by Bob Shaw
Shortly afterwards, the pilot of Green Four—Chela Dinnitler—made the mistake of slowly coasting past a soldier who was drifting free some distance from a gondola which was wrapped in the blazing material of its envelope. The soldier, who had appeared to be unconscious, stirred into life, calmly levelled his musket and shot Dinnitler in the back. Dinnitler slumped over his controls and the fighter's exhaust spouted vapour. The machine, with the pilot freakishly locked in his seat, went into a twisting descent which carried it through the lower fringes of the battle. It dwindled into the backdrop of Land, passing through a sprinkling of circular white clouds which resembled balls of fluffy wool.
The soldier who had killed Dinnitler was fitting a new pressure sphere to his musket, and—incredibly in view of the death-fall facing him—was laughing as he worked. Toller advanced his throttle and drove straight at the man, intending to ram him, then came the thought that even a fleeting proximity might prove enough to infect him with pterthacosis. He hit the plunger on one of his cannon, shattering power crystal containers in the breech, and held a steady course until detonation occurred. The gun had not been designed for precise marksmanship, but luck was with Toller and the two-inch ball hit the soldier squarely on the head, cartwheeling him away in spirals of blood.
Toller banked the fighter away from the corpse and was about to enter the main battle again when, belatedly, his memory of the odd-looking circular clouds began to trouble him. He flew well clear of the column of turmoil and studied the sky below its base. The clouds were still there and now there were more of them. It took Toller several seconds to realise that he was looking at the exhaust plumes of skyships—seen from "below" their gondolas. Pilots in the lower echelons had inverted their ships and were fleeing the scene of destruction upside down. It was something no commander liked to do, because when the thrust of an engine was augmented by gravity a ship could quickly exceed its design speed and tear itself apart, but for the Landers the risk was an acceptable one in the circumstances.
Toller's first impulse was to reverse his original battle plan and go after the most distant of the enemy ships, but an inner voice sounded a warning. In the heat of combat he had lost track of time, and his fighters had been burning crystals at a prodigious rate all the while. He pumped up the pneumatic reservoir of his fuel feed and knew from the number of strokes required that the amount of solid material within the system had been greatly depleted. Looking up towards where the battle had begun he saw that the earliest condensation trails had faded. The squadron's home base was totally invisible, concealed somewhere in the trackless immensities of the space between the worlds, and finding it could be a lengthy job which would require ample reserves of power.
He ignited one of his remaining arrows and slowly waved it above his head. During the next few minutes the other pilots, recognising the signal, detached themselves from the ferment of smoke and cloud to join him. Most of them were intoxicated with excitement and were loudly exchanging stories of daring and triumph. Legends had been born, Toller knew, and were already acquiring the embellishments which would be further elaborated upon in the taverns of Prad. Berise Narrinder was one of the last to arrive, and there was a cheer when it was seen that she had managed to put a line around Perobane's crippled machine and had it in tow.
When it was apparent that disengagement had been completed, Toller counted the fighters and was disturbed to find there were only twenty-five, including the one Berise had salvaged. He ordered a squadron by squadron check, and there was a lull in the hubbub of talk as it was realised that Green Three, which had been flown by Wans Mokerat, was missing. At some point in the whirling turmoil of the battle Mokerat had met his fate, unobserved by any of his comrades, and had disappeared completely, perhaps engulfed by a burning skyship.
The sobering effect of the discovery was as brief as Toller had expected, with the noise level among the other fliers quickly swelling to what it had been. He knew the youngsters were not heartless by nature—it was simply that, although physically unscathed, they too had become victims of war. The same thing must have happened to me long ago, he thought, but without my understanding. And only recently has it been revealed to me what I am—a fleshly automaton whose essential hollowness renders him incapable of sustaining warmth or joy.
Directly ahead of him, but a considerable distance away, was the gondola of a ruined skyship. Its occupants had successfully cast adrift all remnants of their burning balloon, which now hovered above and around them in great flakes of grey ash. The gondola and the fighter squadrons remained in fixed relative positions, because all were falling at the same speed.
Again Toller wondered if the Lander soldiers fully understood that their rate of descent, although insensible at this stage, would show an inexorable increase which would guarantee their deaths. Some of the soldiers were still firing their muskets in spite of the fact that the fighters were out of range, and—in one of the flukes which so often occur in seeming defiance of probability—a bullet came slowly tumbling towards Toller and came to rest within arm's length.
He plucked it out of the air and saw that it was a stubby cylinder of brakka wood. He put it away in a pocket, feeling a strange affinity with the alien marksman. From one dead man to another, he thought.
"We have done enough for this day," he shouted, raising his gloved hand. "Now let us find our way home!"
Chapter 9
At the sound of the wagon approaching Bartan Drumme stood up and went to the mirror which hung on the kitchen wall. It felt odd for him not to be dressed in work clothes, and even the face which regarded him from the glass seemed unfamiliar. The boyish, humorous look—which had once earned him the farmers' mistrust—was no longer present, and instead there were the hard, sun-darkened features of a man who was no stranger to solitude, sorrow and relentless toil. He smoothed down his black hair, adjusted the collar of his shirt and went to the farmhouse door.
The Phorateres' wagon was drawing to a halt outside, amid much snorting from an elderly bluehorn which was sweating after the journey in the midday sun. Harro and Ennda waved and called a greeting to Bartan. They had actively befriended him since the grim incident at their farm, and it had been at Ennda's insistence that he had agreed to take some hours off and go into New Minnett to relax. He assisted her down from the tall vehicle and, while Harro was leading the bluehorn to the water trough, slowly walked with her to the house.
"What a handsome young toff you look today," she said, a smile erasing the look of tiredness on her face.
"I managed to preserve one good shirt and one pair of trews, but they seem to have shrunk somewhat."
"You have expanded." She halted to give him an appraising look. "It's difficult to realise you are the same baby-face who used to try to dazzle us with his clever city talk."
"I don't talk much at all these days," Bartan said ruefully. "There isn't much point in it."
Ennda gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze. "Has Sondy not improved in any way? How long has it been? Close on two hundred days?"
"Two hundred! I've lost track of the time, but it must be something like that. Sondy remains as she was, but I'm not giving up hope."
"Good for you! Now, is she still in the bedroom?"
Bartan nodded, ushered Ennda into the house and led the way to the bedroom. He pushed open the door to reveal Sondeweere sitting on the edge of the bed in a full-length white nightdress. She was staring at the opposite wall and remained that way, apparently unaware of the presence of others. Her yellow hair was well brushed, but was unimaginatively arranged in a way which showed that Bartan had done it.
Ennda went into the room, knelt in front of Sondeweere and gathered her unresisting hands into hers. "Hello, Sondy," she said in a gentle but cheerful voice. "How are you today?"
Sondeweere made no response. The beautiful face was untroubled, the eyes unseeing.
Ennda kissed her on the forehead, stood up and returned to Bartan. "All right, young man! You can go off to town and
enjoy yourself for a few hours and leave everything to me. Just tell me what has to be done about Sondy's food and the … mmm … consequences."
"Consequences?" Bartan gazed at Ennda in puzzlement until a look of exasperation made her meaning clear. "Oh! You don't have to do anything. She keeps herself clean, attends to all the basics by herself and eats anything that is prepared for her. It's just that nobody else seems to exist for her. She never speaks. She sits there on the bed all day, staring at the wall, and I don't exist. Perhaps I deserve it. Perhaps it's my punishment for bringing her to this place."
"Now you're being silly." Ennda put her arms around him and he clung to her, immensely comforted by her aura of warmth, femininity and resilience.
"What have we here?" Harro Phoratere boomed jovially, entering the shady kitchen from the sunlight outside. "Is one woman not enough for you, young Bartan?"
"Harro!" Ennda rounded on her husband. "What kind of a thing is that to say?"
"I'm sorry, lad—I wasn't thinking about your Sondy being…" Harro hesitated, the circular bite-scar glowing whitely against the pink of his cheek. "I'm sorry."
"No need to apologise," Bartan said. "I appreciate your coming here—it's more than generous."
"Nonsense! It's a welcome break for me as well. I intend to spend a very lazy aftday and—I give you fair warning—to consume a quantity of your wine." Harro glanced anxiously at the group of empty demijohns in a corner. "You do have some left, I trust."
"You'll find ample supplies in the cellar, Harro. It's the only solace left to me and I take care never to run short."
"I hope you don't drink too much," Ennda said, showing some concern.
Bartan smiled at her. "Only enough to guarantee a night's sleep. It's too quiet here—much too quiet."
Ennda nodded. "I'm sorry you have to bear your burden alone, Bartan, but it's all we can do to manage our own section now that so many of our family have given up and moved north. Did you know that the Wilvers and the Obrigails have gone as well?"
"After all their work! How many families are left now?"
"Five, apart from us."
Bartan shook his head dispiritedly. "If only the people would wait and…"
"If you wait around here much longer it'll be dark before you reach the tavern," Ennda cut in, pushing him towards the front entrance. "Go off and enjoy yourself for a few hours. Go on—out!"
With a last glance at his wife, withdrawn to her inaccessible world, Bartan went outside and summoned his bluehorn with a whistle. Within a few minutes he had it saddled and was riding west to New Minnett. He was unable to shake off the feeling that he was doing something shameful, planning to spend half a day free of his crushing burden of work and responsibility, but the fierceness of his hunger for a spell in the undemanding company of amiable topers told him the excursion would be remedial.
The ride through pastoral scenery was refreshing in itself, and on reaching the township he was surprised by his reaction to the sight of unknown people, clusters of buildings in a variety of sizes and styles, and the lofty rigging of sea-going ships at anchor in the river. When he had seen New Minnett for the first time it had seemed a tiny and remote outpost of civilisation—now, after his lengthy incarceration on the farm, it was a veritable metropolis.
He rode straight to the open-fronted building used as a tavern and was gratified to find in it many of the local characters who had welcomed him and his airboat on that far-off first visit. Compared to the harrowing downward trend of life in the Basket, it was as though the townsfolk had been suspended in time, preserved, ready to spring to life at his behest. The reeve, Majin Karrodall, was present—wearing his smallsword—as was the plump Otler, still protesting his sobriety, and a dozen other remembered individuals whose obvious contentment with their lot was a reassurance that life in general was well worth the living.
Bartan happily drank the strong brown ale with them, finding room for pot after pot of it without wearying of the taste. He was appreciative of the way in which the men—including Otler, who was not known for his tact—made no reference to his people's continuing evacuation of the Haunt. As though sympathising with the reasons for his visit they kept the talk on general subjects, much of the time discussing the latest news of the strange war that was being fought in the sky above the far side of the planet. The notion of a new breed of warriors who rode through the heavens on the backs of jet engines, without the support of balloons, seemed to have fired their imaginations. In particular, Bartan was struck by how often the name of Lord Toller Maraquine came up.
"Is it true that this Maraquine slew two kings at the time of the Migration?" he said.
"Of course it's true!" Otler banged his alepot down on the long table. "Why do you think they call him the Kingslayer? I was there, my friend! Saw it with my own eyes!"
"Balderdash!" Karrodall shouted amid a general cry of derision.
"Well, perhaps I didn't actually see what happened," Otler conceded, "but I saw King Prad's ship fall like a stone." He turned his shoulder to the others and aimed his words at Bartan. "I was a young soldier at the time—Fourth Sorka Regiment—and I was in one of the very first ships to leave Ro-Atabri. I never thought I'd complete the journey, but that is another story."
"One we've heard a thousand times," another man said, nudging his neighbour.
Otler made an obscene gesture at him. "You see, Bartan, Prad's ship got entangled with the one which Toller Maraquine was flying. Chakkell, who was then a prince, and Daseene and their three children were in Toller's ship, and he saved their lives by pushing the two ships apart. It took the strength of ten men, but he did it single-handed, and Prad's ship went down. I saw it plunge past me, and I'll never forget the way Prad was standing there at the rail. Tall and straight he was, unafraid, and his one blind eye was shining like a star.
"His death meant that Prince Leddravohr became King, and three days later—after the landing—Leddravohr and Toller fought a duel which lasted six hours. It ended when Toller struck Leddravohr's head off his shoulders with a single blow!"
"He must have been quite a man," Bartan said drily, trying to separate fact from fiction.
"Strength of ten! And what do you mean by must have been quite a man? None of those striplings up there can keep pace with him to this day. Do you know that in the first battle against the Landers, after all his fire arrows had been expended, he started cutting their balloons into shreds with his white sword? The selfsame sword with which he overcame Karkarand—Karkarand, mark you!—with only one blow. I tell you, Bartan, we owe that man everything. If I were twenty years younger, and didn't have this bad knee, I'd be up there with him at this very minute."
Reeve Karrodall guffawed into his beer. "I thought you said they had no need of gasbags at the midpoint."
"Very droll," Otler muttered. "Very droll indeed."
The following hours slipped by pleasantly and quickly for Bartan, and it was with some surprise that he noticed the sun's rays slanting redly into the tavern at a shallow angle. "Gentlemen," he said, getting to his feet, "I have stayed longer than it was my intention to do. I must leave you now."
"Have but one more," Karrodall said.
"I'm sorry, but I am obliged to leave. Friends are attending to the farm for me, and I have already done them a discourtesy."
Karrodall stood and took Bartan's hand. "I heard about your wife's misfortune, and I'm sorry," he whispered. "Would you not consider taking her away from that baneful place?"
"The place is just a place," Bartan said lightly, determined not to be offended at this late stage of the gathering, "and I won't surrender it. Good-bye, Majin."
"Good luck, son!"
Bartan saluted the rest of the company and walked out to where his bluehorn was tethered. The alcoholic warmth in his stomach and the pleasant optimistic tingle in his brain, important allies in the day-to-day battle of life, were at their height. He felt privileged to be alive, a beautiful feeling which in the past had suffused his e
xistence, but which of late could only be recaptured near the bottom of a demijohn of black wine. He hoisted himself into the saddle and nudged the bluehorn forward, delegating to the intelligent creature the task of getting him home.
As the sky gradually deepened in colour the daytime stars became more prominent, and the spirals and braids of misty light began to emerge from the background. There were more major comets than usual. Bartan counted eight of them, their tails fanning right across the dome of the heavens, creating alternate bands of silver and dark blue among which meteors darted like fireflies. In his mellow speculative mood he wondered if men would ever solve the mystery of the sky's largest features. The stars were thought to be distant suns; the single green point of brilliance was known to be a third planet, Farland; and the nature of meteors was well understood because sometimes they crashed to the ground, leaving craters of various sizes. But what was the vast whirlpool of radiance which spanned the entire night sky for part of the year? Why did the heavenly population contain so many similar but smaller spirals, sometimes overlapping each other, ranging in shape from circles through ellipses to glowing spindles which concealed their structure until examined by telescope?
The train of thought caused Bartan to pay more attention than usual to the luminous arches of the sky, and thus it was that he noticed an entirely new phenomenon which might otherwise have escaped him. Due east, roughly in the direction of his farm, he saw a tiny and oddly-formed patch of light a short distance above the horizon. It was like a four-pointed star with in-curved sides, the kind of geometrical shape created at the middle of four touching circles, and each point appeared to be emitting a faint spray of prismatic colour. The object was too small to yield much detail without a glass, but its centre seemed to be teeming with multi-hued specks of brilliance. Intrigued, Bartan watched the eerily beautiful apparition sink swiftly downwards and pass out of sight behind the crest of the nearest drumlin.