“The men are trying to get in your trousers, Liebchen, not encourage you to wear them more often.”
“Just because you went about it that way…”
“As I recall, you were wearing a skirt, and all I had to do was lift it up, like this.” Leonhard demonstrates his method and slides his hands along the smooth skin of her outer thigh.
“You are changing the subject.”
He buries his face in her neck. “It’s a much better subject.”
“Really, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. One minute you’re lecturing me, the next you’re trying to seduce me. Aren’t old men supposed to lose interest in sex?”
“I’m not an old man. And men never lose interest in sex.”
“You’re a great deal older than I am.”
“And a good thing too. You wouldn’t have been able to keep up with me when I was your age.”
“Insatiable?”
“So I was told.”
Leonhard has most of her clothing off at this point. “Well, I don’t want to hear the sordid details. Nothing before my time, mind you.”
“It was just practice, Liebchen.”
“Ugh. You’re not even sorry about it!”
“Well, I was married once before, you know.”
“I don’t want to hear about her either.”
The only thing left on Gertrud’s body at this point are her underclothes, and Leonhard tries to dispatch those as well. She steps away from him. Sets her arms on her hips in protest. “We’re late for drinks.”
He sighs. Pulls a tailored red dress from the closet and hands it to her. “It’s not wine I’m thirsty for.”
Gertrud takes the dress from him, being careful to stay out of reach. They will never make it to the bar otherwise. “We have work to do.”
THE NAVIGATOR
It’s two o’clock on the dot, and Christian Nielsen steps into the chart room just as Max’s concentration begins to waver. After so many years working aboard ocean liners, and now airships, he finds that his body works to the clock. He has trained himself to operate at an acute level of performance for the exact duration of his shift. But when the clock turns, his mind and body are only too happy to follow.
There are only a few details to make Nielsen aware of, and he goes through the list quickly. “Keep an eye on the engine telegraph dial for gondola two. I had to make an outboard repair this morning.”
“You did? Why not Zettel?”
“Don’t ask.”
“All right. But—”
“We’re still fighting strong headwinds,” Max interrupts, “and it looks as though they will get stronger overnight. We haven’t made up much time today. Less than an hour at most. I’ve been checking coordinates every fifteen minutes to make sure we stay on course.” He taps the chart, drawing Nielsen’s eye to the complex grid of lines, a language of longitude and latitude decipherable only to their kind. “If we’re not here by midnight”—he points at a specific point on the grid and lowers his voice to a whisper—“I’d suggest you increase that to every ten minutes. Pruss is feeling…hostile at the moment.”
Nielsen looks through the door at the rigid form of Commander Pruss, who stands over the elevator man, questioning every small adjustment. The young man looks frayed with the effort of not arguing with Pruss.
“Good luck.” Max hands over the logbook and clears his belongings from the navigation desk. Watch. Compass. Pen. He fastens the watch around his wrist and tucks the other items in his pocket. Max goes through his mental checklist: sign out of the logbook, make sure the officers’ safe beneath the chart table is locked, verify that all of the navigational instruments are operating correctly.
Nielsen has worked aboard the Graf Zeppelin, and he survived a spectacular wrecking of the sailboat Pinnas. Yet Max still has to prepare himself to hand over command of his post every night. Nielsen is thorough, attentive, and cautious. Traits every navigator is recruited for. But this small space is Max’s territory. His kingdom. And relinquishing control is a battle, especially since he was not able to fully correct the delay. But he has other things to attend to at the moment. He must perform his postmaster duties and he must find Emilie. He has to warn her about what Wilhelm Balla has done.
THE AMERICAN
The American has never been a fan of beef Wellington. It’s a meal that tries too hard, not to mention being damned hard to get right. The Hindenburg’s chef is clearly adept, for the dish is cooked perfectly. Still the American is unimpressed. He would have preferred a steak and roasted potatoes. A stout beer. A cigar. And if there weren’t such a dearth of women in the immediate vicinity, perhaps one of those as well.
“Are you not enjoying your meal, Herr Douglas?” Captain Lehmann asks.
The American slices off a piece of the tenderloin and places it in his mouth, chewing slowly as if savoring it. “It is easily the best beef Wellington I’ve ever tasted.”