Misha had just spent too many hours in the hospital, too many more hours in the medical library, and was now altogether weary to the bone.  It was frustrating that with all the advances of science, still the cures for those most common illnesses, injuries...and inherited infirmities were still...just out of reach.  He turned as if by habit to the tiny cafe, to get something to awaken him enough to get home safely.  It was getting late, and Paris was sometimes not the safest place.  He sat down, and heard a familiar voice - Silvain Trudeau, a surgeon from the hospital.  "Misha !  You are looking tired.  I hope you are heading home now."  He sipped his latte and offered up a gentle smile.

The counterman served Misha with coffee with a sour silence that the doctor had learned to expect now, and completely ignored Silvain.  This did not daunt Silvain in the slightest, in fact, few things did.  He had a sunny attitude, which was applied with equal measure to his work with his patients, his quest to learn better surgical technique, and his life.  "It is a good thing I have found you here anyway,"  Silvain said.  "There is something I read about, that may be what you are looking for. It sounds strange but hear me out, if you will.  It seems that a doctor in Bolivia wrote an abstract detailing some folk medicines...and he has made some claims that these witch doctors are able to cure grievous problems...even a cancer of the bone.  I am thinking, that what can cure the bone can cure the marrow that makes the blood, Misha, and that you may have a chance to find what you seek.  I left the papers on my desk to show you, I was hoping to see you at the hospital."

Misha was adding yet more sugar to his cafe au lait as Dr. Trudeau discussed the new research being done in Boliva.  Misha smiled at Silvain's enthusiasm even at this hour... if only Misha could borrow some of that energy he might be able to stay awake long enough to make it back to his apartment.  Still as Silvain began to speak about Misha's personal "great white whale" in the form of a possible cure to blood disorders, Dr. Grigorevich perked up quickly.

Misha turned towards his friendly colleague and said in an interested tone with a touch of fatigue, "That is facinating news Silvain and I do greatly appreciate your efforts on my behalf regarding this issue.  I would be very interested in looking over those papers.  However considering the long shift I just finished, I very much doubt my mental faculties are up to any serious analysis.  I'm just barely keeping my eyes open as it is... walking home is going to be fun.  I just hope the caffine will be enough to let me get home safely.

Still... this word does sound intriguing and you know what a personal interest I have in anything related to blood disorders.  What is the name of this doctor from Boliva who authored the abstract?  Have you ever heard of him before, what field is he reported to be in?  I tell you what, give me a few hours to go home, get some sleep and regain my wits.  Let's say that in about 5 hours or so we meet up again at the hospital in your office?  That way my brain will actually be able to make sense of the material and we can discuss the implications in a logical and rational fashion.  Would that work for you?"

Can it be... has a "miracle cure" really been found out in the wilds of South America?  Hmm... I had best not get my hopes up, this wouldn't be the first time some provincial doctor tried to claim a bit of clout with a wild claim of cure-alls.  Still... it is clear that conventional medicine on the Continent is not making much progress towards the cures I seek... perhaps it is time to broaden my horizons?

Misha peppered his friend with questions, and received Silvain's ready smile.  "You can look at it tomorrow then, when you are ready, Misha.  The doctor is Manuel Corazon-Olivera in Bolivia, and he seemed serious indeed.  Get some rest.  Farewell, my friend."

The tired doctor did manage to make it safely home, though it was perhaps because his feet knew the way better than his head.  Despite the interesting topic, he still found the prospect of sleep to be more so.  Seven hours later, when the sun had snuck through his half-drawn curtains to awaken him, Misha awoke, and headed back to hospital.

He met with some frowns up on the surgical floor, where Silvain shared a tiny office with three other surgeons.  One nurse was openly crying, and the conversation was hushed and sombre.  "Doctor Grigorevich,"  the head surgical nurse, a steady man named Denis, came up to him, his expression sad. "I understand that you were good friends with Doctor Trudeau.  I am sorry to tell you...he was killed in an automobile accident last night, on his way home from hospital."

Which was about two hours -before- Misha had spoken to Silvain.

Misha was shocked, not the least because of the "odd time discrepency".  However Misha was Russian and his hard life since the Great War and the Revolution had prepared him for the depressing turns in life.  He had learned to suppress his feelings and let very little show, so the fact that he allowed himself a heavy sigh showed just how much the news had affected him.

Misha shook his head sadly and said in a solemn tone, "That is indeed tragic news... poor Silvain, this place will be just a touch darker without his bright energetic spirit.  I am truly sorry to hear this... but are they certain about the time?  Who was it that examined the body and set the time of death?

He was just talking to me the other day regarding a new discovery he had been reading about... something about a cure for bone disorders from a doctor down in Boliva.  We were supposed to take a look at the material together today.  Has the hospital staff packed his things away already?  Who was Silvain's... I mean Dr. Trudeau's next of kin?  I don't recall him talking about his family much."

Well this is certainly a nasty twist... talk about a turn for the worst.  But there must be a logical reason for the time difference... perhaps someone was in a rush or the accident caused overly severe damage to the body?  It just sounds as if someone made an error in pronouncing the "time of death"... it happens much more frequently than the medical profession would care to admit.

After all... it is rare that 2 hours give or take would make that much of a difference unless one were dealing with a murder investigation.  Ahh... poor Silvain... I shall miss him.  Yet again I lose another person from my life... what a cruel world this can be at times.

Misha received a gentle look from Denis.  "The car crashed by the Opera-house...near the clock.  They are sure of the time.  The hospital administrator is contacting his family now.  They are in Trois, I think.  No one's touched his office, but if you have some papers in there, I don't think anyone would mind."  It seemed that the conversation that Silvain and Misha had could not have logistically happened.

Silvain's desk was stacked with paperwork, but it was still neatly organized.  A scribble denoted a plain-looking folder - 'tell Misha' and inside was a mimeographed copy of a scientific paper on "Native Cures: Another Examination of Traditional Folk Medicine in the Amazon Basin."  by Dr. Manuel Corazon-Olivera of Bolivia.  A further notation on a scrap of paper was "call Harry Smith", tucked in the back of the folder.

Well that just simply doesn't make any sense... how can I have spoken with someone who was already dead!?  How odd... there just has to be a problem with the recorded time of death.  I mean... it isn't as if I was chatting with a ghost for pity's sake.  Although... now that I think back... it was odd that the snooty waiter completely ignored Silvain.

That isn't the waiter's usual style, I mean with me it is understandable since I am a "dirty, uncouth, barbarian emigre" from the backward motherland of Russia... or the damned "Soviet Union" as it is called now!  But Silvain is.. was.. French and certianly his French lacked the accent present in my own way of speaking.  How strange... on well never mind, I'm still certain there has to be a logical and rational reason behind all of this.

Since there was no one around to bother him and the folder did have his name on it, Misha simply took the folder and its contents to his own office within the hospital.  He began reading through the scientific paper thoroughly, analyzing the data and crosschecking it with his own research into such matters.  After he finished reading the journal article, Misha got the address of Silvain's parents' home and arranged for a small wreath with black roses to be sent to the address along with a card expressing his sincere condolances for their loss.

Later in the day, Misha went to the medical library to look up any other papers or articles which this Dr. Manuel Corazon-Olivera may have either been first author or a contributing author on.  He then went to find Denis and asked him in a curious tone, "Pardon me Denis, but have you ever heard Dr. Trudeau mention the name "Harry Smith" or has he had any callers recently to his office by that name... perhaps a patient?  I ask because I saw a reminder on his desk to call a "Harry Smith" and if the man is a patient, he may be in need of medical care or consultation and of course he should be informed that his primary physician is deceased."

Denis didn't know of anyone named Harry Smith, but suggested that Silvain's address-book might hold more answers.  That would of course be released to his family. Misha had no difficulty in ordering a wreath to be sent.

The paper seemed to detail, in medical terms, nigh-miraculous recoveries from bone cancer in three separate instances, that occurred in the Amazon Basin, both patients that had consulted with Dr. Corazon-Olivera, whose speciality was cancer of the bone and cartilage.  The first patient had gone in search of a cure after Corazon-Olivera had told him that the case was terminal.  The second and third had gone to the Amazon Basin after Corazon-Olivera suggested it.  The final paragraph detailed that the doctor was mounting an expedition to find the witch doctors himself and see if he could learn their secrets.  The paper was received for submission only 6 months ago.

After arranging for the wreath to be sent, Misha went in search of the switchboard operator for the Hospital or at least the operator's supervisor.  He was interested to know if any personal calls had come in for Dr. Trudeau, specifically from a Mr. Harry Smith.  He also went to the front desk to see if any telegrams had been sent or received by Dr. Trudeau to or from South America.  Misha also checked the patient registry for the last week looking for a Harry Smith.

After trying to pin down some lead on Mr. Harry Smith, Misha went to consult with the Hospital's leading oncologist to discuss the views and findings expressed in the paper by Dr. Corazon-Olivera and whether Silvain had contacted the Chief Oncologist in relation to this paper.

Misha went to ask at the hospital switchboard first.  "Oh, the man with the very bad French and the raspy voice.  Yes, I remember putting him through last week, Monsieur Smith.  He called from a very noisy place, trunk line 2.  That is just outside north Paris."

The hospital's oncologist had not been contacted by Silvain, and expressed disdain at the paper of Corazon-Olivera as 'fiddle-faddle', but then he was an old man and rather set in his ways.

While still at with the switchboard operator, before going to the oncologist, Misha asked in an interested tone, "Yes I believe that is the man, probably an American from the sounds of it.  Do you remember which day last week M. Smith called and if he asked for Dr. Trudeau specifically?  Also did M. Smith happen to mention where he was calling from?

Did Dr. Trudeau attempt to return M. Smith's call?  I ask because I am concerned that M. Harry Smith might be a new patient of Dr. Trudeau and as such he needs to be informed about the doctor's unfortunate death.

Also should M. Smith call again for Dr. Trudeau, I would appreciate it if you forwarded the call to my office if that's possible.  I thank you again for all your assistance during this sad time."

After seeing the oncologist, who had been little to no help although that didn't completely surprise Misha, Dr. Grigorevich headed to the nearest telegraph office.  He arranged to have an overseas telegraph sent to the Hospital in Bolivia where Dr. Corazon-Olivera worked.

::: To: Dr. Corazon-Olivera of Bolivia
From: Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich of the Paris Hospital in France

Dear Dr. Corazon-Olivera, I have recently been referred to your paper on bone cancer published roughly 6 months ago.  I am a specialist in blood diseases and inherited disorders and thus I have an indirect interest in bone marrow developments.

The doctor who referred me to your paper was Dr. Silvain Trudeau who also works at the Paris Hospital.  Unfortunately Dr. Trudeau has met with an untimely death and I was not able to converse with him regarding the results presented in your paper.  I was wondering if Dr. Trudeau had contacted you about your findings and if a line of communication had been set up between you.

I would also be interested in hearing any more recent discoveries made since the first paper was published.  Thank you for your time and consideration. :::

Misha spoke to the switchboard operator. "He was not an American,"  the lady reported, with a sniff.  "He sounded like a German,"  and she could put a lot of hostility into that. "He didn't say where he was calling from, but it was very noisy...roaring sounds, swooshing sounds.  I don't know if Dr. Trudeau returned his call, or not."  She agreed to forward the call, if it came, though.

Misha headed to the telegraph office and his jaw dropped at the high cost of sending a long telegram to Bolivia.  Generally the way to use the telegrams was to be terse and concise.  The clerk asked if he would like to amend his telegram to a more, 'ah...thrifty...level."

Misha, being a medical doctor, was not well trained in brevity but he had been forced to learn thrift since the Revolution.  He tried again using the stilted phrases of common cables and waited to hear how much his revised message would cost.

:::To: To: Dr. Corazon-Olivera Bolivia
From: Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich Paris Hospital France

Have read your paper from 6 months ago on bone cancer and native cures.  I specialize in blood diseases and inherited disorders.  Have interest in bone via marrow.  Referred to paper by Dr. Silvain Trudeau of Paris Hospital.  Did Dr. Trudeau contact you?  Would be interested in news of further discoveries since paper.  Please contact me via Paris Hospital.  Thank you for time. :::

[OOC: I'm assuming the revised telegram wording works better and won't bankrupt poor Misha? ;)]

Once the telegram had been sent, Misha returned to the Hospital to check on any patients he was supposed to see or any work that may have come in for him while he was out.  While he was at his desk, he picked up the phone and asked the switchboard operator to put a call through to the Northern Aerodrome located just outside Paris.

Misha was able to walk from the telegraph office with some of his wallet intact.  He headed back to the hospital, to get some work done and to try to telephone the aerodome.

It took a while; he waited while someone went to go look for this Harry Smith, then for someone else to go look for him, but at last, a voice came on the line, speaking a French that was borderline heinous, a voice raspy and rough.  Instantly Misha thought, 'larynx damage'.  "What do you want ?"  the coarse French query was, and indeed, Misha could also sense the crispness of a German accent.

In a calm and serious tone, Misha responded, "Mr. Harry Smith is it not?  My name is Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich and I work at the Paris Hospital.  I am calling you in regards to a fellow medical doctor of mine at the Paris Hospital, Dr. Silvain Trudeau.  I understand that you recently contacted him at the hospital and it is in reference to that call with Dr. Trudeau that I am calling you."

Misha decided that he would hold off on giving too much of the story away on the off chance that Mr. Smith would volunteer info which Misha didn't have yet.  Also he was wary of scaring Harry off by telling him outright from the start that Silvain was dead... just in case the topic of discussion for the earlier call was linked to poor Silvain's death in some way.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:40, Fri 17 Dec 2004.

There was a strangely creaky sound; then Misha realised the man was trying to laugh.  "And what do you have to tell me, Dr. Grigorevich ?  Silvain is dead. I read the papers."

Misha adopts a slightly impatient tone as he responds, "Mr. Smith, this call isn't about what I have to tell you... it is about what you had to tell Dr. Trudeau.  Silvain had confided a few things to me before his untimely demise.  Furthermore when I went to pick up papers he had specificly left for me there was a note which read "Call Harry Smith".

What I want to know is why Dr. Trudeau instructed me to call you and of course I can no longer ask my late friend so I am asking you.  Why did you contact him and what, if anything, did it have to do with certain recent medical discoveries in Boliva and/or how was it related to a certain Dr. Manuel Corazon-Olivera?

Silvain went out of his way to look into this matter because he knew about my interest in such medical issues.  I figure the very least I can do to honor his memory and his efforts on my behalf is to follow up on any leads to the discovery in Boliva or Dr. Corazon-Olivera.  If you had anything to do with this, I ask that you please help me.

On the other hand if your business with Dr. Trudeau was related to some other matter and you were still in need of medical advice or assistance, I would be willing to fill in for Silvain as I'm sure that's what he would want."

There was a long pause on the line, and Misha could hear more roaring and swooshing, and men's voices shouting in an echoey way.  "Silvain asked me if I was going anywhere near Bolivia,"  "Harry Smith" said eventually, apparently unimpressed with Misha's tone or social standing. "Since I owe Silvain, and he had mentioned your name, I will allow the debt to transfer to you, that it shall be repaid.  Plus, it is always wise to have a surgeon around.  In three day's time I will be leaving Paris.  If you wish to go, I will carry you to South America."

Misha got the feeling that whatever Harry Smith might be, he was a man of honour.

Misha replied in a somewhat relieved tone and said, "Herr Smith, I do thank you for your information and your assistance.  I will arrange to get an extended leave of absence from the hospital.  As the medical discovery in Boliva was the last thing Silvain talked to me about and as he went so far out of his way to pursue this on my behalf, I too feel honor bound to see this through.  I had not realized that he was planning to travel to Boliva but I suppose that was the logical next step.

Herr Smith, might I ask you if Silvain had mentioned any specifics regarding why he wanted to go to Boliva or what exactly he mentioned about me in particular?  Also Herr Smith, by what means are you planning on travelling to Boliva and from what location will you be departing?  Furthermore, as this will be my first trip to South America, could you tell me what preparations I should make for the journey?  If you need to contact me, please feel free to call the Paris Hospital and direct the switchboard operator to forward the call to my office.  Once again I thank you for your help in putting these puzzle peices together... I hope that we may both succeed in honoring our debts to Dr. Trudeau."

Harry Smith also seemed to pick his words carefully, and use them sparingly.  "Silvain mentioned you.  His plans, he never told them all to me."  he stated.  "I will tell you more when you are here.   It is the Airship, der Zeppelin Hexe that is my ship.  Bring what a traveller should bring.  Quinine, you can buy there."

It was some paperwork, and talking to administrators, but Misha was able to wrangle three months away from the hospital.  He spent a busy three days transferring his patients to other doctors for the interim, and getting his luggage together.  All that remained was a trip to the airfield north of Paris, looking for a German Zeppelin.

It was black, it was big, and it looked deadly as the hound of hell, and he could hear German being spoken among the uniformed crew.

Misha carried his luggage with him as he walked cautiously towards the airship.  He noted the German accents and worked hard to keep his emotions from showing on his face... if it had not been for the Germans, the "dirty Reds" would never have overthrown the Czar!

As he approached the crew, he said {in French}, "Pardon monsieurs, could you please direct me to Herr Harold Smith whom I believe owns and possibly captains this Zeppelin?  My name is Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich and Herr Smith is expecting me."

Misha met with puzzled gazes, then one man spoke in atrocious French.
"Captain is bridge,"  he said. "You wait,"  And he spoke in German, sending
one of the men running off into the airship.
The walkway to the airship swayed gently in the rising wind, and the men on
the ground suddenly got more busy.  It caught at the long black leather coat
of a man striding down the walkway, and the long white silk scarf at his
throat.  Misha noted the burn scars on the man's face, and the patch over the
left eye, and the sharp blue of the remaining eye.  A glint of metal shone on
the breast of his coat; The Blue Max, the highest honour of the German Ace.

"Ah...." came the rasping voice, the damage hidden under white silk. "You are
Herr Doctor Grigorevich.  You may come aboard."  He then snapped orders in
German, every inch the nobleman bossing his peasants, and they scurried
around, one man taking Misha's luggage and moving into the ship at a dead run.
Inside, as expected, the walkways were narrow, but the undercarriage was
neatly kept and clean.  "We will leave shortly,"  said 'Harry Smith'. "You
will wait in my quarters while yours is prepared."  He opened a wood-panelled
door emblazoned with a German eagle, and Misha was ushered into a cabin that
offered the luxury of a featherbed, a wardrobe of superior workmanship, a
desk, and a splendid view of the sky.  Pictures were screwed into the walls,
but one wall caught his eye.  Swords were lined up on it in brackets, and a
selection of firearm weaponry, including a pair of silver-chased Nagants and a
Thompson sub-machine gun, were there, all in easy reach.  Misha turned back to
Harry Smith, but all he saw was the door closing; he had not heard the man
move.

Well this is going to be an interesting diversion... at least Herr Capitan is well prepared for "trouble".  Although I don't know whether I should take solace in that fact or be more concerned that he feels such preparation is needed.  I wonder where he earned his commendation... could we have clashed at some point during the War in the Skies... I wonder?

In an effort to better understand the man he had aligned himself with, Misha began to study the pictures and personal items in the Captain's quarters.  He was careful not to disturb or move anything... in fact he made a point not to touch anything as Herr Smith gave Misha the impression of someone who would know if anything had been tampered with.  However Misha did take in the pictures in an effort to determine what Herr Smith held dear and what his past might be.

The swords and pistols were a curiousity to Misha as he had been taught to use both during his childhood as a proper Russian aristocrat should.  Of course that training had not saved his beloved Motherland from the Communist infestation in the end.  Still Misha could appreciate fine craftsmanship as he thought back to his own personal weapons given to him as a boy by his father.

The pictures featured a grand array of locations and people.  In one, by an Albatros, were four men, two officers and two ground crew.  The tallest man was beyond a doubt Harry Smith, before whatever had happened to him.  Another picture featured Rudolph Valentino, and was signed "to Harry".  Another showed a group picture of a bunch of teenagers in rugged clothing and carrying tools, that suggested archaeology or treasure hunting.  Another picture was one of Silvain Trudeau, smiling his cheerful smile and reclining on a bed.  The carved bedstead was familiar, and a quick check showed that the bed in this stateroom was the bed in the photo. Another showed a castle on fire, the flames silhouetting the masonry eerily. Most of the rest were war photos.

The weapons were another study; a lot of the swords seemed to be trophies, to judge from the inscriptions on the fancywork. One in particular had a worn leather belt and harness, and was a sabre of German make, and was the only one that seemed out of place.  The firearms were all well-oiled and apparently loaded, though every single one had the first chamber empty.  Discharging a firearm on an airship was dangerous, after all.  Two small brackets were also empty.

As Misha looked, the ship jolted and there was a deep thrumming sound, that rose to a steady roar of mighty engines.  The ship shifted under his feet, and then he heard a series of shouts, counting in German.  As the count reached ten, the room was tilting in what must be 'up', and then he could tell that the airship was launched, from the swaying feel underfoot.  The porthole showed sky...and the ground getting further and further away.

As Misha braced himself from the sudden liftoff, he considered what he had found.

Hmm "Pfalzgraf Heinrich Manfred von Schlacht"... would this be another way of saying "Henry Smith" I wonder?  It seems von Schlacht has put his finances towards his love of flying... and he seems to have the skill to justify such an investment.  I wonder how Silvain knew von Schlacht... and just "how well" he knew this German?

I never did ask Silvain what he did during the War, I suppose I'll never find out now.  Then again, there are some things that no man wants to talk about even with friends.  But why is the Pfalzgraf... that's "Count" in german I think... why is the Count heading to South America?  What is there that would attract a man like von Schlacht... and was Silvain planning to travel with him all along?

Misha wondered about these and other thoughts as he waited for the Captain to return to his cabin.  If there was one thing Misha had learned about Germans, they were sticklers for people following orders and directions... while on this airship, Misha had no intention of getting on the Count's "bad side".  Once at cruising altitude, the ground could be a very long way down.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:53, Sun 09 Jan 2005.

Misha did not have long to wait.  A black man in a neat grey jumpsuit knocked
once and opened the door, and spoke in flawless French. "Good day to you sir;
your stateroom is prepared.  Please follow me."

He led Misha down the corridor, turned down a short corridor, and opened a
narrow wood-panelled door.  Inside was a regular bed, puffy with down
blankets and featherbed, a mahoghany dresser, a small desk and chair - the
chair on runners set into the floor.  Sunlight lit up the room from the
porthole, and Misha's luggage was tied down to the floor by straps near it.
All the furniture was otherwise bolted to the floor.

"Dinner is at 7, Doctor.  You are allowed anywhere on the ship, but Captain
Smith requests you do not disturb the crew.  If there is anything you wish at
this time, I will be happy to see to it.  If you require service at another
time, that bell-pull on the wall by the bed will summon me. My name is
Hercule."

Misha is impressed with the accomdations and he takes a moment to orient himself.  He then turns to look at Hercule and says in a friendly tone, "Well I suppose the first question would be whether these rooms have their own locks and, if so, will I be provided with a key?

On a different note, would you be available now to perhaps escort me on a cursory "guided tour" of this airship?  I have never seen one before... well... from this perspective at least.

Also perhaps while we tour the airship, you could inform me a bit more about the Captain and crew as well as the notable specifics about this vessel... for instance what is the name of this airship?

Lastly I suppose I had best see what medical facilities and supplies you have on board, just in case my services are needed on route to our destination.  Would all of this be possible to arrange, I am sorry for making so many requests on such short notice."

Situational Awareness... the key my fight instructor and later my squadron commander always stressed.  No matter what the circumstances... one could not make intelligent choices without "situational awareness" and the first step to that was acclimating oneself to a new environment.  I wonder if I'll need to dress formally for dinner... it would probably be safe to assume so considering the natural formality of the Prussian aristocracy.

"There are no locks, Doctor,"  Hercule replied politely, and patiently.  "If you would like, I will show you the airship.  Her name is 'The Witch', Hexe, in German.  There is a small sickbay, and we have a man who was a good field medic."

He led Misha along the corridor.  "Most of the cabins are the crew's,and you have seen Captain Smith's stateroom,"  he said.  "Below is the engine room and steering, and below that, cargo.  Above us is the bridge, and the dining room, and the sickbay."  Hercule led the way to a small flight of steps, and went upwards.  Another corridor opened up as they arrived on the next floor, this one populated with two men in flightsuits, putting on fur-lined boots that looked much like the pair Misha had to fly in, years ago.  They glanced at Misha with some curiousity but asked no questions.  Hercule walked silently past them, and opened a door that was dressed in gold leaf, to show a dining room - small, but appointed with an embroidered linen tablecloth and a crystal chandelier. "The dining room,"  he said.  "The sickbay is this way."

He led onwards, to another room, where the universal sign of a red cross was on the door.  Inside was a single table and many glass-fronted cases, with a wide range of items; it looked clean and well-stocked.

"The bridge,"  Hercule announced.  Inside were four people, two seated at consoles, one at a heavy multiple-machine gun, and Harry Smith, standing at an ornate wooden Captain's Wheel.  An odd way to steer an airship, but it seemed to fit.  The bridge was mostly glass, and Misha had a fantastic view of the coastline and the ocean, far below.

The two men at the consoles had the look of hard-bitten veterans.  The one at the machine gun was a black woman, wearing trousers and boots like a man, her shirt straining to contain her bosom.  She flicked a desultory glance at Misha and Hercule, and went back to staring at the sky.  Harry Smith looked back briefly, nodded a greeting to Misha, and returned his gaze to the sky in front of him.

As Capt. Smith turned to acknowledge them, Misha's old well-bred instincts kicked in as he snapped to attention.  With a slight click of his heels, Misha bowed his head towards the Captain as he said in a respectful tone, "Greetings Captain, I do hope we are not disturbing you.  With Monsieur Hercule's gracious guidance, I have been familiarizing myself with the Hexe.  It is a magnificent airship.  Sir, do you have any instructions for me before dinner?"

So this vessel is well armed on the outside as well as on the inside, good ol' fashioned Prussian preparedness... or a foreboding foreshadowing of expected trouble to come?

"You are not employed, Herr Doctor, you are a guest,"  Harry Smith responded, looking back from the cloud-filled skies he was navigating through.  "Though I do ask if the siren sounds, that you go to your quarters and remain there."  The black woman's gaze shifted from Harry, to Misha, and back again, and then she raised an eyebrow at Misha.

The two other men at the consoles seemed content to look at consoles. Then something odd happened; there was a glimpse of another airship, through a thin patch of the clouds.  Immediately everyone perked up, and Harry Smith spun the wheel, apparently steering for the other airship.

With a wary glance out the window in the direction of the second airship before returning his gaze to Smith, Misha said with a sigh and a note of caution in his tone, "I appreciate the clarification on my position here Captain as I was uncertain of my current status aboard the Hexe.  Might I ask if now is going to be one of those times when the siren rings... signifying that I should return to my cabin?  Might I also ask... was Silvain ever aboard during a time when the siren rang?"

What have I gotten myself into!?  Why do I get the very uneasy feeling that this vessel's voyage will not be a simple, direct passage?  Just what is it that Capt. Smith does with his airship... to the extent that he requires such extensive armaments?  Why do I get a bad feeling about this sudden change in course heading directly at this other airship... can I possible have fallen in with.. well... for lack of a better term, "air pirates"?

Harry Smith laughed then, the raspy ruin of a laugh.  "Silvain hated it, but yes, Herr Doctor, he was aboard.  I will not appreciate you getting in the way of my crew, so if you stay in your cabin, that will be best.  Do you see that little zeppelin ?  Well, we are going to catch up to it, and we are going to rob it."
"Yo ho ho,"  the black woman said, with an amused cackle.
Hercule, at Misha's side, was looking somewhat nervous. The man at the left console said something in German, and Harry Smith tended to the wheel, catching up to the zeppelin with amazing speed.

The siren then sounded, prompting Hercule to shoo Misha along to his quarters.  Men were shouting in German, and he heard the rat-tat-tat of the machine guns.  Outside his window, he could see the swell of the targeted airship, and men on ropes fearlessly swinging toward it.  They were over the ocean now, he noted through a patch of cloud. The smaller airship was pulled alongside the Hexe, and Misha saw Harry Smith, coat flaring in the wind, sword in hand, swinging across to the undercarriage of the other zeppelin, in the company of a dozen other men. A bullet pinged off the wall near his cabin, with a few more exchanged out of sight, but it was over swiftly.

He saw Harry Smith swinging back to the Hexe, a girl of about fifteen clutched under one arm, with her fighting fiercely to get free - never mind the drop to the sea below.  Other men, carrying bundles and crates, were also returning to the Hexe.  The crippled airship was cut loose and veered off, clearly in bad shape.

Misha did not resist being escorted to his room when the siren sounded, he knew now what he had been guessing earlier... this was no mere "luxury toy" airship used for the pleasure of a gentleman flyer who missed the days of his youth.  This was a pirate vessel and he was among thieves and cutthroats.  Indeed, Misha would no have been surprised to learn that a "jolly rodger" was now flying on top of the airship... nor would he have been any more disgusted nor ashamed of his current plight.

Damn you Silvain!  How dare you get me entangled with the likes of these men... how dare you!  You are most fortunate that you are dead my friend... or I would be forced to kill you otherwise upon my return!  Hmm... assuming I actually DO return from this voyage of raiding and plunder.

How can I go back to the hospital after this fiasco?  To fight and die as a soldier for one's country during a time of war... that is truly noble sacrifice and to be honored.  But to risk death or capture as a member of some greedy, bloodthirsty pirate crew... there is nothing but shame, dishonor and disgrace.... and perhaps disgust!

IF I survive to reach my destination... will finding a potential miracle cure make up for the depraved transgressions it will have taken for me to arrive?  I wonder?

Misha dropped down onto his bed and slumped against the pillows as he considered the cruel twist fate that had landed him in such dire and distressful circumstances.

The sun set, and the airship moved steadily onward, westward.  All was peaceful, though the recent events were enough to trouble Misha's thoughts.  It seemed that Harry Smith ran a peaceful and orderly vessel.   The bed was soft, and the pillow even softer. At least the accommodations were good.

Eventually Hercule was tapping at the door, pleading with Misha to get dressed
for dinner.  "Monsieur le Doctor, please permit me to dress you for dinner.  It
would upset le Capitan if you did not attend dinner."

Misha rose from his bed and took out his formal evening wear and dinner jacket in preparation for dressing for dinner.  He waved Hercule away and said in a resigned tone, "There is no need for you to dress me, I can take care of it myself.  I do thank you for the timely reminder about dinner... somehow I lost track of time.  I certainly don't want to anger the Captain... given today's revelations, I think that would be both unwise and potentially hazardous to my continued health."

As Misha dressed for dinner, he asked in a curious tone, "So then Hercule, I assume we won?  Was it a good haul then and did we get away clean?  I noticed that the Captain had a young lady in his arms on the way back, will she be joining us for dinner as well?  Do the Captain and crew often take on... "passengers & guests" in addition to cargo and goods?"

When Misha was dressed, he gestured to Hercule to lead the way to the dining room.

Well here goes nothing... at least the dinner conversation shouldn't be dull.  But what a price to pay for leading an "interesting" life!?

Hercule simply had to fuss over Misha's tie and brush down his suit, in more of a nervous habit than actual need.  He also affixed a rose to Misha's lapel, a dark red one, just beginning to open, with a gold pin set with what had to be a diamond, it sparkled too much to be a cheap stone.  "Oh, but you are Silvain's friend, so that makes you most able to upset le Capitan, but then if he is upset, he is awful to deal with,"  the man muttered, in a low tone.  "It is bad enough he is jealous now, and sad to have lost le Happy Doctor.  The girl, she is to be ransomed, I think, it is common enough.  She is worth a lot of money to someone.  The rest of the goods, they were all right.  No one will come after le Capitan, no one dares.  Rollo and Tussaine, they are going to be at dinner, and Swanson, and Le Chat.  Rollo does not like you, he hates all Russians, so be careful."

With that, the prissy manservant put away his brush and led Misha to the dining room, which was set for 6, that being about the limit of possible seatings.  Fine crystal glistened under the chandelier, the silverware gleamed, the plates were fine porcelain.  Two men were already seated; one of the men from the bridge, and another man with a wave of red hair and many freckles, and a fresh cut on his cheek that had scabbed over.   Both were in suits.

"You must be the sawbones," said the redhead, standing and offering a hand to shake.  He had an American accent.  "Swanson, Michael Swanson.  This is Rollo Sauber."  He introduced the grim-faced man from the bridge.  Hercule had vanished, in the manner of a good servant.

Before arriving for dinner, Misha took the opportunity to question Hecule about a couple of things as they walked towards the dining room, "You say the Captain is... "jealous"... do you mean of me?  I have noticed a few things and, while I generally try not to impose on other's personal lives, I feel I need to clarify something.  Just how "close" were Silvain and the Captain and do you know how they met originally?  On a different note, do you know why Rollo does not like Russians and, in particular, do you know if his bias is towards Russians or the more recent "Soviets"... the common communists who overthrew the Czar?  As for the other three you mentioned, is there anything I should be aware of and/or wary of?"

When Swanson offers his hand, Misha takes it and gives a firm handshake as he responds in a guarded but polite tone, "Good evening Mr. Swanson, I am Dr. Fyodor Grigorevich.  While I'm not familiar with the term, if by "sawbones" you mean that I am a medical doctor then you would be quite correct.  In fact I notice that you seem to have acquired a minor abrasion to your face... no doubt a small souvenior from this afternoon's excursion.  If you would like me to take a look at it after dinner, I will... perhaps with some fine stiches there will be a reduced risk of scarring."

Misha turned towards Rollo and nodded in acknowledgement of the introduction as he said in the same tone, "Good evening Mr. Sauber, I do believe we met but were not formally introduced earlier today upon the bridge."

Misha remained standing as he waited for the Captain to arrive.

Hercule's large dark eyes looked sad.  "He is jealous of you," the
manservant said, in a quiet tone, pausing in the nervous whisking of the
lint brush. "They were...very close, and they met during the war.  Every
time we are near Paris...well, we are all sorry to have lost le Happy
Doctor."  It seemed that at least two people on the Hexe were convinced
Silvain and Misha were an 'item'.

He paused to think, and Misha got the impression that if it did not include
relationships, dress, or dining, Hercule just wasn't that interested.  "He
hates Russians."  the man said, with a shrug.  "I don't talk to him.  He
doesn't like me either."

At the dining room, Swanson grinned. "That's mighty nice of ya, Doctor. Yep,
picked it up this afternoon."

Rollo Sauber gave Misha a sour look and did not respond.  Swanson shrugged
and sat back down.  Scarcely a minute later, the door opened again, showing
the black woman from the bridge, now wearing a black silk gown, low cut with
bare arms; she had muscles a man would envy.  Behind her was a thin man in a
black suit, polishing a pair of spectacles.  "May I introduce Le Chat, and
Mr. Tussaine,"  Swanson said.  "This is Doctor Grigorevich."  He only paused
slightly on Misha's name, and pronounced it correctly.  Le Chat only nodded.

"Good evening, pleased to meet you," Tussaine replied, offering to shake
Misha's hand.  He had a slow, slangy French that minded Misha of Creole, and
appeared scholarly.  They all moved along, leaving the foot of the table for
Misha; then the Captain arrived.

Harry Smith was attired perfectly in black, a white silk scarf tied at his
throat, the remaining eye glittering.  "Please be seated,"  he said to the
crew and Misha, and took his place at the head of the table, and rang a
small bell by his plate.  Hercule instantly arrived with a tray and
delivered the first course, a small salad, and began to pour wine.

The pirates had good table manners.  "To a successful foray,"  Harry Smith
proposed a toast.

Misha took Tussaine's hand and responded in a polite tone, "Bon Soir Monsieur Tussaine, I am pleased to meet you as well."



Misha decided that if he couldn't beat them, he had best join them... in a manner of speaking.  This meant that he would follow through with the toast minicing the manner of the other crew, thus he would raise his glass to the "successful foray" if need be.  It also meant that he would be wary of casting doubt upon the possibility that Silvain had been his... well... paramour.

While the idea of "alternative lifestyles" didn't truly bother Misha in a general sense as he had seen many things both during the War and afterwards in Paris night life... the idea that anyone thought Misha swung that was a bit of a personal shock.  Still... it occured to Misha that his continued good health and perhaps even existence was directly linked to the "relationship" everyone supposed he and Silvain had had... and were it known that such a connection did not exist, Misha's welcome upon the Hexe might become very UNwelcoming.

Damn you Silvain... what else am I going to find out "the hard way"... or dare I even ask?  First South American miracle cures, then possible ghost stories, then Germanic pirates of the sky and now I find out that I'm supposedly a true "Gay Parisian".  I shudder to think what could possible turn up next... I will only say that were you not dead already, I would give serious consideration to unsheathing my family's dueling blades once again!  Oh Silvain... what have you gotten me into... and why?

Tussaine and Swanson seemed friendly enough, though Sauber was as sour as possible.  Le Chat seemed self-absorbed, and the Captain being The Reserved German Nobleman. They seemed to accept the short toast as the sum total of dinner speech, and settled down to eat.

 The first course following the salad was a lightly seasoned poached fish, with new peas; the next course, a beef slice with some sort of stuffing and gravy, with brussels sprouts.  No restaurant in Paris would be ashamed to serve it, that was for certain.  Only when the plates were cleared and the desserts were brought around did talk start, with Swanson.

"Captain,"  he said, "I can't help noticing the westerly turn in our course."
"Yes,"  replied Harry Smith. "We are going west, and south.  Emeralds and gold."
And that was it for dinner conversation. After dessert - creme-raspberry tarts that could not be beat, and brandy of superior quality - the crew rose, murmured various pleasantries such as 'duty calls' and whatnot, and left the room, leaving Misha alone with Harry Smith.

The Captain did not waste any time.  A moment after the door was closed, he spoke.  "I expect you have some questions for me,"  he said, the German accent and raspy voice only slightly slurred by brandy - and Smith had had three snifters.  "I will extend to you the same freedom I offered Silvain - that he could say anything he liked to me, behind closed doors."

Misha nodded his head in acknowledgement and replied in a polite tone, "I thank you for the understanding and courtesy Captain.  First, Let me assure you that I will not publicly question your authority or decisions as I understand the need for a Captain to maintain his command through order and discipline.  I will reserve any questions I have until I can ask them privately so as not to risk undermining your authority.

Now then, I suppose the first question is: how did you turn to "air piracy" in the first place... Pfalzgraf Heinrich Manfred von Schlacht?  It seems to me that such activity seems... unbecoming for a Prussian nobleman, or is that why you go by the name "Harry Smith"?

The second question would be: how did Silvain meet you, was it before the War?  Also did he know your chosen profession before he first boarded this vessel for a voyage?

The third question is: Why are you heading towards South America?  Was the course chosen by you originally or did Silvain influence the decision and do you know why he intended for me to go there?

The last question for now would be this: What exactly did Silvain tell you about me and when did he first tell you about me?  I must admit that I do not remember him mentioning your name before... though perhaps he was being discreet so as to preserve your anonymity for your protection given your... profession.

Please understand Captain that I do not intend to be offensive by asking these question but I feel I have been dropped into a situation with a distinct "sink or swim" feel and no one has provided a life preserver."

Harry Smith gave out his raspy laugh.

"I find that my Germany, it is no more,"  he said. "I am a fighter, Herr Doctor, and so here I am.  Silvain was right - you do snoop a lot."

The second question gave Harry Smith pause.  He picked up his snifter, the Prussian face impassive, and sipped slowly.  "He found me in hospital, after I was shot down."  Smith said at last.  "He helped me escape.  He knew me better than anyone, Doctor Grigorevich.  I...envy your being able to stay in Paris with him."

The third and fourth questions got Misha a long look with the sharp sappharine eye. "I am going to South America because Silvain asked me to take you there." he said.  "It was the last request he made of me, made the night he died and he never asked for much - well, not much that I could give him.  I would not give up piracy. I am ashamed to have enjoyed fighting with him over it and that was probably why he had the accident - he was very angry with me.  So in his memory, I take you to South America.  He said you were determined, you were nosy, you had a quest that your spirit must fulfill.  Do not fear being an inconvenience, Doctor - I was able to take a commission that carries the Hexe in the same direction.  So do not worry, Doctor - you need no life preserver.  You are an honoured guest. If you can give some medical services to the men, I am doubly pleased to have you aboard the Hexe."

"And I do appreciate your discretion," the nobleman added. "It is difficult enough to have lost...someone, without added difficulties."  There was only the slightest crack in the expression, that said that under all the Reserved German Nobleman, was a broken heart.  It was quickly suppressed. "I will also tell you that there will be some activity this evening, over the ocean, though I expect a simple exchange, nothing violent.  Someone must pay the mercenaries."

Misha sighed slightly as he was reminded of the loss of Silvain and he could empathize with Harry's pain.  In an understanding tone, Misha replied, "It is true that I am naturally curious, all the more so when I feel that things are being kept from me.  However, I tend to think that it is what a man does with the knowledge he has rather than how he acquired the knowledge in the first place that determines what sort of man he is.  But I do apologize if my prying went too far, I merely felt there was more to "Harry Smith" than the name implied.

As for losing one's country, I certainly understand that pain.  While Germany may be different, at least it is still Germany in many ways.  However the Russia I knew and fought for is gone for good, much like the Czar whom I served.  It is now the communist state of the Soviet Union and I doubt MY Russia will ever return... there is no one left to lead it anymore.

I am glad to hear that my personal quest is not an added burden upon you or your crew and that I am not preventing you from conducting... "normal operations".  I must admit that I do share Silvain's feelings regarding this lifestyle but I'll not openly disparage it nor preach a better way... besides, I doubt I could say anything more effective than Silvain had said before.

As for this "activity" later tonight, I realize I should probably not inquire but it is in my nature.  It sounds as if this action will not be a repeat of this morning's adventure.  Are you actually being paid by a third party for these raids and thus are actully in the employ of another, for some reason I had assumed you worked for yourself?  Tell me Captain, are you truely a pirate... or could it be that you are more of a privateer?"

Misha paused for a moment and then added with a weak smile, "Also Captain, as I am your guest and we both knew Silvain well... if perhaps in different ways, I feel it would only be right that you call me "Misha" when we are in private.  It seems somehow inappropriate for you to formally address me as Dr. Grigorevich in private seeing as you've taken me into your confidence and placed me under your protection."

"I do not think that Silvain wished to be associated with a pirate,"  Harry Smith said drily.  "Considering the very out-of-the-way places he insisted on meeting for dinner.  As for the job tonight, it is a simple transfer of goods for funds.  I am being well paid.  And I cannot claim to be a privateer - I am a pirate, I own allegiance to no country, only to my crew and my ship."

He had nodded, only once, at Misha's talk of Russia.

"I appreciate that, Misha,"  Smith replied, to Misha's offer of the use of his given name.  To Misha's mind, the man also relaxed slightly, apparently letting go of the jealousy.

A bell rang, three times; Harry Smith turned to look out the porthole, and down.  "It seems we have found our contact.  I must go and tend to matters.  Please excuse me," and with that, he swept out of the room, the brandy snifter abandoned.

Outside, below the airship in the darkness of the evening, was what had to be a ship down on a calm sea; there were torches outlining it brightly.

Misha rose from the table as the Captain did and nodded his head in acknowledgement as he said, "I believe I shall return to my quarters Captain... at least until your meeting is finished."

As the Captain left, Misha said softly, "For whom do the bells toll I wonder... someday Captain... someday, they may well toll for thee."

Misha sighed slightly and gently shook his head as he made his way out of the empty dining room and headed back towards his room.  Just on the off chance that the American had taken him up on his earlier offer of stiches, Misha decided to first check-in on the infirmary before returning to his sleeping quarters.

Misha found Swanson on the way along the deck, armed with a harness full of pistols and a shotgun over his shoulder.  "Heya, Doc," the American said, cheerfully, "Just let me make sure ol' Harry don't get his butt shot up and I'll come by for those stitches."

The Hexe seemed to be off-loading something to a cruise ship.  It was an odd transaction, but with pirates, who could say.  Presently Swanson returned, whistling happily.  "I love it when a plan comes together,"  he drawled to Misha. "You settle up with Harry ?  He wasn't glooming and dooming so bad.  Misses his French pretty boy something fierce. Glad to be shut of that girl, though.  She bit me just now."  He pushed up his shirt sleeve to show the marks of teeth in his arm.

Misha shook his head sadly at the sight of the teeth marks and gestured for Swanson to lay down on the table in the infirmary.  As he gathered his instruments and materials to cleanse the wounds and then to stitch both the earlier injury and the new one, Misha sighed and said in a weary tone, "I suppose such injuries are merely the cost of doing this kind of business then?  Do you often find yourselves taking captives or is it usually just cargo and trade goods?

As for my dealings with the Captain, I'm regret to say that I cannot go into much detail for it might be considered a breech of the confidence granted me.  I will merely state that I believe the Captain and I have come to a better understanding of one another and I do hope that his grief will lessen with time.

So then Mr. Swanson, if you do not consider the topic too indiscrete, might I inquire how it is that you took up this way of life and ended up joining the Captain's crew?"

As he chatted, Misha finished up the cleaning of the wounds and began to sew them up with a fine thread so as to minimize scarring.

Swanson proved affable and talkative, as well as being a good patient.  "Not so much people, only when there's a good ransom to be had,"  he said with a grin. "Mostly stuff, and sometimes strange stuff.  Some funny-looking animals the one time, they were a sight !"

He shrugged at Misha not wanting to discuss what the Captain had to say.   "Some of 'em ain't none too happy with the Captain liking boys, but hey, life's short and love's fun, I say. I got into some trouble in Egypt, and Harry bailed me out of it, he was busting some of the crew out of a jail that night and said, hey, Yankee, you want a job ?  I been a Merc since the war was over, only thing I was ever any good at was fightin'.  Wanted for killin' two men back home, so no point in going there !  Now I got my own cabin, a heap of gold in a fancy bank in Switzerland, and I'm happier than a pig in mud."

Misha continued to work on the stiches as he said in a friendly tone, "Well I suppose for soldiers who can't or won't put the War behind them, this lifestyle would seem a perfect fit.  Still... I wonder how many have died during these raids and how long it will be before someone decides to track Captain and the Hexe down.  I'm surprised that I have not heard more about this group, I would have thought such exploits would make for good copy.

Now I understand that this last job was taken under contract, is that how you usually work or is it more random freelance?  Do you tend to work for the same people or does the clientel vary?

On a different note, I am pleased that you are in possession of a fairly friendly disposition but it seems that perhaps the same could not be said for every member of the crew.  I was wondering if perhaps you could give me a better idea of what sort of people Mr. Tussaine, Mr. Sauber and Miss Le Chat are like.  Mr. Tussaine seems friendly enough but I am curious as to Mr. Sauber's seemingly sour attitude... something about not liking Russians I understand?"

Swanson was happy to carry on talking.  "Captain's special," he said. "Ain't seen a man take five bullets and keep fighting.  That day we had the Happy Doctor along, taking him to Belgium for something or other, so we weren't much worried."

He reflected on Misha's question.  "Sometimes we're hired, sometimes it's Harry saying, 'let's go get this'. He knows a lot of folks that like things, like fancy art and all, and he knows a lot of folks that like smuggling this or that.  Hell, we even took a load of brandy to New York City last year.  That was a time !"  he grinned.

He shrugged.  "Le Chat, well, she's crazier than a coot, but she's the nastiest fighter I ever seen, and I seen plenty.  She don't say much and when she does, it might make no sense at all or it sounds perfect.  Mr. Tussaine, he's a smart one, he knows everything about everything, and he does the research.  He's also a damn fine shootist. Rollo, well, he's a sour old bastard.  He don't much like me neither, and I saved his backside oncet or twicet. He don't like Russians, he was a prisoner during the war there, till he got out.  He gets out of trouble, I'll give you that."

Misha finishes up his stitching and looks over his work with a satisfied nod as he says, "Hmm..yes, that will do nicely.  I've managed to close the wounds in such a way that the scarring should be considerably reduced and, with any luck, the wound will hardly be noticeable.  I have to say that despite flying through the air, the stability of this airship is most impressive... I doubt I could have done a steadier job had we been firmly on the ground."

Misha pulled away and began to wash his instruments before putting them away.  He looked back over at Swanson and said in a friendly tone, "So then Mr. Swanson, what do you think of having me along?  I gather that Mr. Sauber wouldn't mind my not surviving the trip and Le Chat could probably care less either way.  I would think there might be some apprehension about opening yourselves up this way to a.. well.. stranger.  I realize that the Captain feels honor bound to aid me and that, as long as I mind my place, he will see no harm come to me... but I wonder how the rest of the crew feels?

Along those lines, are you not worrried about eventual reprisals?  Have none of your previous victims.. or should I say targets.. tried to either track you down or placed prices on your heads?  I would assume the authorities of several nations at least know of your group and perhaps are even actively pursuing you?"

Swanson, the gossip of the Hexe, grinned as he looked at Misha's handiwork in the mirror.  "Can't ruin my handsome looks, ya know !"  he said.  "Thank ya, Doc."

He paused to consider the question of Misha being on the airship.  "I reckon it's not my business what Harry likes to do behind closed doors," he said, finally, with a shrug and a smile. "Rollo, he ain't smiled but oncet since I known him, Le Chat's just crazy, but you got one thing going for ya - I like ya.  No one will go agin Harry over you, neither, and if they talks bad to ya, just tell me."

He laughed at Misha's talk of revenge. "Ah reckon if that's my fate, that's my fate.  Most of us are wanted men, Doc, so there's somebody somewheres looking for us.  Meantimes though, I'm gonna live the good life and do what I like.  You'll get to your destination, Doc, don't you worry."

Misha tried to put on a brave face as he smiled weakly at Swanson and responded with a slight sigh, "Well I suppose I'll just have to get used to the idea of my fate being in other people's hands.  I think that being a medical doctor, I am prone towards always wanting to be in control.  Even during the War, it was often just myself, my flying skills and my plane against whatever hand Fate had in store for me.

Now I find that my future is uncertain and my next breath may depend on the goodwill of those who have chosen to walk a very different path than my own.  Still I am pleased to be on friendly terms with you Mr. Swanson.

Perhaps if we're going to be friends on this voyage, we should be on a first name basis?  While my Chirstian name is Fyodor, among friends I have always gone by the name Misha.  Might I know your first name Mr. Swanson?"

As he talked, Misha finished cleaning his surgical tools and putting them away in his black leather medical bag.

Swanson nodded, with an amiable grin.  "This here's Harry's world, and he is the king,"  he said. "Stay on his right side, and you're better off than if you had a squad of angels backin' ya.  Mah Christian names are James Robert, but at home they call me Jim-Bob.  Pleased to call you friend, Misha."  Once the doctor was done packing, Swanson held out a big, scarred hand to shake. The American was certainly the most outgoing person on the Hexe, that Misha had met.

The evening passed quietly; the prissy servant Hercule showed up with a selection of snacks and a glass of warm milk for Misha, should he wish it, and then the soft down comfort of the bed beckoned.  Misha dreamed old dreams, of his time in the air, during the war, and wondered which of the German planes shooting at him was Harry's....

PM

Misha awoke to the dawn, the eastern sky a brilliant array of rose and purple, the Hexe travelling toward these jewel-like colours.  Someone was tapping at the door; it was Hercule, bearing a breakfast tray laden with eggs, bacon, sausages, toast and a pot of rich dark coffee, with cream and sugar.

Misha sat up in bed to give Hercule room to put down the trap as he said in a friendly tone, "Bonjour Hercule, it seems we have been blessed with sunny skies today.  So then, is breakfast in bed a regular thing for the crew?  Are only evening meals taken in the dining room?  Do you happen to know if the Captain has "something" planned for today by any chance?"

Misha watched Hercule set the tray down and fussily arrange it.  "You are getting breakfast in bed because the Captain asked me to send it to you," he said. "No one really sits down for a decent breakfast, not these barbarians.  That big Yankee, he have only black coffee at dawn, and I put out some fried bread and rolls, they take what they want if they want it.  They sit for dinner.  Rarely for luncheon, I have to make them sandwiches mostly."  The servant sniffed, as if offended by this breach of conduct.  "I know Le Capitan, he is going somewhere; he has told no one but he has sharpened his sword and he has a pack in his quarters where he does not think I will see."  Hercule sniffed again, as if vexed at this too.  He took up his clothes brush and began to attend to Misha's clothes.

Misha relaxed in bed as he accepted the tray and said in a friendly tone, "Well please thank the Captain for his thoughtfulness.  So then, have any of the others been making preparations for "travel" along similar lines as the Captain?  Do you think it will be another raid on the local shipping as before or do you think he has an actual trip requiring disembarkation in mind?  How often does the Hexe make strikes on civilian shipping... daily, weekly or is it too sporatic to actually say?"

Hercule tidied up Misha's clothes while the doctor ate, every bit of a valet of skill.  "I am sure it would be indiscreet to discuss such things, but I will convey your compliment to le Capitan," he said, rather coolly, and Misha had the sense that Hercule did not discuss his employer's business dealings to any great degree, but was perfectly pleased to complain about the barbarians and their lack of 'class' and other foibles of Harry Smith.  Then he set to polishing Misha's shoes.

Misha heard boots in the hallway, and someone whistling loudly and cheerfully as he went along, and noted the long-suffering look from Hercule.  "The big Yankee," the manservant sniffed.  "But he looks after le Capitan."  There was a one-shouldered shrug, as if this was somewhat acceptable.

Hercule was not of any more use, when it came to speaking of the Hexe or her activities, and it seemed the ship's crew was going about their business now.  Misha heard the engines rev and hum to a higher pitch, and felt the Hexe turning slightly, when the manservant took away the empty tray and departed to let Misha dress himself.  Misha opened his door a few minutes later to see the mild-faced, bespectacled Tussaine standing in the corridor, apparently waiting to speak to him.

"Good morning," the man said, in his very good French, and switched to flawless Russian. "May I speak to you, Doctor ?"

Misha only partially masked his surprise at finding Tussaine at his door but he quickly recovered and responded in a polite tone, "Bon jour Monsieur Tussaine.  Of course you may speak with me, as far as I know I have no pressing duties to attend to this morning.  Would you prefer to speak in my cabin or in the infirmary?  Might I ask if this is a personal matter or a medical issue?"

"I would say it is a business matter, but not entirely a medical one,"  Tussaine said, with quiet ease, in Russian that had a St. Petersburg accent.  "We can speak here in your cabin, if you would like."

The 'researcher' calmly polished his spectacles before elucidating further.

"I am sure that, as a medical doctor, you have heard of miraculous cures and other healing that is of a nigh supernatural nature. Indeed, I believe that is why you are here; I know that our Happy Doctor and the Captain argued about such matters, fairly often.  I will disclose to you a secret, Doctor, if you will disclose to me your exact purpose in South America."

Misha allowed Tussaine into his cabin and listened to what the man had to say.

Misha raised an eyebrow at the remarks of the man and shrugged slightly as he responded in a relaxed tone, "Well I don't see that my purpose in South America is really a secret, so I have no objections to sharing my intentions with you.  In a way, it was Silvain who is responsible for me being here on the Hexe... in more ways than one.

Aside from some clues that led me to the Captain, Silvain had discussed a relatively recent medical paper published in a respected medical journal. The paper was written by a certain local Bolivian doctor who apparently had discovered remarkable medicinal qualties in certain local tribal remedies.  Among the reported "cures" was a treatment for bone cancer.

Silvain knew that I have a special personal interest in blood disorders and diseases of the circulatory system.  Since the marrow of the bone is the source of red blood cells, Silvain figured that there might be a link between these tribal cures and certain inherited diseases such as blood clotting disorders."

Misha sighed slightly and added in a slightly depressed tone, "Sadly I never got a chance to truly discuss the matter with Silvain before his untimely death.  I had originally planned to just contact the Bolivian doctor about his work but with Silvain's death... well... I just felt that I owed it to him to see this through personally.  So here I am on a floating pirate ship headed to an unknown land to search of a stranger who might hold the key to a miracle cure.... and they call me a "man of science"?  I suppose in some ways I've allowed my sense of adventure from my youth to cloud my better judgement but it seems too late now to back ou, the only way is forward."

Misha looked at Tussaine with an appraising gaze as he added in a wary tone, "But tell me Dr. Tussaine, why would Silvain and the Captain argue about such things?  It is clear that Silvain believed in these cures and the published work, so I take it that the Captain was the skeptical one?  But why does the Captain doubt the work, does he have a solid scientific basis for his doubts?  While I admit to being skeptical myself, I like to think I have an open enough mind to at least accept that there is a possibility of veracity behind these reports.  So then Dr. Tussaine, I have told you why am I here... what is the secret you wish to disclose?"

Tussaine returned an unreadable look, devoid of any expression beyond polite interest.  He had taken in the story of Silvain with equal aplomb.  "I am sure I could not say," he said, which was not the same as saying 'I am sure I do not know'.

"There is much that is beyond the science that we know.  I am speaking of secrets of life itself, of powers greater than any we can imagine with machines or the will of men alone.  It is something I have researched for many years.  Your interest in this journey is to get a cure, for an illness; mine is something more dramatic.  Do you know how old our Capitan is, Doctor ?  I have uncovered records of him dating back to the 17th century, including records of how he has miraculously recovered from wounds that would kill a normal man twice over."

Misha raised an eyebrow and sighed slightly as he responded in a guarded tone, "Hmm.. 17th Century, making the Captain roughly 2 centuries old more or less?  Well that is interesting but a bit difficult to take at face value without seeing the proofs for myself.  I don't suppose you've talked to the Captain about your suspicions or that he has in some way confirmed your analysis?

Have you even studied tissue and/or blood samples taken from the Captain and compared them with controls?  What is your theory then behind the Captain's longevity and remarkable healing abilities?  I would point out that while it is impressive that his burns did not damage him further, it does appear that the Captain was not able to fully recover from the wounds that have damaged his vocal chords.  Are we talking wound repair or actual regeneration, there is a distinct difference between the two?"

"I believe he is at least 250 years old," Tussaine said, adjusting the spectacles. "I do not need to discuss it with him, since all queries into his personal affairs will raise his ire, which is considerable.  I believe he is immortal, or has gained some longevity of admirable value.  I have seen him take five wounds from a rifle and keep walking, so yes, there is regeneration as well.  It is curious that his throat did not heal properly, but then, would it, if his head was nearly cut off ?  As for samples, I do not have a lab to properly test them."

Misha sighed and responded in an interested but guarded tone, "Well Dr. Tussaine, it is rather hard for me to judge your findings without having seen the documented research or witnessed the evidence with my own eyes.  I do not say I doubt you since I prefer to keep an open mind for the time being, but a good scientist does not accept any theory as fact without proof and perhaps direct observation.

I have to admit that if the Captain does have true regeneration as opposed to simply accelerated wound healing, then there needs to be a better explanation for the damaged throat.  The severity of the wound should not matter if the tissue is able to truly regenerate to its former state of being, while wound healing could lead to scars and permanent residual effects.

I don't suppose you've noticed if the Captain has other scars from other wounds that did not heal properly?  I suppose one possibility could be that it was the specific cause of the injury that prevented full recovery.  Perhaps his miracle cure or regeneration is unable to compensate for burns, though I would still like to know why that would be."

Misha sighed again and then added in a resigned tone, "Now then Dr. Tussaine, if you are correct and there is something in South America which allows the Captain his long life and advanced healing... why would he not make it available to his crew?  Surely members of your company have fallen in battle or been severely hurt due to combat or accident, has the Captain allowed those men to die or waste away without action?  He seems fairly selective and perhaps even protective of you all... so why would he not share his miracle cure with the rest of you?"

Tussaine's gentle expression did not alter.  "I have noticed that he can now see out of his bad eye,"  the man said, still in perfect Russian. "He could not, five years ago.  And I can say that he has not shared much information with any of the crew; there was only one person he told secrets to, to my knowledge, your friend Silvain.  I believe that whatever the Captain has found to give him these advantages lies in South America.  Now, since you are in a position of favour with him, will you help me find out more ?"

Misha sighed and said in a cautious tone, "Well I would be wary of counting too much on my supposed "position of favor"... I'm not so sure just how far that will go.  I am not Silvain, I will never be like him and thus I won't be replacing him in a manner of speaking.  The Captain is showing me courtesy and trust as an honored guest... but that has nothing to do with me personally but rather it is his way of repaying Silvain for the arguements they had in the past.

I'm not sure what if anything I can really do to help but I will keep my eyes open for anything new.  Still, if he hasn't shared the miracle cure with his trusted crewmates, I am somewhat skepitcal of the idea that he will open up to me... aside from my connection to Silvain, I am as good as a complete stranger to the Captain.

Has there never been a member of this close knit and trusted crew who has either gotten gravely ill or been very seriously wounded?  If so, did the Captain stay out of it and this allow the crew member to die without attempting to help with his miracle cure?  Also you mention that he has regained the use of his eye, how long have you been sailing with the Captain and how long and/or how often has he been making trips to South America?  Does he always go to the same area or does he travel to different places?"

Tussaine nodded, with a neutral expression that would have won prizes as 'best poker face'.  "Some have died," he said. "It is the way of a soldier, to meet a sudden death.  Some have been wounded, but the Captain has done nothing besides provide the best medical care possible.  I have been aboard the Hexe since 1920, and he has never gone to South America before. That is why it is significant that he should do so now...and he was planning to, months ago.  He laid in a supply of quinine for the crew last month, and it was a large order...not something easily supplied, but Silvain got it.    I know Captain is planning on leaving the Hexe, for an extended amount of time, and that is also a very rare occurrence. So I think he had plans to take Silvain with him, even back then, but I am not aware of anyone else he will take with him, when he goes."

Misha shrugged and said in a resigned tone, "Well I'll keep my eyes and ears open for anything interesting but I can't really promise you that I'll learn much about this miracle cure.  If the Captain hasn't shared it with his trusted crew, then I don't know if he'll be imparting its secrets to someone who is almost a complete stranger.  True he is taking me to South America because there is a potential cure for a specific disease I am interested in but he is doing this as a final favor for Silvain.  I don't think he feels he owes me much more than that and I certainly would be wary of expecting more.

Besides, if he has kept this secret for so long and has deprived his dying crew of its benefits... what makes you think he won't act to prevent others from discovering it?  I mean, what do you think he would do to keep you from learning this secret?  Or worse... if you do find the miracle cure, what might he be willing to do to you to prevent you from spreading word to others about it?  He does not strike me as a man who would hesitate to act and act decisively to protect was is his."

Tussaine straightened his spectacles, with a brittle smile.  "That is precisely why I am going behind his back, and using all due caution, for I am not a fighter, I am a scholar." the 'researcher' said.  "A secret like immortality, that is one worth keeping, is it not ?"

He withdrew with a polite farewell, leaving Misha to his thoughts.

Oh great... yeah Tussaine, I see quite well... I take all the risks and you grab all the benefits.  A "scholar" eh?  Hmm... sure and that's why you're serving on a pirate ship looking for "buried treasure".  I wonder who else you've told about this... or if there are any others you've talked into this who found there way onto the end of the Captain's blade?  Life seems full of complications lately, at least I shall not be bored for the time being!

Fully dressed and ready to face the day, Misha exited his cabin and casually strolled about the airship.  He wanted to familiarize himself with the vessel.. just in case such knowledge should ever come in useful during a tight spot.

The airship was run with skill and discipline, Misha could see.  The crew left him alone, though many watched him curiously.  He was strolling along the port corridor when he saw a familiar face; Swanson, carrying a large mug of coffee.  "Hey, Doc,"  the ship's main gossip said, with a grin.  "Wanna hear the latest ?"

The mercenary was wearing leather, black leather, and had a shotgun on a harness on his back, as well as two pistols on his hips, but from all appearances this was Swanson's usual clothing.

Misha raises an eyebrow at the display of hardware and says with a wry smile, "Dressing down I see Swanson... just another casual day at the office then?  Well how can I resist the lure of the latest informational tidbits?  Yes I would like to hear the latest... I just how it doesn't involve chucking a certain Russian doctor overboard."

Misha smiled as he waited for Swanson to reveal the newest gossip.

Swanson, unable to resist chattering, immediately set off with his latest 'news'.  "There's a really ugly-looking toe coming to see ya, the Quartermaster's got bad feet, so I reckon your place as Doc is secure,"  he said, grinning. "There's a guy that Harry wants dead and he's offering a bounty, and it ain't nothing to sneeze at.  Le Chat is on the warpath, claims somebody stole some of her baubles.  What'd Tussaine have to say to ya ?"

Misha smiles and responds in a friendly tone, "Well Swanson... you certainly don't miss much that goes on around here.  Tussaine wanted to pry a bit deeper in a not overly intrusive manner as to my reasons for being here and what I was going to South America for.  I guess as a fellow man-of-science, he has an interest in medicine and new medical discoveries... though I really don't have much more than an hunch to work on.  So how did Tussaine react when you asked him... or is your nose for news pretty much well known among the crew already?

As for the Quartermaster, do you know what the problem is... is it chronic or did he do something to his toe to make it worse?  Do you know when he is coming by to see me, I wouldn't want to keep him waiting if the injury is bad.

As for Le Chat, I certainly know nothing about this.. or is this normal behavior for her?  I would hate to think someone with a grudge against me... or perhaps just Russians in general.. would attempt to frame me.  I have no interest on getting on anyone's bad side.  Then again... maybe I just have an overly suspicious mind at times?

Hmm... so the Captain wants someone killed, eh?  Do you know who the target is and why the Captain wants him dead?  I find it odd that he would offer a bounty... the Captain strikes me as the type of man to settle his own debts and scores as it were."

Swanson sipped his coffee.  "Reckon I don't miss much," the man said proudly.  "I don't ask Tussaine much; but I know when he's being sneaky.  He ain't good at that, for all he's the best damn pistol shot on the ship."

He grinned at the query on the Quartermaster.  "He allus had bad feet," was the answer.  "Reckon he'll be along after shift ends.  As for Le Chat, she lost some kind of ear-bauble -" the mercenary pulled at his earlobe, which Misha noticed was pierced. "- So she's madder than a polecat up a post. Who'd want to frame ya ?  And the bounty - get this, it's for some old English feller, a mapmaker...he didn't give a name, just a description. Said we'd find the feller in South America or close to it.  Supposed to be there tonight !"

Misha responded in a guarded tone, "Well I don't know Tussaine very well, certain not like you do, thus I wouldn't know when he is being sneaky... nor why he would be sneaky at this time.

As for who would want to frame me, I did not say anyone in particular would... however I know that my presence here on the Hexe is not looked upon favorably by everyone.  I just find it odd that someone would risk stealing from a person like La Chat, it isn't as if the Hexe was really all that large.  Also I don't get the impression that any of the crew are particularly lacking in material rewards... so why would someone take La Chat's "bauble"?  Has this sort of thing happened before?

So what does the old English mapmaker look like?  Has the Captain put bounties on other people in the past?  By the way, where in South America will we be arriving first?"

Swanson shrugged. "He's a sneaky sort, Tussaine, all that book-learning makes a man funny in the head."  Well, Swanson was not going to win any prizes for Deep Thought.

He shrugged again. "Why ya think someone is trying to frame ya ?  And I dunno, I recollect her going ballistic when she lost a pinkie-ring last year, turns out it got lost in the laundry.  The prissy little valet found it."

Swanson rattled off a description fast enough.  "5'8", heavyset, balding, blue eyes, snarky English accent, scar on back of his neck, scar on right forearm all the way around, carries a gold watch with a rose pattern, fights real dirty, tougher than he looks, worth a hunnert-grand US dollars."  The mercenary grinned. "Captain never put a bounty that big on a man !"

Misha shrugged again and responded in a neutral tone, "Well as I said, I don't know if anyone is trying to frame me... but I just found the timing of this "disappearance" to be a bit overly conincidental.  Also being the only true "stranger" aboard, I suppose I feel a bit defensive.  As to who might try something like that... well I've been told that Mr. Sauber has no fondness for Russians of any kind.

As for Tussaine, I'll be sure to keep an eye out for his "sneakiness".  Thanks for the warning.

Well this English mapmaker sounds more formidable than I would have initially thought.  Aside from the price put on his head, it sounds like this man has done more with his life and just make maps... one doesn't tend to get nasty scars from cartography."

Swanson shrugged.  "Reckon so," he said, in the slow drawl, grinning.

Then a bell rang, five times; there was a slight stir among the crew, some looking out portholes.  "Land."  Swanson said, without a glance. "We're there, or will be soon."

And then a tinny voice came over the sound system, staticy and squeaking. "Docktor Grigorevich, report to the aeroplane bay, please."  Swanson pointed the direction immediately, and seemed to be planning on tagging along.  Small wonder he had so much news, he was probably more nosy than Hercule !

Misha shrugged as he said in a friendly tone, "Well just to be on the safe side, I had better grab my medical bag before reporting to the bay.  I don't want to be caught in a "situation" where I need my medical instruments and medicine but I don't have access to them."

Misha dropped by his room and grabbed a few items along with his medical bag before heading to the aeroplane bay.  Since he had taken the time to study the ship's layout, he was able to find the bay with little trouble.  If Swanson wanted to tag along, that was fine to Misha.  The American was a good source of gossip and Misha didn't really have anything to hide... yet.

When Misha arrived at the aeroplane bay, he looked around for the Captain whom he was sure was going to lead the flight down to the surface.

Misha grabbed his bag and gear, and headed down the walkways to the small aeroplane bay that housed two aircraft; one was a German Albatros, the other was half-covered by a tarpaulin.  Captain Harry Smith was striding along the floor, carrying two bulky things that Misha realised were parachutes. Swanson had trailed after Misha, and had now somehow faded into the shadows, the black apparel making this easy for the man - or his skill in stealth was very good.  It was loud here, the engine room being so close, and the air was hot and smelled of oil.

"Ah, Doctor,"  Harry Smith said, his raspy voice sounding harsh even over the whine of the engines.  "Perhaps you will accompany me ?"

Misha nodded his head and responded in a neutral tone, "Certainly Captain, might I ask where we are at present and perhaps more importantly where we will be going?  Have we reached our final destination already?"

So just the two of us... that's a bit odd.  However it does fit with the story Tussaine gave me, is Smith really going to reveal this secret "fountain of youth" to me... and if so.. what will be the price?

"We are over Brazil."  Harry Smith rasped. "There is no place to land, and we will parachute down and hike to the nearest town.  Our final destination is some ways away, and I do not reveal it until I can say, 'here it is.'  That will have to suffice for now, Doctor."

He handed Misha one of the heavy packs of silk and rope harness.

Misha raises his eyebrows at this latest information as he considers the parachute being handed to him.  With a sigh, Misha accepts the parachute and puts it on.  It had been quite awhile since he had last worn one and his movements were a bit awkward at first.

Misha had a wry smile on his face as he said in a resigned tone, "Very well Captain, as you say that will have to do for now.  I must admit that my memories of parachuting are not fond ones.  Generally speaking the few times I had to use one... it meant that the enemy had succeeded in crippling my plane and shooting me down.  I don't recall even jumping over such a heavily forested area before, have you done this before... any pointers you care to share?"

Harry Smith offered up the crisp smile that did not reach his eyes. "Look for a soft tree," he said.  "I will make sure you reach the ground safely."

With that, he strapped on his parachute, and slid open a door.  The wind immediately whipped through the bay.  He looked out, then back at Misha, and once Misha had gotten the parachute harness on properly, he jumped out.

It takes a certain amount of bravery to jump out of a perfectly good aircraft.  But Misha managed it, flinging himself into the cold air, the wind rushing all around and the emerald green of the trees below him.  Something made Misha look up - and he saw a third figure tumbling from the Hexe.  Swanson, it seemed, was not going to be left behind.

(GM: roll on piloting skill, % dice !)

Misha's parachute opened, but the trees were hard to judge.  He crashed hard into one, and the world went black.

He awoke aching and hanging from the harness, listening to an argument.  He would see a knee right by his face, and felt someone pulling at the straps to his left side.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah,"  He heard Swanson muttered, close at hand.  The other voice was raspy and harsh, Harry Smith. "And if I wasn't here, your new pal here would be buzzard food."
"You had orders !" Smith snapped.
"Somebody has to watch yer back,"  Swanson snapped back.
"I do not require a bodyguard !"
"Well, you got one anyhows," Swanson said, and then bent around, at an angle that Misha usually expected to see on a circus performer, not a mercenary.

"Oh, ya's awake," the mercenary grinned, seeing Misha was now conscious.  "Tree gotcha, but I'm getting you untangled."  True to his word, Misha was being freed from the tree, and gently lowered to the ground.  His head hurt, and he felt a lump on his left temple.  Assorted scrapes and contusions were also making themselves known, and he thought his right shoulder had suffered a strain or sprain, the ache was harsh and the arm felt weak. His ribs were also protesting, where he'd met up with a branch.  Harry Smith steadied him and Misha set his feet onto the ground, to the tune of Hunnish apologies.

"I am sorry, I could not assist you better,"  Harry Smith said contritely, letting Misha lean on a tree trunk. "I was tangled up myself."  Swanson was climbing down the tree now, nimble as a monkey.  Misha's bag of gear had also been rescued, though a small brown snake was winding along the side now, in pursuit of a grasshopper.

All around was jungle.  Something was cawing loudly, some sort of bird that could not be seen.  The sheer greenness of the place seemed to suck one's breath away, or perhaps it was the bruised ribs.  Harry Smith had a rucksack; Swanson had his weapons, and both looked remarkably 'at home'. Sunlight fought to get through the thickly interlaced branches above; vines and plants were everywhere on the ground, the thick loamy soil smelling rich and musty.

Harry Smith drew a machete and turned in a specific direction, and began to cut a path.  Swanson shrugged, and picked up Misha's bag.  "Can ya walk ?"  he asked.

Misha sighed as he finally got his feet back on the ground and he stood up to stretch as he said in a resigned tone, "Yes I believe I can still walk... though it is a miracle that we lived.  Remind me never again to abandon a perfectly functioning aircraft... there had to have been a better way to make landfall than this."

With another sigh, Misha looked over at Swanson and said in a friendly tone, "Thank you for cutting me free and getting me down Swanson.  Thank you also for getting my gear collected... if the rest of this trip continues as it has begun, I may end up being my own first patient."

Misha looked back at Harry and added in a calm tone, "While I don't condone needless risks, I am still alive and in one piece... more or less.  Please lead on Captain."

Swanson grinned affably.  For a mercenary, he was remarkably friendly and calm.  "Yer welcome, Doc.  I still owe you for the fancy stitchin'."  He indicated the line of stitches on his face, which was healing quite well.

"I am sorry," Harry Smith repeated, with every appearance of that being the truth, and continued to hack a trail into the thick underbrush.  Swanson drew a knife to cut at a thick wooden stem, and ended up with a long tube.  He then cut some vines and made a string to carry it with.  "Canteen," he explained, to Misha. "Didn't bring mine."

There was a loud chattering in the trees, suddenly, and Misha looked up to see monkeys up there; just as he was watching them protest the arrival of the humans, a grey eagle swooped past and hauled one off the branch.  "Lookee there !"  Swanson laughed at the sight. "He just got dinner !"  The rest of the monkeys hurried away.

Misha responed to Harry in a polite tone, "I accept your apology Captain, I know you weren't deliberately putting me at risk.  Besides, as my old flight leader used to say... "Any landing you can walk away from is a good one".  No bones broken and more importantly no necks broken, considering that we just jumped out of a functioning airship into a jungle... I'd say that's a pretty good achievement anyday."

As the eagle flies away, Misha looked at Swanson and asked in a wary tone, "So aside from touchy primates and monkey-eating birds of prey... what other wonders of nature are we likely to find out here?  Or rather more importantly... is there anything close by that is likely to look upon US as potential dinner?"

Harry Smith took the acceptance of his apology in stride and continued to hack a path in the jungle.

Swanson shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "Never been here before.  But I reckon so.  Probably painters around."

This caused Smith to turn around, with a puzzled look.  "What ?  Why are painters here in the jungle ?"
"Painters," Swanson said, pointing to a tree, which bore some long vertical scrapes on it.  "You know, big cats ?"
"Panthers." Harry Smith said.  "They are panthers."
"Big black ones ?"  Swanson added, glancing up and smoothly drawing a pistol.

"Panthers?  Oh dear... why do I suddenly feel horribly unarmed?  I don't suppose you know if there are any "unfriendly natives" in the area who have acquired a taste for roasted European, do you?"

Misha looked around the area, his senses were alert to oncoming danger and then he realized that the best he could do was dodge out of the way and pray these two other men would get "it" before "it" got him!

"He ain't coming down - looks like he got dinner, too,"  Swanson said, edging along the path that Smith was cutting.  But he didn't take his eyes off the canopy, or put the pistol away.  "Don't you worry none, Doc, I ain't been bothered much yet by a big cat, and I ain't planning to, today."

"There are headhunters, and cannibals," Harry Smith said, sourly, which did not help relieve Misha's unease.  They proceeded onward, slowly progressing through the jungle.

Misha, however, was also nervously looking around; Harry Smith was chopping at the jungle and Smith was watching the panther, so when he looked to his left and saw the painted black man, neither of them were looking that way.  The man was small, barely five feet tall, the colour of tobacco, with twinkling dark eyes and a broad smile.  He was painted in white, ochre and a dull red, in a complex pattern of dots and lines, and wore a simple loincloth; what hair he had left on the fringes of his very bald head was white and cut short.  He wore feathers in his nose and ears, brilliant green ones, and a shell necklace.

Misha cleared his throat slightly and said in a concerned tone, "Umm, excuse me gentlemen but these cannibals and headhunters that you mentioned about.... would they happen to look like small painted black men?  Perhaps no more than 5 feet tall, dark skin dotted and lined with white and red paint wearing green feathers in both nose and ears as well as a shell necklace?  I ask because I've just spotted an individual that matches that description and he's wearing a board smile... I hope he doesn't feel he's just spotted a 3-course meal."

Harry Smith paused in midswing; Swanson's head whipped around, and then both looked at Misha.  The strange little man had simply vanished, without a sound, without a sign he had ever been there.

"Dotted ?"  Smith asked, narrowing one eye.
"Now that's woodscraft,"  Swanson said softly.
"I am sure it was nothing,"  Smith said, with an authoritative ring in his voice, and resumed hacking at the plants with renewed vigor.  Swanson glanced back at Misha and raised his eyebrows, and Misha understood that Swanson didn't believe that BS for one minute.

Misha looked back a few seconds later, to see the little old man again, still smiling, and essaying a little finger-wiggling wave.

In a calm, controlled tone, Misha said, "Well that "nothing" is showing up again in the same form of an old man with a smile... and now he's giving me a finger-wiggling wave.  If he's got evil intentions, it seems he intends to be polite and friendly about turning me into his next meal.  Any suggestions... is waving back considered insulting?"

Both of their heads whipped around again, but the old man simply vanished...he was standing there, waving to Misha, and then he was simply not there.  Now both of them gave Misha a searching look, as if to say, 'are you -sure- you saw this ?'

"If he doesn't try to stick a spear into you, I would say that is a good thing.  Perhaps you should wave." Harry Smith said, somewhat lamely.  Swanson shrugged.

They continued onwards, Smith's strength beginning to flag as he battled the greenery with the machete.

Misha shrugged as the men looked at him and said in a nonchallant tone, "Look gentlemen, the old man was right there a moment ago... I can't help it if he keeps disappearing just as you turn to spot him.  I can say that my imagination is not quite vivid enough for it to be fabricating all the little details.

However if I see him again, I'll be sure to wave back... in the hopes that a wave means the same thing here as it does elsewhere in the world.  Remember, this is my first time in these parts... I had assumed that you two would be the experts about this area and the people who inhabit it."

Misha continues to follow along while keeping an eye out for the old man... or any of his "friends".

Swanson shrugged this time. "I ain't never been here," he said.  Harry Smith's expression became one of 'Reserved German Nobleman' again.  Eventually the machete was passed to Swanson, who got the hang of it quickly.  It was humid, and exercise soon tired a man out.  The sights, however, were amazing.  A spider big as a cat prowled across the path, scuttling faster as it nearly got stepped on.  Colourful birds flitted and called in the trees, and rotund little rodents trundled, squeaking, in the underbrush.  Then there were the less welcome creatures - mosquitoes and other biting insects.

The little old man didn't show up again, yet Misha could not shake the feeling he was being watched.  At last, Swanson was also tired, and Harry Smith declared a rest break had to be taken.  The sun, so far as they could tell by the green light filtering through the thick canopy, was beginning to set.

Misha sighed as he relaxed his aching muscles from the long hard walk thus far and he asked the other two in a curious tone, "So are we going to keep some kind of watch schedule during the night with one man on guard while the other two sleep?  I know you both may be skeptical of what I reported but I swear that I saw that old painted man not once but twice before he disappeared for good.  Do you think he'll bring along any friends during the night?"

"Swanson, you will take second watch; I will take the third.  Doctor, if you would be so kind, to take the first."  Harry Smith said. "Did you bring any food ?"
Swanson pulled a mashed sandwich out of a pocket. "Ham on rye," he announced.
Smith sighed, and pulled out a stash of dried fruit and nuts, and some beef jerky.

Misha was amazed at the ease with which they set up a small fire, found branches and underbrush to form bedding, and generally were at home in the wilderness.  Dinner was a quiet affair, and soon Misha was watching two hardened mercenaries sleep.  Smith slept with his eyes slitted open; Swanson slept like a kid, curled up and smiling.

It was quite boring, even with the large moths flittering around, the bats flittering after the moths, and the night sounds of the creatures in the underbrush.  Nothing sounded particularly large and fearsome; he even saw a little mouse rush over and seize a crumb they had dropped.

Then the girl was there, just there, without a sound.  She was clad in a simple sarong decorated with red feather patterns, barefoot, with large doe eyes, and she had a basket with her.  She was beautiful; maybe 20 years old, with a heart-shaped face and a form of such supple curves that made one think 'pretty woman' in an instant.  Her black hair was loose and flowing, down to her hips, and a flower was tucked behind both ears.  She smiled gently at Misha and set down the basket, and held a finger to her lips to indicate silence.

Dear lord... is this sort of things going to keep happening to me from now on?  First Silvain, then the old man... and now this beautiful woman!?  Well, if I am going mad... at least my tortured imagination is coming up with more pleasant images each time.  Of course, just because she is alluring doesn't mean she isn't deadly dangerous to us.  Should I wake the others... and if I did, would she still be there... and if not, would the other two continue to look at me as if I were crazy?

With a deep sigh, Misha nods his head in agreement with the woman's request for silence.  He then makes an obvious effort to shrug and raise his eyebrows in curiousity in an effort to ask "Why?" silently.  Misha also took a moment to look around him for any signs of other people approaching or any danger... including trying to peek at what might be in the basket.

The girl smiles, showing perfect white teeth, and  crooks her finger to beckon Misha to follow her.  She leaves behind the basket, in which Misha can see a heap of what seem to be scones, and some fruit.  If she -is- a cannibal, she's the prettiest one around.  She moves a few silent steps away, and looks back over her shapely shoulder to beckon to him again.

Ok... I know I should be doing this... but there are worse ways to die I suppose?  Maybe it has just been too long since I last went out on a date with a beautiful woman?  No wonder Silvain might have had suspicions about me... I really need to look into getting more of a normal life outside of the hospital!  Oh well... I know I shouldn't judge a book by its cover... but sometimes life just isn't worth living without a little risk.

Misha quietly rose from his position and looked briefly down at his two comrades wondering if they would be alright while he was gone.  Then he realized that they were probably better prepared to deal with the dangers of this jungle asleep than Misha was wide awake!

With another sigh of resignation, Misha quietly crept in the direction the pretty young woman was beckoning him towards... I wonder if I'm walking to my demise?  At this point, perhaps I no longer care?  Do all doctors have to go through this kind of thing to discover new cures... I certainly don't remember reading about such things in the medical journals!?

The girl led him along, padding silently, and Misha noticed that there were plenty of twigs and squeaky moss that he was stepping on, that she was missing.  There was a flash of gold on one shapely brown ankle, too.  She led him down a small path, to where another figure was waiting; the painted old man.  He was still smiling, and spoke, in a language that to Misha's ears sounded Russian, but that was impossible !  Wasn't it ?  His mind knew that it could not be Russian, but Russian was what his ears were receiving.

"Healer," the old man said, "My daughter brings you to me, to speak of your path. You have travelled far, for the welfare of another.  This is a dangerous path you are on, and you must be careful whom you trust.  There is a knife in your future."