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a
manufacturer of exploding cigars. The sign read white
city investigations . Randolph tugged the brim of his hat a bit lower,
looked swiftly up and down the littered and shadowy street, and sidled in the
entrance. A young lady typewriter who managed to act prim and bold at the same
time glanced up from her florallyappliquéd machine. “It’s after bedtime, sonny.”
    “The door was open—”
    “Yeah, and maybe this ain’t the
Epworth League.”
    “I was supposed to see Mr. Privett?”
    “Nate!” she screamed, causing
Randolph to jump. Her smile was not unmischievous. “You bring a note from your
parents, kid?”   
    In
Nate’s office were a combination sideboard, bookcase, and filing cabinet with
assorted bottles of whiskey, a bedlounge over in the corner, a couple of
canebottom chairs, a curtain desk with about a thousand pigeonholes, a window
with a view of the German saloon across the street, localbusiness awards and
testimonials on the darkpaneled walls, along with photos of notable clients,
some of them posed with Nate himself, including Doc Holliday, out in front of
the Occidental Saloon in Tombstone, Doc and Nate each pointing a .44 Colt at
the other’s head and pretending to scowl terribly. The picture was inscribed, More
of a shotgun man myself, regards, Doc.
    “Since the Haymarket bomb,” Nate was
explaining, “we’ve had more work than we can handle, and it’s about to get even
more hectic, if the Governor decides to pardon that gang of anarchistic
murderers. Heaven knows what that’s gonna let loose on Chicago, the Fair
in particular. Antiterrorist security now more than ever will be of the essence
here. And, well, you boys enjoy the one perspective that all us in the
‘spotter’ community long for—namely, a view from overhead. We can’t pay
you as well as the Pinkertons might, but maybe we could work out a deferred
arrangement, small percent of profits down the line instead of cash right now.
Not to mention what tips or other offthebooks revenue might come your way.”
    “That is between you and our National
Office,” Randolph supposed. “For here at Unit level, our compensation may not
exceed legitimate expenses.”
    “Sounds crazy. But, we’ll have our
legal folks draw up some language we can all live with, how’s that?” He was
peering at Randolph now with that mixture of contempt and pity which the Chums
in their contact with the ground population were sooner or later sure to evoke.
Randolph was used to it, but determined to proceed in a professional manner.
    “Of what exactly would our services
consist?”
    “Got room on your ship for an extra
passenger?”
    “We have carried up to a dozen
wellfed adults with no discernible loss of lift,” replied Randolph, his glance
not quite able to avoid lingering upon Mr. Privett’s embonpoint.
    “Take our man up on a short trip or
two’s about all it’ll amount to,” the sleuthofficer now, it seemed, grown a bit
shifty. “Out to the Fair, maybe down to the Yards, duck soup.”

    trolling among the skyships next morning, beneath a circus
sky which was slowly becoming crowded as craft of all sorts made their ascents,
renewing acquaintance with many in whose company, for better or worse, they had
shared adventures, the Chums were approached by a couple whom they were not
slow to recognize as the same photographer and model they had inadvertently
bombarded the previous evening.
    The sportive lensman introduced
himself as Merle Rideout. “And my fair companion here is . . . give me a minute—”
    “You beanbrain.” The young woman
directed a graceful kick which was not, however, altogether lacking in
affection, and said, “I’m Chevrolette McAdoo, and mighty pleased to meet you
fellows, even if you did nearly sandbag us into the beyond yesterday.” Fully
attired, she seemed to have just stepped out of a ladies’ magazine, her
ensemble this forenoon right at the vanguard of summer fashion, the current
revival of the