Mr. William Randolph Hearst certainly knew how to host a banquet.
His dining room looked like the great hall of a medieval castle, with tapestries on the walls and saints carved into the ceiling. The chandeliers were sixteenth-century Italian, but flickered with tiny electrikal flames, and the marble fireplace was large enough for Alek to walk into without stooping. It was all quite garish and a bit of a muddle, as if Hearst’s decorators had gone plundering across Europe, heedless of cost and tradition.
The dinner itself, however, was impeccable. Lobster Vanderbildt, roasted partridges with salade d’Alger, grouse chaud-froid, and for dessert succès de glace in the style of the Grand Hotel. It was, in fact, the first proper meal Alek had eaten since stealing away from home. Bovril had sampled every course, and was now curled up asleep on the high back of Alek’s chair, though the creature’s ears still twitched now and then.
Though Alek had always hated formal dinners with his parents, this was altogether different. As a child he hadn’t been allowed to utter a word once the conversation turned to politics, but now he was an indispensable part of the discussion. At a table that held thirty people, Alek had been seated at Mr. Hearst’s right hand. Tesla sat to the host’s left, with the captain beside him and the other officers of the Leviathan trailing off into the distance. Dr. Barlow sat unhappily at the far end of the table with the other ladies, one a newspaper reporter, the rest moving-picture actresses. Alek had been introduced to them before dinner with cameras looking on, the actresses smiling at the whirring machines like old friends. Deryn, of course, a common crewman, wasn’t here at all.
As the meal wound down, Mr. Hearst was giving his views on the war. “Wilson, of course, will side with his British friends. He won’t protest the Royal Navy blockading Germany. But he’ll scream bloody murder if German submarines do the same to Britain!”
Alek nodded. President Wilson was from the South, he recalled, and a Darwinist by upbringing.
“But he claims to want peace,” Count Volger said. He was seated across from the Leviathan’s first officer, close enough to join in. “Do you believe him?”
“Oh, certainly, Count. The only decent thing about the man is that he wants peace!” Hearst stabbed at his dessert with a spoon. “Imagine if that cowboy Roosevelt had been elected. Our boys would be over there already!”
Alek glanced at Captain Hobbes, who was smiling and nodding politely. The British would no doubt welcome the Americans fighting at their side, if they could arrange it somehow.
“This war will draw in the whole world sooner or later,” Mr. Tesla said gravely. “That’s why we must end it now.”
“Exactly!” Hearst clapped him on the back, and the inventor grimaced, but his host didn’t seem to notice. “My cameras and newspapers will be following you every step of the way. By the time you get to New York, both sides will have had fair warning that it’s time to stop this madness!”
Alek noticed that Captain Hobbes’s smile froze a little at this talk of “both sides.” Of course, Mr. Tesla’s weapon could be used against London just as easily as against Berlin or Vienna. Alek wondered if the British had plans for making sure that didn’t happen.
“I have faith that the world will find my discovery hopeful,” Mr. Tesla said simply. “And not a cause for fear.”
“I am certain that we Darwinists will,” Captain Hobbes said, and raised his glass. “To peace.”
“To peace!” Volger said, and Alek quickly joined him.
The toast went round the table, and as the waiters stepped forward to pour the gentlemen more brandy, Bovril murmured the words in its sleep. But Alek wondered if any of the American guests were truly worried about a war thousands of miles away.
“So let’s get down to brass tacks, Captain,” Mr. Hearst said. “Where will you be stopping on the way to New York? I have papers in Denver and Wichita. Or will you just hit the big cities like Chicago?”
“Ah,” the captain said, setting his glass carefully down on the table. “We won’t be stopping at any of those places, I’m afraid. We aren’t allowed.”
“The Leviathan is a warship of a belligerent power,” Alek explained. “It can stay in a neutral port for only twenty-four hours. We can’t simply fly across your country, stopping wherever we take a fancy to.”
“But what’s the point of a publicity tour if you don’t stop to make appearances!” Hearst cried.
“That is a question I’m not qualified to answer,” Captain Hobbes said. “My orders are simply to get Mr. Tesla to New York.”
Count Volger spoke up. “And how do you intend to do that without crossing America?”
“There are two possibilities,” the captain said. “We had planned to go north—Canada is part of the British Empire, of course. But after the storm pushed us this way, we realized that Mexico might be easier.”
Alek frowned. No one had mentioned this change of plan to him. “Isn’t Mexico neutral as well?”
The captain turned his empty palms up. “Mexico is in the midst of a revolution. As such, they can hardly assert their neutrality.”
“In other words, they can’t stop you,” Tesla said.
“Politics is the art of the possible,” Count Volger said. “But it will be rather warmer, at least.”
“A brilliant idea!” Mr. Hearst waved at a servant, who scurried over to light his cigar. “Flying across a wartorn country on a journey for peace is a cracking good story!”
Everyone stared at Mr. Hearst, and Alek hoped the man was joking. During the Ottoman revolt Alek and Deryn had lost their friend Zaven, one among thousands killed. And from what Alek understood, the Mexican Revolution was a rather bloodier affair.
When the uncomfortable silence stretched a bit, he cleared his throat. “You know, a granduncle of mine was once emperor of Mexico.”
Hearst stared at him. “I thought your granduncle was the emperor of Austria.”
“Yes, a different uncle,” Alek said. “I’m speaking of Ferdinand Maximilian, Franz Joseph’s younger brother. He lasted only three years in Mexico, I’m afraid. Then they shot him.”
“Maybe you could fly over his grave,” Hearst said, blowing on the tip of his cigar. “Toss some flowers down or something.”
“Ah, yes, perhaps.” Alek tried not to show his astonishment, wondering again if the man were joking.
“The emperor’s body was returned to Austria,” Count Volger said. “It was a more civilized time.”
“There still might be a news angle somewhere.” Hearst turned to the man sitting between Alek and Count Volger. “Make sure to get some shots of His Majesty on Mexican soil.”
“I shall indeed, sir,” said Mr. Francis, who had been introduced to Alek as the head of Hearst’s newsreel company. Along with a young lady reporter and a few camera assistants, he would be coming along to New York on the Leviathan.
“We shall cooperate in any way possible,” Captain Hobbes said, saluting Mr. Francis with his glass.
“Well, enough of politics,” Mr. Hearst said. “It’s time for this evening’s entertainment!”
At this command the waiters swooped in and plucked the last dishes from the table. The electrikal flames in the chandeliers flickered out, and the tapestry on the wall behind Alek slid away, revealing an expanse of silvery white fabric.
“What’s going on?” Alek whispered to Mr. Francis.
“We’re about to see Mr. Hearst’s latest obsession. Possibly one of the best moving pictures ever made.”
“Well, it will certainly be the best I’ve ever seen,” Alek murmured, turning his chair to face the screen. His father had forbidden all such entertainments in their home, and public theaters had of course been out of the question. Alek had to admit he was curious to see what all the fuss was about.
Two men in white coats wheeled a machine into place across the table, pointing it at the screen. It looked rather like the moving-picture cameras that had stalked Alek all day, but with only a single eye in front. As it whirred to life, a flickering beam of light burst from the eye, filling the screen with dark squiggles. Then words materialized. . . .
The Perils of Pauline, said the shuddering white letters, which lingered long enough that a child of five could have read them a dozen times. The logotype of Hearst-Pathé pictures followed, the projector carving its shape into the cigar smoke hanging over the dinner table, like a searchlight lancing through fog.
The actors appeared at last, hopping about madly. It took Alek long minutes to recognize that the actress sitting beside Dr. Barlow was Pauline herself. In person she’d been quite pretty, but the glimmering screen somehow transformed her into a white-faced ghoul, her large eyes bruised with dark makeup.
The moving images reminded Alek of the shadow-puppet shows that he and Deryn had seen in Istanbul. But those crisp black shadows had been elegant and graceful, their outlines sharp. This moving picture was something of a blurry mess, full of muddy grays and uncertain boundaries, too much like the real world for Alek’s taste.
The light show was intriguing the perspicacious lorises, though. Bovril was awake and watching, and the eyes of Dr. Barlow’s beast glowed, unblinking in the darkness.
On-screen the characters kissed, played tennis in absurd striped jackets, and waved their hands at one another. The scenes were punctuated by words explaining the story, which was also something of a mess—blackmail, fatal diseases, and deceitful servants. All quite dreadful, but somehow Pauline herself caught Alek’s fancy. She was a young heiress who would inherit a fortune once she married, but who wanted to see the world and have adventures before settling down.
She was a bit like Deryn, resourceful and fearless, though thanks to her wealth she didn’t have to pretend to be a boy. By odd coincidence her first adventure was an ascent in a hydrogen balloon, and events unfolded just as Deryn had described her first day in the Air Service—a young woman set adrift all alone, with only her wits, some rope, and a few sacks of ballast to save herself.