“What?” He looked up, saw her, and tipped his hat. “Good evening, ma’am. I am Professor Bartholemew Martin, the astronomer. We read about this airship, whatever it is, so I came down with a respectable telescope to photograph it. Mind you, the Prescott newspaper had a fine drawing – the Journal-Miner must have an excellent artist—but photographs bring out different details than the human eye catches. Also, once I finish aligning it, I have a much better telescope.”
“You drove down by yourself?” she asked. There was a nominally paved road, but here from Flagstaff was still adventurous.
“I sent my two assistants into town to find dinner, and bring me back something. They helped with the heavy unpacking, but the last bit is a trifle fiddly.”
“I’m Melanie Hayes, the Journal-Miner artist,” she said. “I’d be interested in looking through your telescope, when you have it set up, if you would let me. That thing, whatever it is, is full of angles and lines, very hard to capture just right with pencil, not to mention the survey telescope wasn’t set up for an artist.”
“You did beautiful work,” Martin said. “And I seem to be finished, so a few moments with the pointing telescope…done. Here, take a look. Yes, you have it right. That’s the focusing screw.”
“Amazing. All those rectangles. And something on top seems to be rotating.”
Martin looked through the eyepiece. “I’m going to need a respectable exposure time. That thing on top. It’s going to be blurred.”
“When do we get to see your pictures?” Melanie asked.
“Journal-Miner has a darkroom, said if I took pictures this evening they’d help me develop them. In fact, I’m expecting their photographer to show up, soon enough. They get the newspaper rights. Observatory gets a bit of income if anyone wants to use them. I gather they got a pretty penny nationally for your drawing.”
“Yes,” Melanie said, “and I got my cut fair and square.”
* * * * *
Cornelius Polk glared at his Curtis Oriole. Yesterday he’d helped the Sky Harbor mechanic do a full maintenance job, following which he’d taken it out for a long test flight. Four days ago, two geologists with a train of mules had ridden into the Blasted Heath, planning to ride to the center, recover the strange minerals visible there, and return. They should have been back yesterday, but were not. Now the Governor wanted him to look for them, meaning he had to fly over the Heath, perhaps all the way to the center. He’d take one passenger, and as much water as two men could readily carry. If he was forced down, he was ready to walk out. The heavy cloth masks he packed would hopefully protect him from whatever poison apparently lurked in the air.
