Even he must have been surprised by the result of his action. Rachad turned away, staring into space. The distant milky glints, he noticed, were still there, sweeping slowly by.
***
After a while of apprehensive waiting those on deck began to wonder why the ship had not yet been burst asunder by the monster left swelling down below. There was conferring with Captain Zhorga under the air balloon. He decided instantly to investigate.
Since most were loath to join the expedition between-decks, Rachad found it easy to attach himself to the party. Zhorga and Clabert went first, ready with pistols. The others carried sabers, alert to chop at tentacles.
There was no need. The monster had grown to the size of a pony, and then died. Its tentacles were scattered forlornly about the mess-deck, and were already beginning to corrode and shrivel, looking like dead wood.
As they removed their helmets they were met by a new smell that had added itself to the usual stench: a smell of rottenness, sweet and corrupt. Rachad prodded the creature with his blade. The flesh of it flaked away, like ancient paper.
“These beasts must be without substance,” Zhorga mumbled. “Blown up, merely, like paper balloons. But for what reason?”
Clumsily Rachad knelt and tore away a piece of tentacle. Even while he held it, he saw that it was crumbling, fading. Soon the whole creature would be nothing but dust.
“Homunculi,” he mused. “I should have thought of it before.”
He straightened. “Yes, that has to be it The creatures are solid enough, Captain—for the brief time they live, that is. But they are not natural. They are, in fact, alchemical weapons left over from ancient wars.”
Bruge grimaced in perplexity. “Alchemical?”
Rachad nodded. “In ancient times it was known how to generate synthetic beings, such as small, manlike beings known as homunculi. ‘Also bizarre beasts which were used in battle.”
“It makes sense,” Zhorga rumbled. “Space warfare was rife at one time, that’s well known. Strewing these eggs in the path of an enemy ship would be a good tactic. Presumably they lie dormant until a ship comes near and triggers them off, then they burst into life and attack in the manner we’ve witnessed.”
Rachad nodded gravely, pleased with his knowledge. Some of the semi-legendary lore he had heard from Gebeth was useful after all.
Bruge seemed doubtful. “Small threat if they are so easily disposed of,” he said.
“After all this time they must be almost exhausted of life force,” Rachad answered. “Long ago they would have been more formidable—though even then, creatures that grew at such an unnatural rate can’t have lived for more than a brief time. The type of matter they are made of is a product of alchemy, compounding fresh mass out of itself but quickly collapsing again.”
A grunt came from Patchman. “It’s lucky this one hadn’t the strength to reach its full size,” he observed, indicating the beast on the deck, “or we wouldn’t be talking together now.”
At this remark Zhorga nodded, and looked sternly at Rachad. “It’s a rule of space travel, young man, never to take anything onto the ship until you know with absolute certainty what it is.”
Rachad, his conceit damaged, hung his head, as far as he was able in his suit. He coughed.
“I don’t want to spread alarm,” he said, “but I spotted hundreds of space eggs floating not far from us. Even if they came close enough, though, I doubt if scarcely any of them would have the power to germinate.”
Despite his reassurances there were mutterings. The fear so recently banished reappeared. Zhorga turned to his followers.
“I’ll take a look at this myself. The six of us may have to arrange a special watch by the bombards for a while. But not a word of what you’ve just heard to anyone else, understand? The slobs we have crewing for us fall to pieces at the first hint of trouble.”
They nodded. And without another word the six began to chop up the disintegrating monster, ready to be carried above and cast over the side.
***
When his watch ended Clabert reported to Zhorga’s cabin. He found the Captain poring over the chart table, having just prepared a new heliocentric horoscope. Near to hand was Gebeth’s orrery, meticulously brought up to date.
As Clabert entered he lay down the pair of dividers with which he had been checking distances. “And what mood are the men in now?” he asked wryly.
“They do what they’re told,” Clabert told him in a low voice. “But then they don’t have much choice. There’s nothing they can do—it’s too late for them to think of turning back now.” He paused. “Patchman and Small have taken the second watch forward. The others are below.”
“Still pretty scared, eh?”
“Yes, in spite of having it proved that space monsters aren’t anything supernatural.”
Zhorga chuckled without humor. “And all cursing their captain, as usual!” Crew dissatisfaction rarely bothered him. He knew from experience that he could simply browbeat most men into obedience, and that was his method.
“They’d be more frightened still if they knew what I know,” he said somberly. “Come and take a look at this.”
His stubby finger pointed to a mark he had made on the chart. “Here’s where we are, halfway between the orbits of Earth and Mars. Here’s Mars … and you’ll see how close our path will shortly take us to the trailer here.”
Clabert drew in his breath. Every planet generated a type of vortex known as a trailer, which it dragged along with it some millions of miles downsun.
Directly behind a planet, the ether flow tended to be relatively smooth. Nevertheless there were latent tensions which eventually broke out in a series of flurries and rapids, culminating in the large and (dangerous etheric whirlpool.
“I thought we were going to miss that by a good margin,” he grumbled.
“So we were—but my calculations are off, of course, due to early discrepancies. We could still change course to give it a wide berth—but then we’d risk never catching up with Mars.” Zhorga rattled his fingers nervously on the table. “No, we shall have to run the flurry, I’m afraid. Bit of a nuisance. Still, there’s no evident danger. Just means we’ll pass too damn close to the vortex for comfort, that’s all.”
Both men were silent for a while. Both knew all too well what being caught in an ether vortex meant. There was no way out of it, except by discarding all silk, which meant being left adrift without sail power. Toward the center the forces were so intense that ether silk was broken up, first to shreds, and then to dust. The eye of the vortex then carried that dust along with it forever. If the Wandering Queen should ever be fated to arrive there, she would probably find a good many old wrecks waiting for her company.
“This is for your information only,” Zhorga rumbled. “So you’ll know what to expect. We’ll have trouble on our hands if the others get to hear of it. They’ll want to change course.”
“What about Bruge and his clique? Shouldn’t they know?”
Zhorga shook his head. “The fewer the better. Keep your mouth shut.”
Gloomily he rose and clomped in his lead footweights to the rear of the cabin, where he peered out of the slanted casements. It was strange, he thought. Space seemed so changeless and impassive. It gave no hint of the invisible, raging power that was propelling his little ship onward, either to riches or destruction.
***
“Well look—it’s the fine young lad who wanted to feed us to the dragon!”
Ignoring Boogle’s taunt, Rachad divested himself of his suit, put out the powder in his backpack, and climbed onto his bunk. Others who were seated round the long table looked up with sullen interest as Boogle followed him, grimacing into his face.
“Hope you enjoyed your star-gazing,” he hissed. “May-be I’ll come up after you next time and make it permanent. All it needs is a knife to cut your line, and one good shove!”
“Shut up, and go away,” Rachad said wearily. Ever since the fight a few d
ays ago with the space monster—still referred to by many as a dragon—some of the crew, led by Boogle, had begun to use him as a whipping boy to give vent to their fear and frustration, diverting to him the resentment they felt against Zhorga. Rachad did not think any real harm would befall him, but he was thinking of asking Zhorga to let him sleep in the sternhouse again.
“Leave him alone, Boogle, or you’ll answer to me,” Small called from the other end of the mess.
Boogle scowled down the table, then spoke to Rachad out of the corner of his mouth. “They say it was through talking to you the Captain got so set on this enterprise, alchemist. You put a spell on him, like as not. Well, I’ve lost good friends for it, and I’ll get you sooner or later. Here—Mars—I’ll find a way.”
“Boogle!” Small bellowed.
Reluctantly Boogle moved away, and Rachad lay back on his bunk, appalled by the man’s hatred.
He closed his eyes and shortly dozed off. He was not sure how much later it was that he woke up feeling that the bunk was shivering under him.
He sat up. The bunk was shivering. On the table, plates and utensils clattered and vibrated.
Then the whole ship began to sway. Side to side, up and down, as if she were caught in a wavering current, while at the same time she leaped forward, accelerating sharply.
He swung off his bunk, but his knees almost buckled under him with the unaccustomed weight, so harsh was the acceleration. There came a violent lurch. Utensils and other loose objects fell and rattled.
The lamps flickered. Rachad’s stomach contracted. He could hear the ends of the ship’s beams jiggling against one another, groaning and squealing, and he could imagine what that would do to the caulking—though the special pitch had a rubbery consistency that allowed for a certain amount of free play. He gripped a stanchion, and in common with everyone else present, looked about him in a questioning, wondering way.
Suddenly a trap door banged open at the farther end of the mess deck. Through it struggled Captain Zhorga, coming up from the hold where he had been inspecting the cargo. His face was livid, and even while he was only halfway through the trap door his gravelly voice smote through the room.
“Get on deck and take in the sail, every one of you! We’ve hit the rapids!”
At first there was no reaction, as if his words had no meaning. The men watched dumbly while he staggered to his feet and strode toward them, reaching for his space-suit.
“Don’t you understand?” he roared in fury. “It’s too soon! We’re headed for the trailer!”
This they did comprehend. There were gasps and throaty wails; then a strange silence, broken only by sobs and grunts of effort, as the men began to struggle into their suits. Zhorga, lashing up his toggles, approached Rachad.
“You too, boy. This is a real emergency.”
In a daze, Rachad began to pull on his canvas garment. “What happened?” he asked in a hushed tone. “We were supposed to miss it by a million miles!”
Zhorga pulled a face. “Gebeth’s chart gives the wrong damned position, I suppose!” he grated, telling the truth as far as he understood it, but neglecting to mention how fine he had tried to cut his course. “Get moving or we’re all finished.”
He rammed on his helmet, screwed it tight, and thrust a taper in Rachad’s hand. Rachad performed the service of lighting his backpack and the Captain lumbered off, the first to head for the airshed.
The crew poured onto the deck and scurried for the capstans. Zhorga was desperately hoping that, by clewing up all sail as quickly as possible, the rapids would lessen their hold on the vessel and her deadweight momentum would be enough to carry her past the vortex—through the rim of the vortex, even—without being dragged into it.
The gigantic degree of luck this would require, however, was not with him. The billowing, elaborate canopy had, indeed, begun to break up, and the star clouds were shining through the gaps, but most sails were still fullspread when the entire ship keeled over about twenty degrees.
The transition came so quickly that scarcely anyone or anything on board was disturbed. But everyone knew what it meant. It was like taking a curve at high speed, but with the deck tilting, compensating for the change in direction, so that the only physical effect was a sudden swing to one side coupled with a momentary increase in weight.
The Wandering Queen had been seized by the vortex. Mechanically the crew continued to work the windlasses, fighting the dawning realization that they were doomed. And bleakly Zhorga stared ahead of him, fancying he saw the stars move as the ship swept along on her new, inwardly spiraling path (though the turns of the spiral were so huge that the impression must have been in his imagination) and wondering what he could possibly do now.
***
Eventually as many as there was room for gathered under the air balloon, where it was possible to talk. The rest looked on from outside, hands pressed enviously against the transparent sheeting. For once Zhorga’s face was white as he stood facing his crew, helmet under one arm, his back to the cabin door. Many were openly weeping. Others raged impotently, shaking their fists at him but not daring to come closer.
Endpress’s face was distorted. “A fine testimony to your leadership, Captain!”
“Follow me, he said,” another blurted between ragged sobs, “I’ll see you through, I’ll take you all the way to Mars, he said, and instead we’re all going to die in the trailer …”
“We should have killed you in Olam!”
Finally Zhorga became impatient with the imprecations. “SHUT UP!” he roared. Then, in a lower tone: “I’ll get you out of this.”
Endpress’s response was a hysterical laugh. “How? No ship ever got out of the trailer!”
“I need a dozen good men,” Zhorga said. He glanced around him, peering into space. It seemed as if he were searching for something. He cleared his throat. “The rest of you can get below, where if’s safer, and wait. Five men I have already—Bruge, Patchman, Zataka, Small, and the bosun. Seven more. It will be dangerous work and I can’t even promise that you’ll live through it—but you’ll have a chance of saving the ship.”
“Bluff!” someone jeered. “It’s just bluff!”
Zhorga waited no longer. He waded into the crowd, struck the last speaker in the mouth with his canvas-covered fist, and then began grabbing and shoving, selecting the most stalwart and pushing them to one side where they were watched over by the flintlock-wielding Clabert.
There was surprisingly little resistance. They all knew from the look in Clabert’s eyes that he was ready to shoot down any one of them like a dog. “This should do it,” Zhorga gasped, panting. “The rest—get below decks and hang on for all you’re worth.”
“Captain! Take me to!” Rachad pushed his way forward, but Zhorga merely waved him back. “Sorry lad, no amateurs. Get below.”
Rachad turned away crestfallen. Zhorga entered his cabin and returned with his folding telescope. While the dismissed men made their way, silent and suspicious, to the mess deck, he put the spyglass to his eye and swept space to port, searching out something he had glimpsed a few minutes earlier.
There it was: a cloud of milky-white points, moving slowly against the starry background. He muttered to himself, his brow ridged in concentration, then turned to his skeleton crew.
They stared back at him, their faces displaying a frightened gauntness. He spoke to them in a gruff, mumbling voice, stumbling over his words.
“This is the end, you’re thinking, and maybe you’re right. But don’t give up yet. There’s still a chance for us, and we’re going to take it.”
He swallowed. “So now well do a spot of real space sailing. You’ll work on the side windlasses, fore and aft, in groups of three. All you have to do is watch for my signals, and obey them, no matter what happens. Those of you I trust are armed, and if you see anyone desert his post or ignore a command, cut him down without delay.”
“You can depend on it,” Bruge rumbled.
“One more
thing—use double safety lines. If things go right we’ll be tossed about a bit. And whatever happens, stick to where you are.”
One of the pressed men spoke up nervously. “Just what is going to happen, Captain?”
“You’ll see.”
Zhorga climbed to the quarterdeck from where he would direct the operation, and watched as the twelve, willing or not, went to their posts and readied themselves. His desperate gambit was about to begin.
***
In the swirling world of the vortex, maneuvering a sail-ship was not the type of proposition it would have been anywhere else. For practical purposes, in fact, it was virtually impossible. At present the ship swept on smoothly; the vortex was a well-ordered system and its in-turning stream scrupulously obeyed the pattern of forces that had given rise to it. But should she seek to escape the voracious whirlpool she would find the effort futile, and similarly, should she for some reason turn to head deeper into it she would soon encounter the sliding ridges, ripples and minor eddies that the progressive turns of the spiral produced as they surged against one another at different rates of travel. These turbulences would turn the ship back onto her former course: thus she was doomed to run the gamut, to spiral round and round, ever faster, on an ever-narrowing circuit, to destruction.
Within these strictly defined limits, however, there was room for a degree of mobility. At present the sails were lashed to their yards, even the minute area they presented being enough to keep the ship implacably in the power of the vortex. Zhorga gave the signal to unfurl a small mast on the starboard side, and as this was done the ship swung round and moved at a portward angle to the current.
Four stunsails were sufficient to steer the galleon. The Wandering Queen swayed, tossed in the tumultuous stream, as Zhorga guided her toward the swarm. The glints brightened; for all his tension, he breathed a sigh of relief. The eggs were within range!
Star Winds Page 7