So neither Klaus nor Arne had any way of discerning the slight change in the skirt’s behavior as it entered the air stream. Although frequently restitched and painstakingly watched for wear, the repeated soakings and dryings of constant salt-water landings had cost some of the pleats most of their flexibility. Like the spines of old men forced to jump up to attention, several of the most desiccated pieces of leather resisted. The sustained pressure on the stitchings, which struggled to keep the stiff pleats in trim with the flexible ones, lasted a moment too long: two of the desiccated lacings snapped. That gave the rushing wind a gap, which it exploited ruthlessly; a few more lacings weakened, and a bronze restraining rivet popped free, allowing the tearing to continue, almost up to where the skirt attached to the belly of the Monster.

  With no further resistance to the varied buffetings of the air stream, the leather plenum bag, which resembled a half-donut when inflated, now moved freely, flexibly, in the wind. But it was no longer the prim, conventional skirt it was supposed to be; a provocative slit now went from bottom to top at its back…

  Arne looked up. “What was that?”

  “You mean that little tug?”

  “Yes.”

  Klaus shrugged. “Once a bag has been in use for a few months, they start doing that when you push them out into the air stream.”

  Arne nodded. “Yes. Okay. This is the leather-wear the instructors talk about?”

  Klaus nodded. “It’s been taking more and more maintenance hours to keep the bags within safety limits.” He didn’t add that he had now heard three different ground crews muttering about those limits, wondering if they were really cautious enough.

  Arne looked at the airspeed indicators again. “That bump seemed a little longer, though.”

  Klaus thought so too. “Probably nothing,” he said, reassuring himself as much as Arne. “Probably the bag was just a little stiff coming out. That cold alpine headwind on take-off could have made everything a little less flexible.”

  Arne nodded. Klaus couldn’t tell if the young junior copilot was genuinely convinced by this explanation, or was just being polite and agreeable. Like everything engineered at-or beyond-the limits of the currently available materials, the air cushion gear was quirky, finicky. Sometimes it made odd sounds; sometimes it got a little temperamental. But so what? It worked, didn’t it?

  Klaus cut the airspeed a little more, brought the nose up, watched the water come closer…

  Just as the wind indicator dropped to zero.

  Suddenly. Just like that. A calm cell, courtesy of the unpredictable marriage of the sirocco and the Adriatic.

  Without the tail wind, the airspeed dropped: not much, but quickly, and at the penultimate pre-landing moment. To compensate, Klaus juiced the engines, brought the nose up a little more. But he couldn’t hold that attitude for long, not with the Monster’s long tail stretching so far aft of the air cushion skirt and center of gravity.

  “There will be a real bump now,” he commented with a thin smile.

  “Yes,” agreed Arne, just before they made contact.

  Or should have. Instead of the breathy flounce of coming down on a fully inflated bag, there was a hiss, a burbling, and a lurch to the left rear. The Monster’s tail section veered closer to the water, the left horizontal stabilizer almost grazing the surface.

  “Bag failure!” snapped Klaus.

  To his credit, Arne reacted without delay, helping maintain trim as Klaus re-gunned the engines, not quite rising off the surface of the water, but not coming to rest on it, either.

  “Still dropping on the left,” observed Arne.

  “Give me a little more thrust from the outer portside engine.” Klaus cheated the stick and pedals, giving a little more lift to that side.

  Meanwhile, the burbling and complaining beneath them increased.

  “Klaus…” began Arne.

  “Oh, hell,” breathed Tom as the Monster landed, shuddered, pulled up, seemed like its nose was no longer in precise alignment with its direction of travel.

  “What has gone wrong?” Miro managed to swallow after he asked the question, realizing how terrible it was to watch a flying machine in such obvious peril. Particularly one as large and powerful as the Monster, which, if it truly crashed “Don’t know. Wind maybe. But no, it seems calm. Probably that damned air cushion gear.”

  Miro was surprised at the vehemence with which his normally calm companion invoked the name of the landing gear. “I was not aware you had such misgivings about…”

  But Tom wasn’t listening; he was watching what might well be a disaster approaching. And if it didn’t slow down soon, the disaster might well land straight in their laps.

  “Distance to the land ramp?” Klaus did not dare take his eyes off the instruments or his senses away from the delicate balancing act he was maintaining between the pitch and yaw improvisations that kept the Monster moving forward.

  “Five hundred yards. Maybe six hundred.” Arne’s voice was taut.

  Klaus knew they weren’t going to make it; every time he backed off the engines, let the Monster settle a little more, he could feel more of the skirt shredding, felt the lift diminish from the already crippled leather-bound plenum chamber that was his landing gear. Besides, the underside of the Monster would bottom out on the ramp even if he could get that far, possibly ruining the airframe. But if he cut the speed down far enough for a stop, he’d bite the water, possibly digging in the nose-and again, ruin the aircraft.

  He glanced up to take his own bearings, saw the villa that the USE had purchased for the support of its Venetian air operations dead ahead, the smooth water that surrounded it on three points obscured on the left by the weed-choked shallows.

  The weed-choked shallows…

  “Arne, I want three, short, evenly pulsed revs from the starboard engines.”

  “But Klaus-”

  “Just do it.”

  The roar to the right increased and died as quickly as it had risen. The plane tilted to the left again, but Klaus cheated the controls, kept both the tail and left wingtip from digging in-and the craft had altered its course by five degrees or so to the left, pushed in that direction by the lopsided engine thrust that also helped them maintain altitude and extend the time they were airborne.

  Another momentary roar of the engines on the right. Then a third and longer pulse “Arne, bring it back!” Klaus shouted, as he struggled to keep the Monster’s nose up, its tail out of the water, and its wings level-more or less.

  “Klaus, we’re almost into the weeds!”

  Klaus nodded tightly. “Because that’s where we’re going. Depth here is about-what?”

  “Less than three feet.”

  Klaus started easing off the engines, started to let the nose down ever so slightly.

  “Airspeed looks good,” Arne gulped out.

  — Just as the remains of the skirt made contact with the water. A high-pitched burbling rose beneath them. Klaus gauged what resistance was left in the compromised plenum chamber, let the Monster travel forward another few seconds, and peripherally watched the passing weeds begin to slow in their rearward rush, enough so that he could start to make out individual fronds and stems.

  “Two feet of water, no more,” Arne rasped.

  Klaus sighed and let the Monster settle down on what was left of her air cushion landing gear, cutting the engines.

  For a moment, the leather held-a last moment of increased pressure in the bag as the fuselage came closer to the water’s surface-and then it let go with a blast. A wash of sharp slaps and bumps announced its tattered chunks flying up against the fuselage.

  Without power, the nose came down more quickly-but at just the same moment, the tail’s horizontal stabilizers slid slowly into the water, and the lower wing kissed down as well. Arne killed the blower motor a moment before its spinning blades snarled into contact with the weed-choked swells of their landing zone.

  Klaus watched the weeds and rushes collect before his slowing craft like an impenetrable wall And then realized that the Monster had come to a stop. And was sinking.

  Before stopping at a depth of fifteen inches.

  Tom’s mouth was still open. “Did you see that?” he murmured at last.

  As if I could have missed it? “Er…yes. This catastrophe makes our plans quite-”

  “No, no-did you see that piloting? Man, whoever that guy is deserves a medal. Hell, if Mike or Ed or someone doesn’t give him a medal, I’ll make one especially for him. That was incredible. That plane should have crashed at least three times. Maybe four.”

  Miro was perplexed. “But it did. Crash, that is.”

  Tom turned. “That was not a crash. I mean, yeah, technically, I guess it was. But it was a crash landing, and a damned good one. A real crash is-well, you’d know it if you saw it. The pilot loses control, and the plane goes in. There’s a big blast from the impact alone, even if there’s no explosion. Pieces everywhere. Usually not many survivors. If any.”

  Miro looked at the plane, sitting in the shallows, half-hidden by the weeds, which were already still again. “Very well. But unless I am much mistaken, that plane is not going to be useable any time soon.”

  Tom nodded, then looked sideways at Miro. “Eh, Estuban, about that balloon of yours-”

  Miro smiled. “I learned, while masquerading as a Christian plying the trade routes of the Mediterranean, that one should always have multiple contingency plans. I have now learned that the same is true when one is an intelligence officer overseeing a field operation.”

  Tom smiled back, relieved. “So your balloon is already back in Jena?”

  “Actually, I had it return to Grantville, where it is now being refitted and loaded. There were personnel there I thought we might have need of. As well as equipment. And now, I suspect, repair parts for the Jupiter.”

  “How soon can it be back here?”

  “That is always weather dependent, but on the average, not more than two weeks’ travel time.”

  Tom nodded. “Now let’s hope something doesn’t break on your balloon.”

  “Yes, indeed. Although, it must be said: there is far less to break on a dirigible than an airplane.”

  “No lie,” breathed Tom with a nod, and another glance at the Monster’s vertical stabilizer, sticking up from the weeds like a large, dull-colored shark’s fin. “I also hear you can burn just about any fuel in your balloons. Including fish oil.”

  “Yes, although I will not vouch for the downwind appeal of such a ride.”

  Tom’s grin was very wide. “Might as well tell you, I’m pretty much sold on the whole balloon thing. Even given the fact that someone-well, everyone, probably-is going to use it to drop bombs. I thought about that a lot, but I still think airships are going to do more good than harm.”

  “Often, that is all we can ask for in life.”

  “Oh, we can ask for more; we just don’t get it, usually. So what do these balloons cost to build? About a hundred thousand USE dollars?”

  “Yes, but if you’re proposing a partnership-”

  “I am.”

  “-then I would rather we do not use your money to build more of the hot-airships.”

  “No?”

  “No. In the next few years, I will make enough of those to meet the first wave of demand. Which will be brisk, but moderate; it takes people time to get used to new ideas.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then we will unveil the next generation of airship, the one which we will finance with your investment.” Miro smiled, looked into the sky, and imagined it filling with traffic and commerce in the decades to come. “Because that model will get its lift from hydrogen, not hot air. And that, Tom, that will truly change the world.”

  “This changes everything.” Rombaldo de Gonzaga tapped his spotless fingernail upon the worn wooden tabletop like a slow, soft metronome.

  Giulio, who was still out of breath from running to their rented house with the news, expelled words between his gasps: “How…so…Rombaldo?”

  Rombaldo de Gonzaga suppressed a sigh. It was trying, working with amateurs, but the job in Venice was a large one, needing many hands and feet and eyes. Fortunately, his master back in Rome-a displaced Cypriot named Dakis-had no shortage of scudare and reales to pass around. “With the USE’s plane damaged, they cannot remove Urban anytime soon. Nor will the aircraft be a part of any plans to rescue Stone’s son in Rome. That gives us more time. That, in turn, makes our job easier. And Cesare, be sure this news is passed along to the dovecote for immediate relay. They will want this report in Rome as soon as possible.”

  Cesare Linguanti, a small man who rarely spoke, rose and left, making the smallest of nods toward the largest man at the table.

  That man, Valentino-who denied having any other name than that-took a small sip of his wine. Valentino always had a glass of wine in hand: the one glass that he nursed all day long. “The Americans, they will repair the flying machine, if they can. And if Giulio is right, it does not sound as though the failure was catastrophic.”

  “Yes,” nodded Rombaldo. “We will need to mount a watch on the plane, as well as the embassy and the USE’s known agents. Indeed, we will need to hire many more men to watch and search. And others to wield weapons, when the target is located and the time comes.”

  “They will need to be special men,” commented Valentino. “Not many Italians are ready to kill a pope.”

  “There may not be many,” answered Rombaldo, “but when the pay is high enough, you’ll find men enough.” He leaned back with a satisfied smile. “More than enough.”

  Sharon found Mazzare sitting quietly with Urban. They did that a lot, these days. They didn’t seem to say a lot. It was like watching dogs or cats who are new to the same house; as if they know their lives are now entwined, they start spending time together. It was both acclimation and the growth of a new camaraderie, all rolled into one.

  They looked up as Sharon entered the trellised shade of the courtyard’s arbor. She set her shoulders squarely. “It seems like we’re going to be staying a little bit longer, after all. The Monster has crashed.”

  Mazzare looked up, startled. “Was anyone-?”

  “No. They brought it down safely. But they’re going to have to replace the landing gear.”

  “And that will take how long?” asked Urban.

  “I’m not exactly sure, Your Holiness. I know a lot more about fixing people than I do about fixing machines. But given the parts and getting the plane out of the water and all the rest-well, I’d be surprised if we were ready any sooner than six or eight weeks.”

  Urban leaned back and placed his palms firmly on his knees. “Well, that settles the matter.”

  “What matter?”

  “The matter of whether or not I should leave Italy just yet. In my pride, I failed to leave this matter in God’s hands. But it seems our Savior has decided to take the decision from me-perhaps to remind me I always had the option of relinquishing it into his care.”

  Sharon blinked. “Your Holiness, I don’t understand.”

  “I should not leave Italy, at least not yet. Not even if your plane was ready to fly tomorrow. Not until I know where I should go.”

  “And what will determine where you should go?”

  “Why, by learning what I am supposed to do next.”

  Sharon shook her head. “But how many choices do you really have?”

  “That,” said Urban with a sly smile, “is what I will learn in the coming weeks-and why I am so glad you came, Lawrence.” Urban smiled, rose, and headed back in the direction of the kitchen.

  Sharon looked at Larry Mazzare. “What does he mean, that this is ‘why he’s so glad you came’?”

  Mazzare shrugged. “It means-well, it means I’m just glad that Thomas North left his his Hibernians behind in Venice, because we’re going to need all of them to secure the new safe house that Miro set up for us through the Cavrianis.”

  Sharon nodded, but pressed the point. “You still haven’t answered me: what can Urban do here that he can’t do back in the USE?”

  Mazzare looked at Sharon. “He can decide whether he should go there at all.”

  “What? Why?” Sharon was becoming annoyed. Not only did she still not understand what was going on, but her ignorance had her repeating herself.

  “Sharon, Urban was driven out of Rome, fled for his life. Everyone in Italy can understand why he’s no longer sitting in the Holy See. But if he leaves the country now, that will be his choice. And he’s worried-rightly-that some people may feel he’d be turning his back on both his duty and the Church.”

  “But he can’t achieve anything here except waiting around for assassins.”

  “We know that, he knows that, maybe even this whole country knows that. But knowing that a course of action is wise doesn’t necessarily make it acceptable. And a pope is both a symbol and a representative of God. Now hear me out: I’m not requiring you to believe that yourself, just to accept that many, many others do believe it. You’ve heard the expression ‘trust in God,’ right?”

  Sharon put her hands on her generous hips. “Yes. Of course I’ve heard it. As you know.”

  “Yes, I do. But you’ve never heard it the way people here, of this time, hear it. For most of them, that saying isn’t a euphemism, isn’t simply an exhortation to believe that somewhere, somehow, there might be some divine providence that will make everything all right. Here-in this time-there is nothing vague or ambiguous about trust in God. It’s presumed that there is a personal God who sees and judges all actions. And for Roman Catholics, it furthermore means that the pope is God’s divinely inspired voice and representative on Earth, and is therefore symbolic of the dignity and righteousness of that godhead.”

  “So you’re saying that if Urban runs, he’s indicating that he doesn’t have faith that ‘God will provide.’”