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"Let's see, track layouts for the New Haven & Hartford, the Lake Shore & Michigan Southern, Boston
& Albany . . . ah, here it is, the New York & Quebec Northern." He carried the portfolio over to a table and untied the strings on the cover. "Great railroad in its day. Over two thousand miles of track. Ran a crack express called the Manhattan Limited. Any particular section of the track you're interested in?"
"I can find it, thank you," said Shaw.
"Would you like a cup of coffee? I can make some upstairs in the office. Only take a couple of minutes."
"You're a civilized man, Mr. Rheingold. Coffee sounds fine."
Rheingold nodded and walked back down the aisle. He paused and turned when he came to the doorway. Shaw was sitting at the table studying the faded and yellowing maps.
When he returned with the coffee, the portfolio was neatly tied and replaced in its proper niche on the shelf. "Mr. Shaw?" There was no answer. The library room was empty.
Pitt felt inspired and determined, even exhilarated.
A deep sense of knowing he had opened a door that had been overlooked for generations acted on him like a stimulant. With an optimism that was not there before, he stood in a small, empty pasture and waited for the two-engine jet to float in for a landing.
Under normal procedures the feat would have been impossible: the field was pockmarked by old tree stumps and riddled with dry gullies. The longest flat spot ran no more than fifty feet before ending at a moss-covered rock wall. Pitt had expected a helicopter and he began to wonder if the pilot had a death wish or had brought the wrong aircraft.
Then he watched in fascination as the wings and engines began to slowly tilt upward while the fuselage and tail remained horizontal. When they reached ninety degrees and were facing skyward the plane stopped its forward motion and began to settle to the uneven ground.
Soon after the wheels touched the grass, Pitt walked up to the cockpit door and opened it. A boyish face with freckles and red hair broke into a cheery grin. "Morning. You Pitt?"
"That's right."
"Climb in."
Pitt climbed in, secured the door and sat in the copilot's seat. "This is a VTOL, isn't it?"
"Yeah," the pilot replied. "Vertical takeoff and landing, made in Italy, Scinletti 440. Nice little flier, finicky at times. But I sing Verdi to it and it's putty in my hands."
"You don't use a helicopter?"
"Too much vibration. Besides, vertical photography works best from a high-speed airplane." He paused.
"By the way, the name's Jack Westler." He didn't offer to shake hands. Instead, he eased the throttles toward their stops, and the Scinletti began to rise.
At about two hundred feet, Pitt twisted in his seat and stared back at the wings as they turned horizontal again. The craft began increasing its forward speed and soon returned to level flight.
"What area would you like to photo-map?" asked Westler.
"The old railroad bed along the west bank of the Hudson as far as Albany."
"Not much left."
"You're familiar with it?"
"I've lived in the Hudson River valley all my life. Ever hear of the phantom train?"
"Spare me," Pitt replied in a weary tone.
"Oh . . . okay," Westler dropped the subject. "Where do you want to begin rolling the film?"
"Start at the Magee place." Pitt looked around the rear cabin. It was void of equipment. "Speaking of film, Where is the camera and its operator?"
"You mean cameras, plural. We use two, their lenses set at different angles for a binocular effect.
They're mounted in pods under the fuselage. I operate them from here in the cockpit."
