RED SANDS Now Available as a Kindle eBook!

I'm pleased to announce that an early novel written by Tonya Cook and me, RED SANDS, is now available from Amazon in a new Kindle edition. First published in 1988 and long out of print, RED SANDS was nominated for the World Fantasy award that year (didn't win, alas). This newly digitized edition also features an afterword by me describing the origins of the novel and how it was working with TSR in those early days. In the near future, I hope to make RED SANDS available as an audio book through Audible.

See https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D4Y7G44F/ref=sr_1_1...

The original 1989 cover by Clyde Caldwell.

From ParaScope: Secrets of the Pyramids (1996)

Here's another article from the now defunct online magazine PARASCOPE, once part of America Online's Greenhouse Project. This piece I wrote for Donald Trull's department "Enigma," which dealt with various Fortean and ostensibly paranormal phenomena. Modern comments are in red.

Secrets of the Pyramids

by Paul B. Thompson
Nebula Editor
[Obsolete email address deleted]

Few monuments of the ancient world exude as much mystery, wonder and romance as the pyramids of Egypt. For centuries after the tongues of the ancient Egyptians were stilled, travelers spoke in awe of the silent mounds of stone that dot the western shore of the Nile. Prior to the decipherment of hieroglyphics in the early nineteenth century, very little authentic information could be had about the pyramids. Much of what the world knew came from sources like the Greek historian Herodotus (5th century BC), who described the pyramids of Giza as the tombs of the Pharaohs Cheops, Chephren, and Mycerinus. [These were Greek forms of the Egyptian Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure.]

He was right as far as that went, but other details Herodotus certainly got wrong -- that the pyramids were built using wooden cranes, that Cheops' daughter prostituted herself in order to obtain stone for her own pyramid (one block per customer... ), or that a subterranean canal conducted water from the Nile to the Great Pyramid, creating an underground island on which Cheops was buried, etc. These tales, like those heard today at any tourist trap, were likely made up to impress travelers by sharp local guides eager for baksheesh.

The fact is, today we know a great deal about the pyramids, who built them, and how. Some details remain murky -- understandable after 4,700 years -- but the religious, cultural, and engineering development of the Egyptian pyramid is well understood after two centuries of scientific study.

In the first two dynasties of unified rule, Egypt's royalty were buried under large mud brick structures known as mastabas (Arabic for "bench"). Mastabas were rectangular mounds whose walls sloped slightly inward. As the deceased pharaoh was as divine dead as he had been when living, shrines were built adjoining the mastaba for worship of the dead god-king. This practice would continue after the Egyptians ceased building royal mastabas and began building pyramid tombs; every finished pyramid has an associated funerary temple, which in ancient times was often considered as impressive as the pyramid itself.

By the dawn of the IIIrd Dynasty (circa 2700 BC), Egypt was sufficiently advanced and prosperous to support ever larger building projects. King Zoser, first monarch of the IIIrd Dynasty, decided to show off his wealth and success by constructing for himself the most imposing mastaba yet. He was fortunate to have as his architect Imhotep, one of the first identifiable geniuses of history. Imhotep designed an impressive mastaba for Zoser, but it wasn't grand enough for his royal master. While it was being enlarged, Imhotep had a design breakthrough: he decided to pile other, slightly smaller mastabas atop the original one. Moreover, Zoser's tomb would be wrought in stone, not mud brick. Zoser must have been delighted, for study of his tomb shows it was recast once more with six ascending levels instead of four. The result was the first pyramid in Egypt, known as the Step Pyramid. (The name is purely informational; Zoser's tomb resembles a set of steps.) In its final form the Step Pyramid dwarfed all previous royal tombs, as it was 140 meters long, 118 meters wide, and sixty meters high. An elaborate walled enclosure encompassed the pyramid and mortuary temple into a sacred precinct where Zoser could be revered for all time.

Is the pyramid shape significant, other than as the inspiration of architect Imhotep? Whatever their advances, the Egyptians were limited in what they could build, both by the materials they possessed and the technology they understood. They did not know how to build domes or arches, as the Greeks and Romans used later in their monuments. The pyramid is a simple geometric solid, the only shape other than rectangles the Egyptians could build with the materials and methods they knew.

On the other hand, the pyramid did acquire religious significance. The royal cult was closely linked to worship of the sun god Re. A hieroglyph developed at the dawn of Egyptian history depicts the sun as a phoenix perched atop a pyramid-shaped object called a benben. This benben has been taken to represent the sun's rays spreading to the earth, so a definite symbolic link can be found between the solar cult and the tombs of the pharaohs, the sun god's son on earth.

Considerable speculation has been made about how the Egyptians built their pyramids, from Herodotus's tales of cranes to modern claims of extraterrestrial aid or occult levitation. While interesting, these paranormal theories are unnecessary to explain the pyramids' construction. When we examine the existing pyramids, from Zoser's down to the last royal pyramid tombs of Dynasty XIII (nearly 1,000 years apart), we see different plans, different types of construction, and different materials used. But the pyramids of Dynasties III and IV -- the greatest ones of all -- were built of stone blocks. How did the Egyptians raise all those heavy stones to the heights of the pyramid's peak? What motive force did they use?

As it turns out, they used the simplest methods available: ramps and the muscles of many men. How do we know this? The Egyptians themselves left us the evidence.

Following the reign of the mighty Pharaoh Zoser came an ephemeral king named Sekhem-khet. Like his predecessor, Sekhem-khet resolved to erect a great step pyramid for himself at Saqqara. Unfortunately, Sekhem-khet's reign was brief (six years), and his pyramid wasn't finished. The site was abandoned and gradually covered by the desert. It was not until 1951 that archeologist Mohammed Zakaria Ghoneim found Sekhem-khet's "lost" pyramid. As Ghoneim cleared the site he discovered, to his delight, that long ramps of packed earth and rock were still in place along the sides of the unfinished tomb! Here, as plain as could be, was at least one version of how the Egyptians built their pyramids.

To move the stone blocks into place, the Egyptians used neither wheels nor draft animals, but sledges hauled by men. In some tomb paintings there are scenes of oxen drawing blocks from a quarry, but animals weren't precise enough to use on the pyramid itself. Fewer than a dozen men could manhandle a pyramid building block into place; this can be deduced from a famous scene from the tomb of XIIth Dynasty noble Dhutihotep, in which 172 men drag a colossal statue, many times larger than any pyramid block. The essential ingredient to building a pyramid therefore was steady, dedicated labor and a high degree of social planning. And money -- lots of money, in the form of food and shelter for the pyramid workers. [The pyramid workers were not oppressed slaves, but hired laborers who worked on monuments during the flood season, when their fields were inundated. A few were professional builders--pyramids were their life.]

From the tomb of Dhutihotep: how to move a 

colossus

As the Egyptians had their successes, so did they have their failures. Sekhem-khet's successor, Kha-ba, is believed to have built the so-called "Layer" pyramid at Zawiet el Aryan. Here the Egyptians tried a different form of construction, layering vertical piles of stone into a step pyramid shape. It didn't work, and the Layer pyramid today is a low mound of rubble, whereas Zoser's step pyramid still stands at Saqqara.

The Layer Pyramid; the Pyramid of Meydum

The last king of Zoser's line, Hu, began his tomb as another step pyramid. Apparently Hu died prematurely, for his pyramid at Meydum was finished by his successor, Snefru. Snefru was not of Hu's line, and is considered the founder of the IVth Dynasty, the greatest pyramid builders of all time. Snefru must have had a visionary architect of his own, because Hu's pyramid was finished not with stepped sides, but as a smooth solid, the first true pyramid. Hu's tomb at Meydum no longer looks like a classic pyramid, however. The lower courses have fallen away, revealing the core "steps." Hu's pyramid now resembles a square tower.

One claim often made by theorists who believe the Great Pyramid at Giza has powers and attributes beyond the mundane is that the angle of the pyramid's sides is of special mystical significance. Khufu, son of Snefru, built the Great Pyramid with sides angling up at 51 degrees, 52 minutes. Yet there is no standardization of slope angle among the other pyramids. If the angle of the Great Pyramid were of such cosmic significance, the Egyptians surely would have repeated it in subsequent pyramids -- but they didn't. Virtually every shade of angle from as shallow as 43 degrees to as steep as 65 degrees occurs on pyramids other than Khufu's.

We can even see evidence of miscalculation by the ancient architects as they attempted to build beyond their skills. Snefru's first pyramid at Dahshur, known as the "Bent" pyramid, has a compound angle because the builders changed it halfway through the job. The original angle was 54 degrees, 31 minutes had to be lessened to 43 degrees, 21 minutes when the architects realized the weight of the upper part of the building would crush the burial chamber of Snefru inside. Oops!

The Bent Pyramid

Another common objection voiced by those who don't believe the Giza pyramids were tombs is that their interiors are so plain and undecorated, with simple stone tubs instead of elaborate sarcophagi. In fact, before the VIth Dynasty (2340 BC) tombs were not heavily carved or decorated. The common vision of sumptuous funerary equipment stems from the treasures found in New Kingdom tombs, like Pharaoh Tutankhamen's. Fourteen hundred years separates Khufu from Tutankhamen, the same distance between Queen Elizabeth II and Emperor Justinian of Byzantium. Customs evolve, art changes, and economies shrink and grow considerably in fourteen centuries.

It's easy to observe a modern economic phenomenon at work in the history of pyramid building: inflation. Through the last of the Giza pyramids (that of Pharaoh Menkaure), the use of solid stone blocks in the substructure persisted. As the IVth Dynasty faded into the Vth, not even the god-kings of the Nile could afford to build so hugely in costly stone. Even long-lived, powerful pharaohs like Dedkare Isesi (Vth), Teti (VIth), and Merenre (VIth) had to settle for tombs made of stone shells filled with rock, rubble and sand. These hard-shell pyramids might have looked impressive when new, but once the fine stone casing broke, the pyramids collapsed like a broken hourglass. The burial chambers, cut into bedrock below the pyramids, survived. On the walls of VIth Dynasty tombs we first find the famous Pyramid Texts, poetic religious texts intended as guide and comfort to the soul of the dead monarch.

The "pyramid" of Merenre

Egypt fell into anarchy after the VIth Dynasty, and few had the power to build even shoddy pyramids. When Theban princes reunified the country under dynasties XI and XII (circa 2134 BC), pyramids tombs were built again.

The XIIth Dynasty pharaohs applied new techniques to pyramid construction. They could not afford solid stone monuments like Khufu's (inflation again), but they saw the ruin that could come to the hard-shell tombs of the VIth Dynasty. Their solution was to build stone or brick "skeletons" inside the pyramid to brace up the exterior casing. The spaces between the ribs were filled with mud brick -- cheap, but more stable than sand and rubble. The internal arrangements of XIIth Dynasty pyramids became more elaborate, and for sinister reasons. The mighty pyramids of previous eras had been plundered during the days of lawlessness. To protect the home of their eternal Ka, XIIth Dynasty pharaohs built tombs of a complexity to delight the fictional Indiana Jones -- false passages, trap doors, hidden chambers -- but no man-traps! The tomb of Amenemhet III at Hawara is the prize of this type of pyramid. Amenemhet's burial chamber was hewn from a single block of quartzite, hollowed into a rectangular box with exquisite precision and sunk into the core of the pyramid. A labyrinth of passages hides it, but even Amenemhet III's grave was eventually robbed.

Pyramid of Amenenhet III

This fact ultimately led to the end of pyramid building. No tomb, no matter how splendid, was of any use to the pharaoh if it was plundered and his mummy profaned. In the New Kingdom, monarchs turned to remote rock-cut tombs (like Tutankhamen's) to keep their burial secure. It was to no avail. Robbers, incited by the enormous treasure available, found every pharaoh but Tutankhamen, and stripped them of their riches.

Questions remain about the ownership of some pyramids. Money for research is the biggest single impediment to finding any answers.

The pyramids are still wonders, but there is no need to mystify them. Scientific Egyptology has found many answers to their mysteries, and not once has there been a need to involve aliens, Atlanteans, or any supernatural agency. The genius of the ancient Egyptians is manifest. Why should we deny them the treasures of their art and intellect?

(c) Copyright 1996 ParaScope, Inc.

FIANCHETTO: Sin Conductor

Earlier in the novel Victor agrees to an interview by a famous online personality, Karasu Nohane. In an era where most actors, hosts, and reporters are AI generated talking heads, Karasu is unusual in being a real person. She's unusual in other ways, as Victor discovers.

Some notes: "vee-vee" is 2065 slang for all visual media, a combination of movie and TV. Your/World is the global audio-visual system, comprising all phone, internet, film, television, and publishing.

 

            Victor was met at LAX by a large, bearish fellow wearing a plaid 'Canada' T-shirt. He carried one of those Nixie tube signs that read V/LEVENTON. Victor approached with his single overnight bag.

            "Cuervo Refugio?" he asked.

            The big guy snatched the bag out of Victor's hand. For a moment he thought this was some heavy-handed robbery, but Canada guy flashed an ID card with Karasu's crow logo on it. His name was Charlie-something.

            "This way," he said. His voice was as bearish as his physique.

            Ranks of self-driving cabs awaited at the curb outside the terminal. Canada waved his PDL at them. One lit up and whirred over to them. Victor was startled to see the label SIN CONDUCTOR in peeling yellow letters on the side of the cab.

            He pointed, puzzled. Charlie said, "Means 'driverless' in Spanish." They got in.

            The cab was a little more than a metal box on four wheels. Two rows of hard, flat seats filled the interior, room for four passengers. The controls up front were mounted in a painted steel housing, looking like an armored safe. The rear of the housing bore numerous scuffs and dents.

            Mr. Canada fell heavily into the left-hand front seat. Victor sat behind, on the right rear bench. The guy from Cuervo Refugio promptly kicked the taxi's console with the knobby sole of one of his black combat boots. The door closed with authority and the taxi lurched away from the curb. Victor hadn't even buckled his seat belt yet.

            With neck-snapping acceleration, the cab injected itself into the artery of traffic passing the airport. Contrary to endless Your/World ads about the smoothness and safety of driverless cars, the Sin Conductor surged forward, braked hard, and changed lanes often while surfing the wave of traffic. The electric powered box darted in and out, playing chicken with enormous land trains, buses, and other anonymous wheeled boxes. Charlie tried to point out landmarks as they whirled past. Victor saw downtown highrises and the Hollywood sign, now in permanent holographic form since the famous metal emblem was lost in the Big Shake of 2046.

            Cuervo Refugio was on the northern edge Hollywood. Every town in southern California seemed to flow into the next, creating an endless stream of strip malls, low rise office complexes, and pastel stucco apartment blocks.

            The taxi hurtled off the highway onto a side street. Here the buildings were plainly older, going as far back as the 1970s. The Sin Conductor slowed as they passed a three-story brick and structure topped with sign projectors touting Your/World channels like Mi Vida Sexy and
Phật Và Cơ Thể Của Bạn.

            "Cuervo Refugio, third floor," Charlie remarked. "We'll be back here tomorrow morning."

            The cab hummed down the side street to a nearby micro hotel, The Hutch. Victor saw the video sign and said, "Isn't a hutch where rabbits live?"

            "If you say so, man. Beats hell out of me.”

            He checked Victor in, and carried his bag upstairs. Charlie left him a nano dot with codes and a link list so he could get it touch with the studio if needed.

            "When do I meet Ms. Karasu?"

            "Tomorrow, at the studio," Charlie said. Then he left.

            The room was standard micro size, twenty-eight square meters. Victor had stayed in a place like this when he went to India to play NAAG. The half blank inside wall was a Your/World screen. A Kumo utility PDL was fixed to the coffee table. Victor tapped it, then continued exploring. It took about twenty seconds to tour the whole place. The king size bed was hinged to the baseboard and folded into a recess. The bathroom fixtures were nestled so closely together he could stand in the shower and easily piss in the pot--or the sink.

            The wall was beaming cheerful scenery and upbeat music at him when he returned to the main room.

            "Welcome to The Hutch! We hope you enjoy your stay! For room service, ask for 'Room Service.' For the latest Your/World programs and films, ask for 'Your/World.'"

            Most of the people who stayed here must be idiots, he decided. Victor muted the wall and took out his personal PDL.

            He input her address. She didn't answer. He switched to text mode and typed In L.A. Where are you? The text flashed off into Your/World's infinite stream of noise and chatter, forever lost. He waited a while for an answer. None came.

#

            Victor awoke at sunrise as he often did. Ever since he was a child, he relished the solitude of dawn. It was his personal time in the world. In college, when most guys his age turned into night crawlers, Victor was often in bed by eleven PM in order to greet the sun.

            He went to the window and threw back the lightproof curtains. The view faced north, and the horizon there was still deep gray with night. The earth rotates at approximately 1,600 kilometers an hour, so as Victor stood there, he was hurtling through space too. He calculated it. Every minute was another 26.66 kilometers, or 444 meters per second.

            A delivery van, marked 'Sin Conductor' on its roof, turned onto the access road behind The Hutch. It glided up to a loading dock and disgorged four pallets of--what? Food for the kitchen? New carpet for the foyer? From the second floor the containers were just big tan boxes.

            "Your/World on," he said. Behind him the wall burst into operation. He muted the sound. It was a chirpy local morning show in Spanish. Farmers in the valley were tenderly harvesting hydroponic strawberries.

            "Your/World Secret Door."

            This was his porn portal. A hundred thumbnails popped up, though at this scale each thumbnail was the size of a dinner plate. Turning away from the window he scanned the images. There were new vee-vees by some of his favorites, but this morning they meant nothing, felt like nothing.

            "Your/World Games, chess."

            Overnight video stream from a match for International Masters in Perth. Two grandmasters, one South African, one Finnish, were giving commentary in an inset window. Victor closed the commentary. The players were too slow.

            "Playback 2X."

            The images moved at two times speed. The match ended after fifty-nine moves. The others dragged on.

            "Playback 4X."

            Table after table concluded in a blur of hands and moving chess pieces. The day's matches ended in less than five minutes at this speed. The last game, between an elderly Australian and a young Ukrainian went on the longest.

            "Replay. 6X."

            Now the separate inset frame of video strobed so fast it was hard to detect individual movements. The entire game went by in eighty seconds.

            "Give me tight view, table 11." That was where the Ukrainian was playing. The caption below read KURLENKO, Y. His Australian opponent was BATTERLSEY, B.

            "Play table 11, 6X."

            There it was. He caught a glimpse of it at 4X, but at six times speed the crux of the game stood out like the bullet impact in the Zapruder film. That's where Kurlenko killed Battersley, at that fragment of time and play.

            "Playback stop."

            In his mind Victor played out hundreds of variations of how the game could have gone from that point forward. In the two hundred third branch of possibilities he found how Battersley could have drawn the game.

            "There!" he muttered. "Stupid shit, why didn't you shift that pawn to f6?"

            The door chimed behind him. In his mind Victor ran the game backward. Battersley, playing Black, was holding his own until the twenty-eighth move. Kurlenko slyly pushed a knight to e6. That was the beginning of the end.

            The door chimed. Victor ordered the PDL to open the door.

            It was Charlie. This morning his shirt read "Espaňa." His clothes got around.

            "Mr. Leventon? Time to go."

            Victor was standing before the wall screen in his underwear. He hadn't bathed or dressed. When he inquired "Time?" the screen flashed 8:19. He'd been absorbed in the tournament video almost two hours.

            "Oh hell, give me a minute!" He ran to the tiny puzzle box bathroom and tore back the shower curtain.

            Charlie wandered over to the mini bar. He put two 400 ml Heineken paks in his jacket pockets and cleaned out the packets of smoked almonds. Backing away, he frowned at the chess tournament video, looping over and over again at six times normal speed.

            "Some weird shit," he said. He stopped the playback. Closing the chess screen, he found Secret Door still open behind. Before he could focus on any particular thumbnail, the sound of the shower ceased. Charlie killed the screen.

            Victor emerged, towelling his hair. He dressed rapidly in his charcoal Knyphausen suit. The strobe tie he brought suddenly seemed gawdy and out of place. He asked Charlie what Karasu's other male guests wore.

            "Some wear ties. Some don't."

            He left the strober on the bed. Better to look too informal than reek of geek.

            "Let's roll!"

            Victor grabbed his PDL and shoved it in his coat pocket. Charlie, wearing dirty jeans, lace up b-ball shoes, and his Espaňa shirt, shrugged and held the door for him.

            Saturday mornings at this hour the streets were quiet. Charlie had come in a hand-driven van, and he drove with easy swings of the steering wheel through the empty streets. In short order they arrived at the nondescript office building that held Cuervo Refugio.

            Cuervo's building looked more suited to dentists' offices or realtors, which were exactly the businesses on the floors below Karasu's West Coast studio. Victor knew nothing about Your/World facilities or recording studios. He'd never seen Your/World until he went to college. Since then, his imperfect knowledge came from ancient vee-vees. Mounting the outside staircase, Victor spotted a matte black door with a stylized chrome crow silhouette inset in it.

            Charlie's PDL unlocked the door. He went in, calling out in his back country accent, "Comin' in!"

            A petite black-haired woman appeared, dressed in a test pattern skirt and top. The moiré pattern blinked as she moved.

            "I'm Teresa," she said, extending a slim hand. Victor introduced himself as Charlie thumped past, disappearing down a hallway.

            The outer office resembled a dentist's office too: cubic furniture, small Your/World screens on pivots by each chair. On the wall facing the entrance was a life-size video marker of Karasu Nohane, which slowly alternated with the logo of Kirin Studios. It was a unicorn-like creature with a goaty face and chin beard. Victor knew Kirin as a brand of Japanese beer, but 'chi-rin' was also the name of a one-horned creature from Asian mythology.

            Without being called, Charlie emerged from the back with two demitasse of blistering hot coffee. Handing them over, the big guy retreated again.

            "My apologies for interrupting you this morning," Teresa said pleasantly. Blowing on his coffee, Victor asked what she meant. "You were playing chess."

            How did she know? He asked as much.

            She smiled. "Charlie wears a Your/World micro-cam, 24/7. It's the coming thing." Micros were no larger than shirt buttons, and were often disguised that way. Lapel cams were even smaller.

            Victor stared. Everything Charlie saw went out on the network? Even his underwear-clad catharsis?

            "Don't worry, we don't necessarily feed live to Your/World," Teresa said. He noted the important word 'necessarily.' Silently Victor resolved to be more careful.

            A third Cuervo Refugio staffer joined them, Ramón, Karasu's stylist. He and Teresa made casual conversation for a few minutes, then the woman set down her cup and said, "Would you like to see the studio?"

            He followed them down a hall. The actual studio set was an old office layout modified into a large, open space. The ceiling wasn't high, and there was no obvious special lighting. On the ceiling there were four interlaced curving metal tracks whose purpose Victor did not recognize. Along the room's long axis were two mid-century modern swivel chairs. The carpet was dead black. Behind the chairs the converging walls were covered completely by two of the largest Your/World screens Victor had ever seen.

            "You'll sit here," Teresa said, indicating the farther chair. "Karasu-san will sit there. Be sure to look at her when she speaks."

            "Where are the cameras?"

            "They'll be on those tracks above you," Ramón said.

            The long screen came to life. It showed not the blue screen of an empty signal, but settled in as black as the carpet. Faintly lighter vertical bars marched slowly along its length. A hundred point digital clock readout appeared: 09:22:07 PDST 04/24/65. The seconds readout climbed steadily.

             Ramón had Victor sit in his designated chair. He took a white leather case from his coat pocket and snapped it open. Wielding an aerosol tube no bigger than Victor's finger, Ramón spritzed some kind of preparation on his forehead, nose, and cheeks. The stylist stood back and pointed his own PDL at Victor, whose eyes were still shut.

            Four steps away, in the center of the long room, Teresa said, "Get his chin."

            Victor opened his eyes. Twisting in the cup-shaped fiberglass chair, he saw himself projected on the huge screen behind him. At this size he looked like Big Brother in a revival of 1984. Ramón's spray prep had rendered his face smooth and pore-less, except for his chin.

            Ramón turned his face toward him again. "Close your eyes." Victor felt a slight warming sensation below his lips. Teresa pronounced herself satisfied.

            Victor wanted to see what he looked like now, but Ramón shut off his PDL feed and the wall returned to black bands and the clock display. 09:37:41 PDST.

            Charlie came in with three contraptions resting in the crook of his left arm. They resembled jointed rods of black plastic, each tipped with a clear 10 mm bead.

            "What's the setup?"

            Teresa indicated the second, third, and fourth metal tracks in the ceiling. Charlie raised one of the spidery devices, and it clicked into the second track. He did the same at the remaining two metal arcs.

            "Are those the cameras?" asked Victor.

            "Uh-huh.” Teresa used her PDL to test them. Though the hanging rods had no obvious optical device on them, when she tested the first one, a red LED glowed on the tip, and Victor's profile appeared on the wall behind him. She activated each one in turn.

            "Good." She left the camera on Victor's far left on and made some notations on a scripter.

            Their devices chimed in unison. Unconsciously Ramón, Teresa, and Charlie stood up straighter.

            "She's here," said Ramón.

            "How do I address her?" Victor asked. "Ms. Karasu? Karasu-san?"

            "Anything but Nohane," Teresa said.

            There were voices in the outer office. The door had opened. Ramón and Teresa hurried out. Charlie checked some things on his PDL.

            "Is she that scary?" Victor asked quietly.

            "She's the boss."

            "Any advice?"

            He looked up from his device. "Don't be a dick."

            A stir in the outer office presaged Karasu's entrance. Ramón bustled in, hands in motion as he described another project they were working on. Then Karasu Nohane entered.

            She was very tall, as common gossip said. Her glossy black hair was cut chin length and free of any colored highlights. She wore a Cossack smock of mustard-colored silk over ballooning black capris. As was the style, her legs were bare, and she wore pleekays: stick-on leather foot pads. Her legs were smooth and rather pale. From four meters away, aside from her height, Victor saw nothing else unusual about her appearance. He stood and slowly approached.

            Teresa said, "Ma'am, this is Victor Leventon."

            Karasu extended a long hand. "Yes, I recognize him from his videos."

            Lauren Bacall, he mused. A certain contralto, her voice was not as deep as her size led him to imagine. She was at least twenty cm. taller than Victor.

            "It's an honor," he said, shaking her hand. Karasu's nails were enameled blue steel.

            "I am 198 centimeters tall," she said, gazing directly into Victor's eyes. Hers were as black as onyx.

            He didn't how to reply. She laughed lightly. "That's what everyone wants to know the first time they meet me! Not two full meters, as the gossips say. One hundred ninety-eight centimeters! Remember that!"

            She was smiling, but Victor had the distinct impression he had better remember.

            Karasu extended a hand, bidding Victor take his seat. The wall read 09:51:33.

The famous Your/World personality sat opposite him. Teresa discreetly adjusted her chair so that she did not tower too much over her guest. Ramón had his spray out, but he professed the boss didn't need it. Karasu checked herself with the stylist's PDL. Tersely she ordered him to tidy up the backs of her hands and the base of her throat. While this happened, Victor noted the faint tracing of an IR tattoo on her upper left arm. Under white light it was almost invisible. Kata-kana, he thought. Karasu? Crow.

            "Mr. Leventon," she began as Ramón backed out of the cameras' line of sight.

            "You can call me Victor."

            She smiled fleetingly. "It's better I not. Now, Mr. Leventon, when did you start playing chess?"

            Had the interview started? Victor looked left and right. Teresa, Ramón, and Charlie were present, off camera, silent as statues.

            Karasu patted his hand on the arm of his chair.

            "I'm over here, Mr. Leventon." Her face was a friendly mask, but her manner was imperious.

            "I first played chess when I was six."

            "Was that at Fysikós Farm?"

            The name pierced him like a hypodermic. "Yes."

            "What was it like on the farm?"

            He flexed his fingers. "Quiet. We had no Your/World there, not even recorded vee-vees."

            "Sounds lonely and dull."

            "It wasn't so bad. There were other kids to play with--"

            "Play chess with, you mean?"

            He shrugged. "Sometimes."

            "You mother, Frances Clarke, ran the place, didn't she?"

            Where was she going with this? He shifted from star-struck mode to analyzing the possibilities.

            "My mother was one of several people on the council that guided the operation of Fysikós Farm."

            "But she was in charge, wasn't she?"

            He met Karasu's hard jet eyes. "Not as much as she thought."

            Karasu sat back, folding her long hands in her lap.

            "To what do you attribute your remarkable abilities, Mr. Leventon? Was it the deprived atmosphere of Fysikós Farm, or something else?"

            Have you stopped beating your wife?

            "I wouldn't call life at the farm deprived. Insulated, maybe, but it was not a lab for creating chess prodigies--or prodigies of any kind, for that matter."

            "Do you have any contact with people from Fysikós now?"

            That question hung unanswered for a long time. In the background Teresa stirred nervously, hand to her mouth.

            "I haven't been back to the farm since 2048."

            Karasu crossed her legs. Composing herself to look sensitive and concerned, she asked, "Did you attend your mother's funeral?"

            Queen's Gambit.

            Unblinking, he replied, "No. No one could. Her body was lethally contaminated with plutonium. She and the others who died at the Washington Monument are housed in a government nuclear waste facility in Utah."

            The wall read 10:00:00. There was a blare of music from Holst's The Planets, the 'Jupiter' movement.

            "We're recording in five--four--three--" Charlie held up two fingers, then one.

            A masculine recorded voice declared in rapid Japanese, "Karasu Nohane! Now she is here!"

            The wall image behind them hardened into a stylized arrangement of Staunton chess pieces. The LED on camera three glittered. Karasu looked directly at the light and spoke in quick, breathy Japanese. Off camera, Ramón held up a scripter for Victor that displayed a translation of what the host was saying.

            Victor read: "Good morning, good day, good night! I am Karasu Nohane. It's an honor to be watched at this time.

            "At this moment I am here with Mr. Victor Leventon, an American engineer who has set the world of chess and artificial intelligence into great turmoil! He has not invented a new chess playing machine, oh no. Mr. Leventon is a chess playing machine! He has beaten several previously invincible AIs in China, India, and Turkey. At this moment, he is poised to challenge the great Russian device ARAKHNA. If he can defeat it, only one thing stands between him and the world chess championship—the awesome Swiss machine FORT!"

            Karasu turned to Victor, dropping into English.

            "Mr. Leventon, it is very interesting to have you here!"

            "Thank you."

            "The world chess championship has been held by artificial intelligences for more than thirty years. Why is that?"

            Gambit accepted.

            Victor crossed his legs and folded his hands in exact imitation of his host. "They play better than most people."

            "Is that the only reason?"

            "Of course. Beginning in the late twentieth century, computer engineers increased the calculating power of their machine exponentially every few years. By 1997, when former world champion Garry Kasparov lost a game to the IBM computer Deep Blue, the growth of computing power was great enough to challenge the analytic power of any human player."

            "Those old computers were just high-speed adding machines, weren't they? Their power came from brute force computation?"

            "True . . . "

            "Whereas AIs," Karasu went on, leaning forward, "actually think?"

            He leaned forward as well. She noticed this, a thin line appearing on her brow as she tried not to frown.

            "Artificial Intelligences use synaptic architecture that mimics the functions of the human brain. It's not computation, like Deep Blue used sixty years ago. It has more to do with pattern mapping and pattern recognition. Old style computers only knew what they were programmed to know."

            "Is it possible to beat ARAKHNA and FORT?"

            Another long interval of silence. It unnerved Karasu's staff, but not her.

            Victor smiled. "Yes. I wouldn't play, otherwise."

            She put a hand to her chin. "Does one have to be eccentric to be good at chess? Or insane?"

            He mimicked her again. Now the furrow in her brow deepened.

            "The eccentricity of chess masters is exaggerated."

            "Is it? Wilhelm Steinitz thought he could talk to anyone in the world by telephone—even without a line connecting them. He played chess with God, giving himself a pawn handicap to make it more fair. Bobby Fischer saw Communist or Jewish conspiracies behind every reverse in his life. Alexander Alekhine urinated on himself during matches--"

            "He was a Nazi collaborator, too," Victor said. "And Carlos Torre used to run around naked in public and lived on pineapple sundaes. These are old stories. I doubt being an advanced chess player means you're any more eccentric than other champion athletes or celebrities."

            "Sherschansky, the last human to hold the title, was convicted of murder."

            "It was self-defense."

            "He killed his doctor at dinner with a table knife. How was that self-defense?"

            "The doctor had been injecting him with cortisone, with the result that Sherschansky suffered from steroid psychosis."

            "That sounds like malpractice, not attempted murder."

            "A Russian judge agreed with you. I don't."

            She bit her lower lip slightly. So did Victor.

            "What would you have done in Sherschansky's place?"

            "Playing chess, I would have beaten MEFISTO. As for being drugged, I haven't killed anyone yet," he said.

            Karasu relaxed. She seemed pleased by the reaction she had provoked. Signaling a cut, the recording was stopped. Teresa brought her a glass of mineral water. Victor asked for orange juice.

            She did not speak to him during the break. Ramón touched them up with his sprayer. Charlie counted down and the number 4 LED glowed.

            "The American writer Edgar Allan Poe once wrote, in regards to chess, 'What is only complex is mistaken for what is profound.' Do you think that's true, Mr. Leventon?"

            She was all grace again. Victor looked at her steel-colored nails and razor cut hair. Despite the perfection of her look—or maybe because of it—Karasu struck him as totally artificial, as inhuman as any AI.

            "It's a game," he said. "It's also a test."

            "What does it test?"

            He spread his hands. "The power of the players' minds."

            "Bobby Fischer once compared defeating a chess opponent to getting his hands around their neck and throttling them. Do you agree?"

            "No."

            "Another world champion, Magnus Carlsen, once said 'I enjoy it when I see my opponent really suffering.'"

            "Frankly, I don't pay that much attention to my opponent."

            She rested her finely molded chin on the back of one hand. Victor adopted the same pose. This time she didn't betray any annoyance.

            "What's it like for you when you win?"

            "It's very satisfying."

            "Because you've crushed your enemy?"

            "Victory isn't always a violent sensation. Sometimes it’s amusing, even funny. It can also be . . . tender."

            Karasu leaned back as if startled. "An act of love?"

            Victor reclined too. "More like a moment of enlightenment, or the resolution of great tension."

            "A sudden release?" He nodded. "So for you, the feeling of victory is closer to an orgasm than to murder?"

            Slowly: "Depends on the opponent."

            "Not many women make it to the highest ranks of chess mastery. Do you ever feel this tenderness with male opponents?"

            "I haven't played a serious game against a human being in ten years." He forced a smile. "When you're a teenager, all sorts of reactions are possible."

            One etched eyebrow slightly arched, Karasu said, "As you describe it, playing chess sounds rather perverse."

            "I've no experience with perversity, ma'am."

            "None at all?"

            "Practically none."

            Karasu smiled, not showing any teeth at all. "An interesting qualification. Would you care to elaborate?"

            "I came here to talk about chess, not play true confessions."

            "Ah, but they say confession is good for the soul."

            "We can play if you like. You first. Your task seems more complicated than mine."

            With great precision she said, "In what way?"

            "At least I have a soul."

            Teresa silently gasped. Over Karasu's shoulder Victor caught the ghost of a smirk on Charlie's bearded face. Karasu regarded Victor with utter, unblinking ferocity.

            “And I do not?”

            “From where I sit, I can’t tell.”

            “Are you that perceptive?”

            “It doesn’t take a genius to sense a void.”

            Karasu turned to camera 2, which did not cover Victor.

            "There is another exciting angle to this story I am pursuing," Karasu announced. "What is the real secret of the AI FORT’s power? For several months I have been personally researching the Swiss AI and its operation. Soon I will expose its innermost workings!" She looked into the active camera and spoke in Japanese. Ramón's scripter translated for Victor: "Follow Kirin Studios' Karasu Nohane show for more on this exciting topic!"

            Smiling, she said, “And cut." Her smile vanished.

            Karasu stood abruptly. She gave the seated Victor a withering stare from her height, turned and strode from the room. Hands working, Teresa hurried closely on her heels. Ramón closed his spray case with a snap and slowly followed them.

            Charlie shut down the cameras. Still seated, Victor asked, "Did I fuck up? She was baiting me."

            The big guy shook his head. "She does that. Makes good vee-vee. The ones who love Karasu-san will be pissed off at you. The ones that hate her will cheer. We call that a win. But she ain’t happy right now. Nobody mocks her.”

            From his baggy pants pocket Charlie dug out one of the half-paks of Heineken he'd scored from Victor's room at the Hutch. He tore off the cap and held it out to Victor. He popped the top on the second one for himself. It was only 11:00 in the morning, but Victor's mouth was surprisingly dry.

            "You did okay," Charlie said.

            Victor drank, swallowed. "Will it be on tonight?"

            "Ten PM Pacific Daylight Savings Time."

            He didn't see Karasu or her team again. Charlie called a taxi for him. A Sin Conductor arrived to take him back to the Hutch. His flight back to the East Coast was in the cattle car class on a red-eye softjet, fleeing LAX at midnight.

            Victor was surprised when Karasu aired the interview exactly as it went down. He

imagined she'd cut out his impudent posing and remarks, but she didn't. As Charlie said, it made 

good vee-vee.

Fly, Envious Time: Zeppelin flight in 2065

 Another chapter from Book II of "Fianchetto." Victor is off to Switzerland play AI FORT for the unofficial chess championship of the world. I really nerd out here, with dreams and speculation about the future of air travel. My first (only?) blog post of 2022.

Fly, Envious Time

            When Lufthansa revived the long-dormant Zeppelin passenger service to America, they chose not to use the historic airship field at Lakehurst, New Jersey. Ostensibly this was to avoid overflying the dangerous concrete canyons of New York City, but most people believed the airline wanted to avoid any reminder of the 1937 Hindenburg disaster. Whatever the reason, a new, state of the art airship landing field was built at Republic Airport, near Farmingdale on Long Island. The site was amply served by rail and highway, and it kept the giant ships of the new 400 class well away from the city's skyscrapers. Dubbed das Lufthansa-Neue-Welt-Luftschiffhafen, the facility could house and service two LZ-400 class ships at one time, or four 200-class ships like Yves Rossy.

            Victor caught a redeye softjet from Norfolk to New York. He took the high-speed train line to the Luftschiffhafen after landing at LaGuardia airport. The HST line passed directly through the terminal where Victor disembarked. After only a minor delay to transfer his luggage, he was soon hurtling down the line to Farmingdale.

            It was 4:45 AM and still dark. The high-speed train was full, and Victor felt completely out of his element. His fellow passengers were the beautiful, the powerful, and the rich. He spotted two major vee-vee actors, Toronto Your/World Live talking head Alvis McLean, and Mexican football star Marco 'Hurakan' Caminante, and that was just in his car. Teams of security agents filtered back and forth through the length of the train like a shoal of gray-suited sharks. Watching them, Victor wondered how many were on board.

            "Twenty."

            A woman in a smoke-gray leather Ike jacket sank into the seat next to him. Her moiré sunglasses were unmoving in the muted light of the train car. Hints of Caron Poivre arrived with her.

            "Simone!"

            "Hiya."

            She was supposed to join him for the flight to Frankfurt, but he'd had no word from her in over a week, so he didn't know when and where she meant to meet him.

            He said, "You look amazing."

            Normally given to jeans, t-shirts, or military cut clothes, Simone was wearing an Isibis designer fractal dress (he knew this only because she told him). The chromographic effect of the colors running through the cloth was accomplished by dipping normal liquid crystal fabric in an acid solution. When low voltage was applied to the cloth, the rippling color change began, creeping from the positive pole to the negative. He watched the pattern crawl over her.

            "Eyes ahead," she said coolly. "I'm on duty, and you're not a footloose bachelor anymore." Sighing, he agreed.

            "You're looking special yourself," she added. He'd bought three new suits before leaving for New York. He was wearing the dark blue one, Lufthansa blue in fact. "Polished shoes, too."

            "Shh, don't let them know we're faking it." She smiled faintly.

            "Lots of competition on this bus," she said, eyeing the security men and women patrolling the aisles. Theirs was a peculiar dance, trying to be inconspicuous and a potent visual deterrent at the same time.

            "You could handle these guys," he said loyally.

            "I dunno. We've got the RCMP, CISEN, and the Secret Service here this morning. No lightweights."

            He dropped to a whisper. "How do you know who's who?"

            "Little ways. The cut of a suit, brand of shoes. Haircuts." He saw none of this himself, but he trusted her instincts.

            The train flashed down its elevated track at 220 KPH. Beneath, suburbs and older small towns passed in a blur of white clapboards and LED streetlights. Victor noticed a matte green helicopter pacing the train at a discrete distance.

            "Wonder who that's for?"

            Simone consulted the new micro PDL dangling from her wrist by a strand of gold braid. Her usual device was far too un-chic for this trip.

            "According to Your/World Live!, Vice-President Scott-Hill is traveling with us on the Lilienthal."

            "I thought the Air Force flies her where she needs to go?"

            "She's having a conference on board with several west African government ministers before attending a summit in Dakar."

            They were certainly traveling in exalted company. The Zeppelin had a passenger complement of seven hundred, including all the staffers and security agents required. With so many VIPs on board, Victor was confident no one would bother with him.

            The track ran straight as a laser line to the airship field. Ahead, the eastern sky lightened with every kilometer of track the train consumed. They began to see ads alongside the track, thrown into the sky by buried projectors: Cadillac. Hôtels à Patel Étoiles. Yangtze Market. Tesla. Your/World Trends. Ford. Brillianty Yedinoroga. Porsche. Abejas Reales Farma. Sang-eo. Your/World Elegance. Your/World Live!

            In spite of her warning, Victor firmly took hold of Simone's hand, anticipation making his palms sweat and his heart quicken. Behind her sunglasses, she kept her gaze on the way ahead, but she didn't evade his grip.

            The elongated domes of the Zeppelin hangars appeared first as brilliant white eggs overtopping the trees. Searchlights played on them, and they glowed from within as well. The helicopter ghosting the train fell away, prohibited from the airspace around the landing field.

            Victor leaned forward, peering ahead.

            "You're trembling," Simone said, squeezing his hand. "Calm down."

            The first bit of LZ-402 he could see was the Zeppelin's vertical tail fin. According to Your/World Facts, the Otto Lilienthal's tail stood sixty meters high, bottom to top. The entire airship was skinned in Teflarc, another electrochromatic composite like Diafan. The Zeppelin's crew could alter the shade of the ship's envelope at will. In the morning, to warm the helium lifting gas and add to the overall lightness of the ship, the Zeppelin's skin could be clarified to absorb more sunlight. In the heat of the day, level altitude was maintained by mirroring the covering to reflect excess solar heat. The vast upper surface of the Zeppelin also sported photovoltaic panels, generating electricity for the ship's internal DC systems.

            Airships did not fly in the stratosphere like softjets, but below their pressure height, the altitude at which their lifting gas expanded beyond the capacity of the internal gas cells. This height varied according to weather, load, and what gas the airship used. The old LZ-129 Hindenburg often flew just 200 meters off the ground. Lilienthal's technology was far more sophisticated. Using rapid compressors and advanced gas-proof materials, the LZ-402 normally cruised between 1,000 to 1,400 meters, and under the right conditions could comfortably fly even higher. The ship was not pressurized however, and could not safely exceed 3,000 meters.

            Before dawn, the Zeppelin's skin was bright, neutral white. Victor could just make out the Lufthansa crane logo on the distant fin. It was barely legible at this distance, even though the image was ten meters across.

            He slid forward on the seat. The other passengers, famous, wealthy, or beautiful all, gradually fell silent as the enormous craft rushed into view.

            "Holy shit," Simone said under her breath.

            "Do you see it?"

            "How could I not? It's bigger than Philadelphia."

            The 400-class Zeppelins were the largest aircraft ever built, 305 meters from tail cone to nose. There were only two in service, the LZ-401 Hugo Eckener and the Lilienthal. A third was under construction, reportedly to be named Graf Zeppelin.

            Victor unsnapped his seat belt and stood. Simone tugged vainly at him to sit. The train was still under way at over 200 KPH. Talk died all through the car as everyone looked on in awe at their destination.

            The 400 series airships were not cigar-shaped, like the old Hindenburg. Lilienthal was rectangular in cross section, with radiused corners and a tapered nose and tail. The revised shape allowed maximum internal space and made the hull an airfoil section, greatly improving lift and maneuverability.

            Looking like a great whale cast in milky glass, the LZ-402 bulked larger and larger as the train hurtled onward. Air traffic control blimps buzzing around the perimeter of the field were like toys compared to their monster brother. The train decelerated, entering a long, wide curve designed to bring them into the terminal alongside the giant. The vast hangers, even bigger than the airship, were sited to shield the waiting Zeppelin from wind on two sides.

            The horizon began to brighten. Sunrise was not until 5:30. Even so, the Zeppelin's hull changed color from eggshell to bone, to better receive the new day's rays.

            Chimes rang through the train cars.

            "Your attention, please. We will be arriving at the Lufthansa New World Airship Station in three minutes. Deceleration will begin in one minute. Please remain seated with all restraints in place." The message repeated in several languages, then started again in English.

            Victor was mesmerized by the great ship. Simone pulled him down, reaching across and snapping his seat and shoulder belts. Glancing at his entranced face she muttered, "Big boys love big toys."

            She checked her restraints and snugged the straps. The chime sounded rapidly, and the train braked. Everyone was carried forward against the harnesses. Surprised murmurs and nervous laughter all through the car.

            "Did you know the Lilienthal is the first Zeppelin equipped with softjet engines?" Victor said. "That should make it the fastest airship ever."

            "Good, we'll get to Frankfurt in a week instead of a month."

            "Twenty-six hours."

            She gave him a supremely who-gives-a-shit frown. "Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic in thirty-three hours--in 1927."

            "Yeah, but he didn't have Cordon Bleu dining, a spa, or even a bathroom on his plane."

            The high-speed train slowed to little more than 100 KPH. It rushed into a well-lit tunnel faced on both sides by a tiled concourse. The twelve-car train slowed to a walking pace. Some eager passengers were tempted to release their straps and stand, but Simone put an arm across Victor's chest and held him down. In the last twenty-five meters the train slid to a stop with a great hissing of air brakes. Those who had loosened their belts early were thrown forward in the aisles or atop the seats in front of them. No one was hurt, but a lot of dignity was lost. Light laughter and profanity filled the car.

            "You've done this before," Victor remarked.

            "No, I listen to instructions."

            The lights in the car came up and a male voice announced it was safe to undo their seat belts. All around them latches clicked. Perfume and cologne collided as passengers stood and swirled their scents together.

            Playing the gentleman, Victor gestured for Simone to precede him down the aisle. Ahead of them, a Your/World actor of some fame also stood back and also let Simone pass.

            Falling into line behind her, the actor unnecessarily introduced himself. When Simone didn't reciprocate, he said, "What is it you do?"

            "She's my bodyguard," Victor put it.

            The actor eyed the Isibis dress and tailored jacket. "Must pay well."

            "The pay's shit, but I get to shoot people," Simone said without turning around. The actor laughed. He thought it was a joke.

            Two men behind Victor conversed quietly in Mandarin. Somewhere ahead he caught a snatch of, was it Portuguese? A New York Transit Authority guide in a crisp navy blue uniform, cap, and white gloves no less, gestured for everyone to exit right. Victor wondered if NYTA employees wore white gloves at any other station.

            He stepped down onto the wide, airy concourse. Though it was August, the indoor landing was cool, even breezy. Vast convection fans kept the air moving. Simone pulled the collar of her jacket close around her throat.

            "To Customs," Victor said.

            They strolled briskly down the walkway. As they walked, Victor noticed the murals lining the concourse. Each image celebrated some event in the history of aviation. Montgolfier balloons. Sir George Cayley's ornithopter. Alberto Santos-Dumont's box kite airplane. When he saw one particular painting he stopped.

            Simone doubled back to him. "What is it?"

            He pointed. "Otto Lilienthal."

            "The guy they named the blimp after?"

            He glared. Her microscopic smile came and went.

            The painting showed an intense, middle-aged, bearded man standing on a high, conical hill with a pair of cloth and willow wings around his waist.

            "Is that him?"

            "Yep."

            "He invented the hang glider?"

            "Yeah, in 1891. He was killed five years later flying one." Simone wasn't much interested but thinking about Lilienthal's untimely death gave Victor pause.

            "While he was dying of a broken neck, Lilienthal said, 'Opfer müssen gebracht warden.'" Sacrifices must be made.

            "The trick is to sacrifice the other fellow," she replied, "and not yourself."

            They reached a moving walkway. Unlike the usual jointed metal path--a flattened escalator--this walk resembled a polished, pale gray slab of marble. It moved. Victor wasn't sure how it worked. An elderly executive in a Your/World blazer was declaiming loudly to his colleagues why the pedestrian belt ought to be called a 'slidewalk.' Simone brushed by them and got on. Watching the seemingly rigid sheet roll by always made Victor uncertain. It looked too slippery to stand on, though others were managing just fine.

            "Get on!" Simone called. Haltingly, Victor hopped on. He moved smoothly away alongside Simone. How the hell did this thing work?

            "Rube," she chided.

            The slidewalk mystery faded away when concourse opened out into a terminal of cathedralesque proportions. It was part Buck Rogers, part Art Deco cathedral. The roof soared nine, maybe ten stories high, ribbed in cast ceramic and braced with spidery stainless steel buttresses. Through the high, vaulted glass ceiling they could see the Zeppelin floating, held fast to the earth by kilometers of white cable. 

            The inner wall of the terminal was lined with cafes, chic storefronts, and Your/World salons. All vibrated with activity even at this early hour. Dead center in the great hall was the enormous two-story circular Lufthansa operations desk. As the Zeppelin was taking off in less than two hours, they went straight to Customs & Security.

            Just outside the entrance to C&S, Simone told him to wait. She would go through first, alone. He asked why.

            "There are certain things I have to cover with C&S that you don't need to be involved with."

            Puzzled, Victor checked his PDL. His ticket code gave his berth as B Deck Achtern 23, which meant B deck, after half of the ship, berth 23. He asked Simone where her room was.

            "Better you don't know," she said. Victor said she was welcome to stay with him. She demurred.

            "Too close is too far," she remarked. He protested he would behave. "I need room to maneuver . . . s'all right. Don't worry. They've probably put me in the cargo hold."

            She made him stand in place as she went inside. Other passengers flowed around him. He counted to sixty and went in.

            U.S. Customs and TSA agents had his luggage already, duly delivered from LaGuardia by driverless truck. One agent went over his three bags with a handheld scanner while the other held a scripter. An armed, uniformed guard stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back. The agent with the scripter read questions to Victor.

            "Where are you bound?"

            "Switzerland, by way of Frankfurt."

            "Where in Switzerland?"

            "Schaffhausen."

            She showed him the screen of her scripter. "Do you have any of these prohibited items?"

            Victor glanced quickly over the list. Li-Li batteries? Volatile liquids or aerosols? Foodstuffs that required refrigeration? What year did they think this was, 2030?

            "None," he said. She made notations on the screen with stylii clipped to her fingertips. Watching her multi-finger scratching made an itch grow in the middle of Victor's back.

            They scanned his Sang-eo for banned or region-specific apps, and for malware. Satisfied it was clean, they passed him on. The guard opened the door for him.

            "Enjoy your flight, sir," he said, the first words he'd spoken.

            Outside, Victor passed through a triple ring of metal hoops made to look like part of the retro-future decor, but he knew they were induction coils designed to scan his body for dangerous implants. In 2029 a South African airliner was destroyed by explosives surgically implanted in a terrorist's abdomen. Two years later a Chinese plane was diverted to a rebel-held airfield in central Asia by a navigation jammer embedded in the thigh of a Uighur woman. The three-meter hoops could detect the tiniest amount of metal in his body, so somewhere in this vast building security agents now knew he was wearing seven gold-plated aluminum coat buttons, a zipper, a nickel belt buckle, and carried a titanium-framed eye viewer in his coat pocket.

            Beyond the induction hoops Victor paused to take in the scene. A stream of well-dressed travelers emerged from C&S and rode the slidewalk (funny name, he mused) down the terminal to the boarding gates.  There were three decks in the Lilienthal: A, B, C. Amidships were the public spaces, also on three levels: at the bottom was the restaurant. Above that was the casino, and deepest in the hull, the spa. After dark the restaurant was also home to the cabaret.

            Between the public spaces and the ship's nose were the Vorwärts staterooms.The accommodations toward the tail were the Achtern berths. First class staterooms were on A deck, with exclusive views of the world below. Second class dwelt on B deck, and everyone else had to settle for C deck, buried well inside the hull. No space on Otto Lilienthal was cheap, but C deck was where they put the secretaries, assistants, assorted flunkies, and likely the bodyguards.

            The slidewalk ended at a broad set of tall transparent doors, fourteen panels across. There, shining in the reflected glare of enormous LED searchlights, Otto Lilienthal hovered, half-dream, half-cloud made solid. Victor slowed and stopped before he reached the doors, amazed anew. Around him a good two hundred passengers stood transfixed by the vast machine.

            A uniformed Lufthansa attendant stepped in and took his arm.

            "Your first flight?" he said. He nodded. Smiling, he continued, "The ship does strike people a certain way the first time they see it up close. This way."

            Leading Victor like a child, he guided him to the door. It swung wide, letting in a flood of humid Long Island air. This touch of reality broke the spell, and Victor looked for the ramp to Deck B.

            He fell in with a trio of Malaysian businessmen and a gaggle of men and women in royal blue Your/World blazers. The Your/Worlders, each and every one, were looking at their PDL viewers and not at the awesome craft above them. Victor was staring so hard at the row of A Deck windows above him he trod on the heels of the Your/Worlder in front of him.

            "Sorry," he said. She was a young woman with shoulder length black hair, and heavy bangs cut straight across her forehead. She just smiled at him from behind swirling moiré sunglasses.

            "No problem."

            Limping, she merged into the pack of her colleagues, and for a moment he had a fleeting impression he knew her. Victor tried to get another glimpse of her, but from behind it was hard to pick her out of the pack of identically clad Your/Worlders.

            Service vehicles were clearing out from beneath the ship. Water, sanitation, food service trucks buttoned up and rolled away. Victor wound his way to the foot of the passenger stairs.

            A web of landing lines snaked through sets of heavy clamps anchored in the pavement. Unlike the Yves Rossy, which dropped water ballast and rose statically until its engines kicked in, the far larger Otto Lilienthal relied on its engines and airfoil shape to takeoff dynamically.

            A brass band struck up a tune. Startled, Victor stretched to see who was playing. To his surprise, the United States Marine Corps Band was drawn up on the tarmac beyond the airship. It was traditional for transatlantic Zeppelins to be sent off with band music, and with Vice President Scott-Hill on board, the Marines were there to fill that role. They began by playing John Philip Sousa's "El Capitan."

             LZ-402 had four boarding ramps, two forward of the center spaces and two aft. His PDL code was checked again at the foot of the ramp. Passengers had sorted themselves into neat lines at each boarding station, but he didn't see Simone anywhere.

            "Good luck, Mr. Leventon," said the crewman checking codes at the foot of the ramp. "I hope you win."

            "Oh, thank you. Where do I go?"

            "Your cabin is near the stern end of B Deck." He indicated Victor should go left at the top of the ramp.

            Climbing the steps beneath the giant white airship was like ascending into an inverted iceberg. Victor felt his hair stirred by the ship's carried static charge. At the top of the ramp, he glanced back. A flash of fractal designer fabric crossed below. He fought back an urge to wave and shout her name. Don't be a total rube, farm boy.

            The band struck up "Manhattan Beach."

            The boarding corridor was decorated with more transportation motifs, airliners this time: early Zeppelin passengers ships, the Dornier Do.X, corrugated Junkers trimotors, Farman and Handley-Page biplanes of the 1920s and '30s, the Douglas DC-3. The farther he walked, the more modern the aircraft became. Propellers changed to turbines, and turbines to softjets.

            Other passengers filed in behind him. He came to a pair of side passages, left and right, with steps leading up. As directed, he took the left passage.

            At the top of the landing there was an observation deck, with a wide oval window and seats fixed in place facing it. Victor hurried to find his berth. It was just forward of the ship's starboard elevator. His PDL had been loaded with the code to open the door.

            His room wasn't large, about three and half meters by two, but compared to a seat on a transatlantic softjet, it was palatial. The ceiling was high and the furnishings first rate--an amply sized twin bed draped with a gray Lufthansa logo coverlet. Luggage was to be stored under the bed. The walls were covered with ribbed, sky-colored cloth. There was a fold-down ceramic wash basin with hot and cold running water, and a pocket door led to the bathroom he would share with the passenger in B-Achtern 21.

            A mildly glowing, dome-shaped wall sconce proved to be a light-well connected to the outside. Victor opened it and clearly heard the Marine Band's rendition of "The Gladiator," also by Sousa. He quickly stowed his belongings and went back out, hoping to experience takeoff from the observation lounge.

            As the last civilian passengers entered the ship, the band struck up "National Emblem" as the nation's youngest ever Vice-President approached. With her were leading ministers of eight west African countries. Waving to well-wishers on the ground and on the Zeppelin, she climbed the forward ramp, followed by the ministers and a sizable contingent of aides and Secret Service agents.

            The ramps were withdrawn to the terminal. A bell chimed--softly--and the PA announced, "Clear and secure all exits! Ship's crew will prepare for departure!" The warning was repeated several times in different languages. Victor felt the ship sink slightly. The tail docking clamp had been released.

            He returned to the B Deck aft starboard observation platform. Other passengers were already there. Airship takeoffs were so easy, so gradual, passengers weren't required to strap in.

            Below, the Marine Band began their final selection, "The Graf Zeppelin March." As they played, auxiliary power cables and other service lines dropped from the ship and were reeled in by robots. Uniformed crew members passed through the ship checking ports, windows, and hatches.

            After the last notes of the march died away, the Marines cleared the field.

            Victor felt a distinct vibration. It wasn't strong, but anything powerful enough to resonate the big ship meant one thing: great motors were revving up. The Lilienthal carried six AEG electric motors, each rated at 3,728 kilowatts. He was still watching the ground crew disperse when a man nearby cried, "Look at that!"

            A huge five-bladed propeller, mounted on a pivoting strut the size of a windmill, swung slowly down behind the observation platform. Long titanium-carbon fiber blades unfolded from the hub like the petals of an enormous flower. When they were fully open, they began to turn.

            Victor and his fellow travelers watched, open-mouthed. Each blade was longer than a light plane's wing. The propeller completed one revolution, then another, picking up speed until it blurred into invisibility. At zero pitch the blades were not yet gripping the air. Remarkably quiet for such a huge device, it nevertheless filled the observation platform with a deep, rumbling thrum.

            The nose of the Zeppelin was anchored to a gantry athwart parallel railroad tracks. With the propellers turning, the gantry began to crawl away from the terminal, swinging the nose of the Lilienthal free of the hangar. The sense of movement was so exhilarating Victor pressed his face against the convex observation window, anxious to see everything.

            The Zeppelin's nose swung through ninety degrees. The terminal, hangars, and other buildings disappeared behind them. Above was open sky, dotted with a few puffs of cloud.

            The propeller's pitch changed, biting the air. Victor felt the massive craft strain forward against the landing lines. For a moment the Zeppelin hung there, mooring lines taut, waiting for the last order to leave the earth.

            The chime rang three ascending notes, which according to helpful scripters on the walls meant Up Ship! Some of the passengers dropped into chairs, gripping the arms as if they expected the Zeppelin to hurtle skyward. There was a chorus of loud metallic clangs as the docking clamps released. Lilienthal sank some centimeters, then water ballast was dumped. A torrent splashed on the tarmac along the length of the ship. Engines revved up, and the Zeppelin's nose lifted skyward. LZ-402 rose smoothly into the air.

            To Victor, the sensation was like riding a fast, smooth elevator. He felt the deck rise under his feet as the Lilienthal gained height. The propeller visible from the observation deck surged as more power was applied.

            "I thought the ship had jet engines?" a middle-aged man asked. He was holding the arms of his chair tightly.

            "They do, in four pods. They won't start them until we reach cruising altitude," Victor replied. "To save fuel."

            As Otto Lilienthal rose with effortless grace into the summer sky, Victor heard an unusual sound penetrating through the ship. It took him a second to recognize it: cheering, and applause. It spread to his fellow travelers around him, and he found himself grinning and shaking hands with total strangers.