Page 51 of Flight of Dreams

The American laughs awkwardly. Purposefully. “So you would know whether he is in a romantic relationship?”

The look that flashes across Wilhelm Balla’s face is first confusion. Then alarm. Then something that could be either fear or disgust. The American isn’t certain which. It’s too fleeting.

Balla holds up a hand. “I can assure you that Max is not—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He is quite pleased to hear the perfect note of surprise and admonition in his voice. He waits a moment to let the steward’s face color fully with embarrassment before he continues. “Please, let’s do be clear on that.”

Balla rubs his nose with the back of one finger. “Yes. Of course. Forgive me. What might you have meant, then?”

“Well. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I am rather curious about whether or not Max Zabel is romantically involved with the stewardess. Emilie…”

“Imhof,” Wilhelm finishes.

“Yes. Miss Imhof. Are the two of them involved?”

The steward opens his mouth slowly. And then reverses the action. This delayed response is all the answer the American needs. The two are clearly dating and trying to hide it from their fellow crew members.

The American is tired of maintaining his drunk and boisterous act. Now he wants to throw the steward off-kilter. He wants information. “I see,” he says. “It’s not public knowledge?”

“I don’t think—”

“Or perhaps it’s not official? In all truth I’d much rather that be the case as I’d planned to invite Miss Imhof to dinner once we reach Lakehurst. So you can see how I would rather save myself the embarrassment of rejection if her affections are engaged elsewhere.”

He’s not keen on the girl, of course. It’s been a long time since a woman turned his head for any reason other than physical gratification, and he certainly doesn’t need to go to the trouble of setting up a dinner to find that. No. The stewardess is irrelevant. But the American is quite interested in discovering any weaknesses the navigator might have. And learning how to exploit them.

The steward takes his time in answering. When he comes to a decision there is a sharp, conniving slant to his mouth. He chooses his words carefully—one at a time—and in such a manner that they are both loaded and innocuous. “The only thing I am at liberty to say is that the relationship between Max Zabel and Emilie Imhof is…complicated.”

The American leans into this morsel of information. “Complicated how?”

THE STEWARDESS

It is early afternoon and Emilie is in desperate need of coffee. Her one vice. She rarely drinks and has never dabbled in other recreational substances, but she freely admits that coffee is her addiction. It’s not something she intends to apologize for, however. Or give up. As far as fixations go, it’s rather benign. Quitting gives her a headache. Overindulgence gives her the jitters. So she places herself firmly in the middle, avoiding either extreme. The easiest place to secure a cup would be the kitchen, but she has no interest in facing Xaver—or his questions. So she makes her way to the bar instead. The coffee there isn’t as good, falling somewhere between adequate and pitiful, but under the circumstances she doesn’t feel that beggars can be choosers.

Schulze has just arrived at his station and is arranging bottles when Emilie knocks on the air-lock door. He greets her with a jovial grin.

“Another patron! And a lovely one at that.”

“A boring patron, I’m afraid. And one whose break isn’t nearly long enough. So it will be coffee for me, if you don’t mind.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“Easy enough. Why don’t you take a seat in the smoking room while it brews. You’ll have it almost to yourself.”

Emilie hadn’t counted on anyone else being here so early in the day, and she hesitates as the bartender moves to open the interior air-lock door.

“Julius—”

He stops. “No one calls me that.”

“It’s your name.”

“Not the one I go by.”

Most of the crew call him by his middle name. Max. But there are far too many Maxes on board to suit her. The same with Werners, Alfreds, Fritzes, Kurts, Wilhelms, Walters, and Ludwigs. When it comes to naming their children, Germans seem to be highly unoriginal. And Emilie, despite her fantastic memory, has a hard time keeping them straight. So to her Schulze has always been Julius.

He offers that broad, generous smile she is so fond of. “You’ve only room for one Max in your life?”