Land and Overland - Omnibus

by Bob Shaw

"Lifeboat? That's the general idea, but it would have to be a fully fledged skyship, complete with a balloon and its own power unit."

  "But how could it be carried?"

  "That's what I was getting at when I said the spaceship would have to be able to divide itself into two parts. Say the spaceship is made up of four or five cylindrical sections, just as a command station is now—the entire front section would have to be detached and converted back into a skyship for the descent. There would have to be an extra partition, and a sealable door, and…" Zavotle shuddered with pleasurable excitement and half-rose from his seat. "I need proper drawing materials, Toller—my mind is on fire."

  "I'll have them brought for you," Toller said, motioning for Zavotle to sit down again, "but first tell me more about this dividing of the spaceship. Could it be done in the void? Would there not be a great risk of losing all the ship's air?"

  "It would certainly be safer to do it within Farland's atmosphere, and easier as well—that's something I need to ponder over. It may be, if we are lucky, that the atmosphere is so deep that it extends beyond the radius of Farland's gravity, in which case the operation would be relatively straightforward. The spaceship would simply be hanging there in the high air. We could detach the skyship, inflate the balloon and connect the acceleration struts—all in a fairly routine manner. It is something which should be practised in our own weightless zone before the expedition starts.

  "On the other hand, if the spaceship has to wait outside the atmosphere, the best course might be for it to descend briefly to a level where the air is breathable, and only then cast the skyship section adrift. The skyship would of course be falling while its balloon was being inflated, but—as we know from experience—the fall would be so gradual that there would be ample time to do all that was necessary. There is much to think about…"

  "Including air," Toller said. "I presume the plan would be to use firesalt?"

  "Yes. We know it puts life back into dead air, but we don't know how much would be needed to keep a man alive during a long voyage. Experiments will have to be done—because the quantity of salt we'll have to transport could be the principal factor in deciding the size of the crew."

  Zavotle paused and gave Toller a wistful look. "It's a pity Lain isn't with us—we have need of him."

  "I'll fetch the drawing materials." As Toller was leaving the room his memory conjured up a vivid image of his brother, the gifted mathematician who had been killed by a ptertha on the eve of the Migration. Lain had possessed an impressive ability to unveil nature's hidden machinations and predict their outcome, and yet even he had been seriously in error concerning some of the scientific discoveries made on the first flight from Land to the weightless zone. The mental image of him was a reminder of just how presumptuous and reckless was the plan to fly through millions of miles of space to a totally unknown world.

  A man could very easily die attempting a journey like that, Toller told himself, and almost smiled as he took the thought one step further. But nobody would ever be able to say it had been a commonplace death…

  "I'm trying to decide what irks me most about this Farland business," King Chakkell said, gazing unhappily at Toller and Zavotle. "I don't know if it's the fact that I'm being manipulated … or if it's the sheer lack of subtlety with which the manipulation is being conducted."

  Toller put on an expression of concern. "Majesty, it dismays me to hear that I'm suspected of having an ulterior motive. My sole ambition is to plant the flag of…"

  "Enough, Maraquine! I'm not a simpleton." Chakkell smoothed a strand of hair across his gleaming brown scalp. "You prate about planting flags as though they were capable of taking root unaided and producing some manner of desirable crop. What yield would I get from Farland? A meagre one, I'd say."

  "The harvest of history," Toller said, already beginning to plan the Farland project in detail. Chakkell's display of peevishness was a sure indication that he was about to give his consent for the construction and provisioning of the spaceship. In spite of his show of doubt and indifference, the King had been seduced by the idea of laying claim to the outer planet.

  Chakkell snorted. "The harvest of history will not be gathered in unless the ship successfully completes both legs of the voyage. I am by no means convinced that it will be able to do so."

  "The ship will be designed to cope with any exigency, Majesty," Toller said. "I have no desire to commit suicide."

  "Haven't you? There are times when I wonder about you, Maraquine." Chakkell stood up and paced around the small room. It was the same apartment in which he had consulted Toller about the aerial defence of Overland immediately after his reprieve. The circular table and six chairs took up most of the floor space, leaving the King a narrow margin through which to guide his paunchy figure. On reaching the chair in which he had been seated, Chakkell leaned on the back of it and frowned at Toller.

  "And what about the money?" he said. "You never trouble yourself with such mundane concerns, do you?"

  "One ship, Majesty—and a crew of not more than six."

  "The size of the actual crew is a flea-bite, and well you know it. This scheme of yours is bound to cost me a fortune in development and in keeping support stations operational in the weightless zone."

  "But if it opens the way to a new world…"

  "Don't start playing the same tune all over again, Maraquine," Chakkell interrupted. "I'm going to let you proceed with your wild enterprise—I suppose you are entitled to some indulgence on account of your services during the war—but I make one provision, and that is that Zavotle does not accompany you. I cannot afford to lose his services."

  "I regret to say this, Majesty," Zavotle put in before Toller could speak, "but you will shortly be deprived of my services come what may, expedition or no expedition."

  Chakkell narrowed his eyes at Zavotle and scrutinised him as though suspecting deviousness. "Zavotle," he finally said, "are you going to die?"

  "Yes, Majesty."

  Chakkell looked embarrassed rather than concerned. "I would have had it otherwise."

  "Thank you, Majesty."

  "I must attend to other matters now," Chakkell said brusquely, moving towards the door, "but, under the circumstances, I will not object to your going to Farland."

  "I'm most grateful, Majesty."

  Chakkell paused in the doorway and gave Toller a look of peculiar intensity. "The game has almost run its course, eh, Maraquine?" He moved away into the corridor before Toller could frame a reply, and a quietness descended on the room.

  "I'll tell you something, liven," Toller said in a low voice. "We have made the King afraid. Did you notice how he twisted everything around so that it appears he is granting us a favour by permitting the expedition to go ahead? But the real reason is that he wants his standard to fly on Farland. A guaranteed place in history is a poor kind of immortality, but all kings seem to crave it—and we remind Chakkell of just how futile such ambitions are."

  "You speak strangely, Toller," Zavotle said, his gaze hunting over Toller's face. "I won't return from Farland—but surely you will."

  "Put your mind at ease, old friend," Toller replied, smiling. "I'll return from Farland, or die in the attempt."

  Toller had not been certain that his son would agree to meet him, and it was with a profound sense of gladness that he saw a lone rider appear on the skyline on the road that led south to Heevern. He had chosen the meeting place partly because the nearness of a gold-veined spire of rock and a pool made it easy to specify, but also because it was on the northern side of the final ridge on the way to his house. Had he ridden an extra mile to the crest. Toller would have been able to view his former home in the distance. The knowledge that Gesalla was within the familiar walls would have caused him fresh pain, but that was not the reason he had held back. It was simply that he had taken a vow to separate the courses of their lives for ever, and in a way which was important to him, although he could not rationally justify it, going within sight o
f the house would have been a breach of his word.

  He dismounted from his bluehorn and left the beast to graze while he watched the other rider approach. As before, he was able to identify Cassyll from afar by the distinctive creamy colour of his mount's forelegs. Cassyll rode towards him at moderate speed and reined his bluehorn to a halt at a distance of about ten paces. He remained in the saddle, studying Toller with pensive grey eyes.

  "It would be better if you got down," Toller said mildly. "It would make it easier for us to talk."

  "Have we anything to talk about?"

  "If we haven't there was little point in your riding out here to meet me." Toller gave his son a wry smile. "Come on—neither your honour nor your principles will be compromised if we talk face-to-face."

  Cassyll shrugged and swung himself down from his bluehorn, a movement he accomplished with athletic grace. With his oval face and pronounced widow's peak of glossy black, he owed much of his appearance to his mother, but Toller observed a sinewy strength in his spare figure.

  "You look well," Toller said.

  Cassyll glanced down at himself and his clothing—rough-spun shirt and trews which would not have looked out of place on a common labourer. "I do my share of work at the foundry and factories, and some of it is heavy."

  "I know." Toller was heartened by the civility of Cassyll's response and decided to go straight to the points he had to make. "Cassyll, the Farland expedition leaves in a few days from now. I have faith in liven Zavotle's designs and calculations, but only a fool would refuse to acknowledge that many unknown dangers lie ahead of us. I may not return from the voyage, and it would ease my mind greatly if we settled some matters concerning the future for you and your mother."

  Cassyll showed no emotion. "You will return, as always."

  "I intend to, but nevertheless I want you to give me your word on certain matters before we part this day. One of them is to do with the fact that the King has confirmed my title as being hereditary—and I want you to accept it if I am declared dead."

  "I don't want the title," Cassyll said. "I have no interest in such vanities."

  Toller nodded. "I know that, and I respect you for it, but the title represents power as well as privilege—power you can use to safeguard your mother's position in the world, power you can put to good use in worthwhile endeavours. I don't need to remind you how important it is for metals to replace brakka wood in our society—so vow to me you will not reject the title."

  Cassyll looked impatient. "All this is premature. You will live to be a hundred, if not more."

  "Your vow, Cassyll!"

  "I swear that I will accept the title on that far-off day when it eventually falls my due."

  "Thank you," Toller said earnestly. "Now, the management of the estate. If at all possible I want you to perpetuate the system of peppercorn rents for our tenants. I take it that the revenues from the mines, foundries and metal works are still increasing and will be ample for the family requirements."

  "Family?" Cassyll gave a half-smile to show that he considered the word inappropriate. "My mother and I are financially secure."

  Toller allowed the tacit challenge to pass and spent more time on practicalities connected with the estate and its industrial associations, but all the while he was aware that he was delaying the moment when he would have to admit his most important motive in arranging the meeting with his son. At last, after a tense silence had developed and looked like continuing indefinitely, he accepted that it was necessary for him to speak out.

  "Cassyll," he said, "I met my father for the first time only a few minutes before he died by his own hand. There was so much … waste in both our lives, but we were united before the end. I … I don't want to leave you without putting things right between us. Can you forgive me for the wrongs I have done you and your mother?"

  "Wrongs?" Cassyll spoke lightly, affecting puzzlement. He stooped and picked up a pebble which was heavily banded with gold, examined it briefly and hurled it into the nearby pool. The image of Land mirrored on the water broke up into jostling curved fragments.

  "What wrongs do you speak of, father?"

  Toller could not be put off. "I have neglected you both because I can never be content with what I have. It's as simple as that. My indictment takes but a few words—none of them fancy or abstruse."

  "I never felt neglected, because I believed you would love us both for ever," Cassyll said slowly. "Now my mother is alone."

  "She has you."

  "She is alone."

  "No more than I am," Toller said, "but there is no remedy. Your mother understands that better than I. If you could learn to understand you might also learn to forgive."

  Cassyll suddenly looked younger than his twenty-two years. "You're asking me to understand that love dies?"

  "It can die, or it can refuse to die; or a man or a woman can change, or a man or a woman can remain changeless; and when a person does not change with time the effect—from the viewpoint of a person who is changing—is as if the unchanging person is actually the one who is undergoing the greatest change…" Toller broke off and stared helplessly at his son. "How can I know what I'm asking you to understand when I don't understand it myself?"

  "Father…" Cassyll moved a step closer to Toller. "I see so much pain inside you. I hadn't realised…"

  Toller tried to check the tears which had begun to blur his vision. "I welcome the pain. There is not enough of it for my needs."

  "Father, don't…"

  Toller opened his arms to his son and they embraced, and for the fleeting period of the embrace he could almost remember what it had been like to be a whole man.

  "Put the ship on its side," Toller ordered, his breath rolling whitely in the chill air.

  Bartan Drumme, who was at the controls because he took every possible opportunity to practise skyship handling techniques, nodded and began firing short bursts on a lateral jet. As the thrust gradually overcame the inertia of the gondola, Overland slid up the sky and the great disk of Land emerged from behind the brown curvature of the balloon. Bartan halted the ship's rotation by means of the opposing jet, stabilising it in the new attitude, with an entire world on view on either side of the gondola. The sun was close to Land's eastern rim, illuminating a slim crescent of the planet and leaving the rest of it in comparative darkness.

  Against the dim background of Land, the waiting spaceship, now less than a mile away, was visible as a tiny bar of light. It was attended by several lesser motes, representing the few habitats and stores which King Chakkell had permitted to remain in the weightless zone to service the newly completed vessel. The group was an undistinguished feature of the crowded heavens, almost unnoticeable, but the sight of it caused a stealthy quickening of Toller's pulse.

  Sixty days had passed since he had received the royal assent for the expedition to Farland, and now he was finding it hard to accept that the hour of departure was at hand. Trying to dispel a slight sense of unreality, he raised his binoculars and studied the spaceship.

  There had been one major amendment to the design which Zavotle had sketched out during their meeting in the Bluebird Inn. The foremost of the ship's five sections had originally been designated as the detachable module, but the arrangement had posed too many problems in connection with obtaining a view ahead of the vessel. After some unsatisfactory experiments with mirrors it had been decided to use the aft section as the landing module. Its engine would power the flight to Farland, and when the section was separated from the mother craft a second engine would be exposed, ready for the return to Overland.

  Toller lowered the binoculars and glanced around the other members of the crew, all of them swaddled in their quilted suits, all of them deep in their own thoughts. Apart from Zavotle and Bartan, there was Berise Narrinder, Tipp Gotlon and another ex-fighter pilot, a soft-spoken young man called Dakan Wraker. Toller had been surprised by the large number of volunteers for the expedition, and he had selected Wraker because of his impertu
rbable nature and wide range of mechanical skills.

  The conversation among the crew members had been lively in the preceding hour, but now, suddenly, the magnitude of what lay ahead seemed to have impressed itself on them, stilling their tongues.

  "Spare me the long faces," Toller said, grimly jovial. "Why, we might find Farland so much to our liking that none of us will ever want to return!"

  Chapter 14

  As commander of the spaceship, Toller would have liked to have been at the controls when the Kolcorron burned its way out of the weightless zone at the beginning of the voyage to Farland.

  During training sessions, however, it had become apparent that he was the least talented of the crew when it came to the new style of flying. The ship's length was five times its diameter, and keeping it in a stable attitude while under way required precise and delicate use of the lateral jets, an ability to detect and correct yawing movements almost before they had begun. Gotlon, Wraker and Berise seemed to do it without effort, using infrequent split-second blasts on the jets to keep the crosshairs of the steering telescope centred on a target star. Zavotle and Bartan Drumme were competent, though more heavy handed; but Toller—much to his annoyance—was prone to make overcorrections which involved him in series of minor adjustments, bringing grins to the faces of the other fliers.

  He had therefore given Tipp Gotlon, the youngest of the crew, the responsibility for taking the ship out of the twin planets' atmosphere.

  Gotlon was strapped into a seat near the centre of the circular topmost deck. He was looking into the prismatic eyepiece of the low-powered telescope which was aimed vertically through a port in the ship's nose. His hands were on the control levers, from which rods ran down through the various decks to the main engine and the lateral thrusters. The fierceness of his gap-toothed grin showed that he was keyed up, anxiously waiting for the order to begin the flight.

  Toller glanced around the nose section, which in addition to accommodating the pilot's station was also intended as living and sleeping quarters. Zavotle, Berise and Bartan were floating near the perimeter in various attitudes, keeping themselves in place by gripping handrails. It was quite dim in the compartment, the only illumination coming from a porthole on the sunward side, but Toller could see the others' faces well enough to know that they shared his mood.