The door into the building opened, spilling young men and sunlight into the space.
"Rotgut, Henrich, all around. And the paint."
"We're out of the Grantville Rotgut. You'll have to make do with the Italian version."
"As long as it's corn liquor, and burns, it will do."
Heinrich scanned the faces, quickly assessing who was missing. "Johan?" He took the container of bright pink paint down from the shelf behind the bar and handed it across. Then he placed a tray of shot-glasses on the counter.
"Ja. The left aileron hinge tore loose from the wing root, but not cleanly. The Marie was never built to attempt an immelman. The main wing spar cracked, and he came in hard." Georg's hand made a twisting swoop through the air, and fluttered to the bar top.
A sound of scraping came from the far wall as tables were moved. Eleven bright pink pairs of wings flew in perfect coordination in two rows along the top. Quickly, tables were piled and a young man stood and added another pair.
Meanwhile, the pink silk scarves they all wore were folded and placed under their epaulettes.
The tray made its way around the group. Each man took a glass, then twelve shot glasses were placed in a "missing man" formation with one out front.
Isaac looked around to see if everyone was ready. "To Johan! And to the SKY!"
"TO THE SKY!" Twenty shot glasses arced towards the fireplace, while the other twelve began burning with the odd blue flame that only rotgut produces.
Barmaids began passing around beers, while the notebooks and slide rules began appearing. Marie would be salvaged for her wire, and fasteners, and fabric, but Emily was almost ready. They might not have engines, but the catapult functioned well; the cabling seldom broke. Only one pair of wings represented a young man decapitated as the tow cable snapped. Since then, they had learned the value of bunkers for the tow crew.
They already flew, and it was, by God, 1635 in this modern era. How far away could engines be? A year? A month?
The slide rules slid. The beer puddled. The drawings and the arguments proceeded as they held their wake for the latest of their number to earn his wings in the only way they could think of that honored him. They prepared to go back into the sky.
The youngest of the barmaids approached Georg as he was sketching a truss joint. "Sir?"
He looked up. "Yes?"
"Sir, I just wondered. Why pink, sir?"
Georg gestured to the wall. "It's an American tradition. Pink is the color of bravery and honor and manliness. That is why Colonel Wood made his first plane down-time pink, so all could see. It's in honor of the Belle."