Spring-heeled Jack and the President's Ring

Chapter 5 ~ Magnetron Flies Non-Stop

"I was horrified and demanded an explanation from Dr. Hogalum, whereupon he deflected my recriminations with his customary barrage of droll witticisms and unfathomable obfuscations."

What a magnificent vehicle was our Luftigel!  The unusual name?  Another enduring legacy of Dr. Hogalum, who had christened her so in a typical instance of his perverse sense of humor.  I was mostly unfamiliar with the German language, but I was aware that "luft" meant "air."  I had assumed that "igel" meant "eagle", as the two are rough homophones, but many months later Cerebelli had remarked that "adler" was German for "eagle," and that "igel" translated in some dialect or another to "hedgehog," rendering the resulting German concatenation closer to "Hedgehog of the Air."  Cerebelli had been amused, but I was horrified and demanded an explanation from Dr. Hogalum, whereupon he deflected my recriminations with his customary barrage of droll witticisms and unfathomable obfuscations.  He maintained that the craft resembled a hedgehog defending her children, and that he was quite fond of hedgehogs, and so forth.  In the final analysis, the name had become immutably affixed and no alternative was ever considered.

Once at a cruising altitude, the "Hedgehog of the Air" required little attention save for occasional course corrections.  On this occasion, the Hogalum Society members were engaged in their customary jocularity and amusement aboard the rigid airship, but I was feeling rather reflective and took to observing their antics rather than joining them.

Pierce Coburn, the newest member, was a bluff Australian chap.  He laughed heartily, continuously, uproariously, especially when others might take offense at laughter.  He was a large and muscular man, nearly as tall as Anders and quite possibly stronger.  His African lineage was evidenced by a magnificent carob-colored complexion and curly black hair which he kept quite short.  A large handlebar moustache complemented his sinewy facial features and his signature Western apparel which was further enhanced by a large and elaborately tooled leather gun holster.

Coburn amused the group with his inexhaustible repertoire of ribald jokes, exploding with hilarity at the delivery of each well-practiced punch-line.  With each outburst of booming laughter, Coburn's pet budgie Bunyip screeched approbations from his perch atop Coburn's left shoulder.

Atticus Satyros, an American of Greek descent, was the acknowledged showman of these gatherings.  A clever raconteur and deft magician, he was never at a loss for the canny quip or the uncanny prestidigitation.  His twinkling eyes juxtaposed uneasily with a perpetual smirk, and he persisted in wearing outlandishly long hair, often secured into a ponytail.  Jaunty hats, audacious capes, paisley vests, and other affectations typified his striking wardrobe, and one always wondered at the rabbits, smokescreen charges and other magical accouterments concealed within.

Satyros snatched playing cards from thin air with the snap of his fingers, another snap dispatching them to immateriality once again.  Over and over, cards appeared and reappeared as Satyros spun a patter about his own profligate spending habits.  The others roared with laughter.

I had never met François Boileau, our host, and my curiosity was nearing the point of detonation.  When I observed Valkusian's attention drifting from Satyros's performance, I sat next to him and posed a series of pointed questions.  Valkusian, who knew Boileau well, answered each question with an air of reticence which whetted my appetite for information to voracious insatiability.  Finally, Valkusian—who had always presented a rather sober visage—became extraordinarily stony and withdrawn.

His gaze fell upon the chair upon which Dr. Hogalum would ordinarily have sat, and he spoke to that chair, his speech halting, unsteady.  "Monsieur Boileau has commissioned us to find a stolen item."

"Are we private detectives, now, dashing around the globe to find Boileau's misplaced handkerchiefs?" 

Valkusian shook his head.  "Our 'client' is not François Boileau.  It is President Ulysses S. Grant."