boy’s pride more than he would like to admit. Werner rubs the spot with his thumb, trying not to pout. It has been his experience that a pout can often lead to tears.
“That’s it?” August asks.
“Trust me. Much better a loose bit of glass than a blown engine. Yes?” Max glances at his watch. “I’d best get young Herr Franz back to his duties before someone figures out that he’s taken a stroll in midair.”
Max hoists Werner upward so he can grab the first rung of the ladder, and then follows close behind. Max doesn’t crowd him, but Werner has the impression that the navigator is staying close enough to catch him should he stumble. He keeps his eyes forward and his feet steady and is halfway to the hatch above in no time.
“You have good balance,” Max says.
“It’s not so different than climbing a fire escape. Except for the wind.”
Werner feels Max’s hand clamp onto his ankle like a vise. “Wait. Look,” he says.
Below them is the long, sleek form of an ocean liner. Werner can make out clean white letters that read Europa just above the water line. The smokestacks puff like dragon lungs as the ship cuts a clean wake through the water. It looks like a horned, painted sea serpent.
“That’s one of the nicer ones,” Max says.
“Is it expensive to travel by boat?” Werner has never even paid cab fare. He cannot fathom what sort of riches it would take to buy passage on an ocean liner.