Jim Baen’s Universe

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Jim Baen’s Universe Page 61

by Edited by Eric Flint


  As is so of­ten the ca­se, I was to­tal­ly baf­fled as to how the clu­es co­uld be re­ar­ran­ged to sol­ve the puz­zle they po­sed. Hel­mes­ham spent so­me lit­tle ti­me re­ading the pa­pers, then went for a walk to com­po­se his tho­ughts. Our cli­ent sent a hun­d­red men to se­arch the area whe­re we had fo­und the bot­tle. They re­tur­ned with a lar­ge col­lec­ti­on of junk, which Hel­mes­ham ho­no­red with his usu­al po­li­te cu­ri­osity.

  Tea was an early and stiff event. Our cli­ent was in a con­si­de­rab­le sta­te of alarm. The sta­te of the French ca­bi­net was sin­king by the ho­ur. Thus far the po­pu­lar press had no in­k­ling of the mat­ter, but such a di­sas­ter co­uld only be a mat­ter of ti­me. Og­let­hor­pe's car, mo­ving at pre­ci­sely thirty mi­les an ho­ur thro­ugh the En­g­lish night, had so­me­how be­en swept from the fa­ce of the earth.

  Helmesham wo­uld ra­rely spe­ak abo­ut a ca­se un­til he had fo­und the so­lu­ti­on. Ha­ving no pro­fes­si­onal re­pu­ta­ti­on in cri­mi­no­logy to ha­zard, I was mo­re wil­ling to chat with the cli­ent abo­ut dif­fe­rent pos­si­bi­li­ti­es, tho­ugh I did lit­tle be­yond re­pe­ating Hel­mes­ham's re­marks of ear­li­er in the day, clo­sing with 'after all, it co­uld not ha­ve spro­uted wings and flown away.'"

  I ca­ught a twin­k­le in Hel­mes­ham's eyes. "Su­rely not?" I as­ked.

  "Oh, no, the lar­gest aerop­la­ne in the world co­uld ne­ver lift the six tons of Og­let­hor­pe's ve­hic­le. Even one of Si­korsky's Rus­si­an bru­tes co­uld ne­ver han­d­le the we­ight," Hel­mes­ham as­su­red me.

  The lo­cal pa­pers re­ve­aled no clu­es, at le­ast to my eyes. Hel­mes­ham had bu­si­ed him­self with a set of maps and a sli­de ru­le. Se­e­ing na­ught el­se to do, I scan­ned the ac­co­unts of the Dru­ids and the­ir flying mon­s­ter. To jud­ge from the cre­ases in the pa­per, the­se we­re al­so the re­ports which Hel­mes­ham had be­en re­ading. My fa­vo­ri­te no­te, from a town a lit­tle way east of he­re, ca­me from the lo­cal who aver­red that the be­ast must ha­ve be­en a de­vil be­ca­use it "appro­ac­hed to­ward the church to­wer, but fled stra­ig­h­ta­way when the clock struck half-past-th­ree." With non­sen­se li­ke this spo­ken and be­li­eved by the mas­ses, it is no won­der that sen­sib­le men reg­ret the ex­ten­si­on of suf­fra­ge to men of li­mi­ted me­ans. Now, if eno­ugh da­ma­ge has not al­re­ady be­en do­ne, the­re are tho­se who wo­uld fur­t­her ex­tend suf­fra­ge to the dis­taff half of the po­pu­la­ti­on. This is an ut­ter ab­sur­dity, as no wo­man-I sup­po­se I must ex­cept Mrs. Hel­mes­ham, but that is a dif­fe­rent ta­le-co­uld pos­sibly ha­ve the fir­m­ness and go­od sen­se ne­eded to play even the le­ast ro­le in go­ver­ning our gre­at Em­pi­re.

  Helmesham lo­oked up, vi­sibly ex­ci­ted. "Qu­ick, Sir John. The­re's no ti­me to was­te. The Ro­yal Flying Corps has an aerod­ro­me not ten mi­nu­tes from he­re." Our cli­ent was told in no un­cer­ta­in terms that not one but two aerop­la­nes we­re to be re­adi­ed at on­ce, and that ot­her aerod­ro­mes-Hel­mes­ham rat­tled off a list of na­mes-we­re to stand by, so that we might re­fu­el if ne­ed be. Then we we­re off.

  The aerod­ro­me at West Over­s­haw was vir­tu­al­ly un­po­pu­la­ted. It was a Sun­day, af­ter all, so that we we­re for­tu­na­te to ha­ve even a sin­g­le pi­lot and his mec­ha­nic in at­ten­dan­ce. The pi­lot, a Cap­ta­in O'Ro­ur­ke, was fully co­ope­ra­ti­ve. His mec­ha­nic, a Fin­nish emigr who had co­me to En­g­land to avo­id Rus­si­an con­s­c­rip­ti­on, was so­met­hing of an enig­ma. Still, our air­c­raft we­re wa­iting. Wit­ho­ut de­lay, we flew off in­to a clo­ud­less af­ter­no­on sky.

  I still had no know­led­ge of our des­ti­na­ti­on. My pi­lot, a skil­led avi­ator who pe­ris­hed in the next war, kept scan­ning the gro­und, se­ar­c­hing for an un­na­med obj­ec­ti­ve. We lan­ded so­me ho­urs la­ter ne­ar the co­ast of the North Sea. From a map, I le­ar­ned that we had fol­lo­wed a ca­re­ful com­pass co­ur­se, tho­ugh how it had be­en set eva­ded me. Hel­mes­ham and the mec­ha­nic swiftly re­fu­eled the­ir air­c­raft. Bid­ding us re­ma­in on the gro­und, they de­cam­ped. Cap­ta­in O'Ro­ur­ke went off to the ar­mory, le­aving me with my tho­ughts.

  The na­me of the lo­cal vil­la­ge was eerily fa­mi­li­ar. Fi­nal­ly I re­mem­be­red the aeri­al mon­s­ter in the new­s­pa­pers. We had fol­lo­wed pre­ci­sely the co­ur­se im­p­li­ed by the new­s­pa­per re­ports. I knew that Hel­mes­ham had al­ways had an in­te­rest in the su­per­na­tu­ral, but our pre­sent cir­cum­s­tan­ces we­re be­yond me. Su­rely no one co­uld be­li­eve that so­me cre­atu­re of the net­her re­ac­hes wo­uld at­tempt to swal­low a ra­il­way co­ach, let alo­ne a ve­hic­le tran­s­por­ting En­g­lis­h­men! What ef­f­ron­tery wo­uld be ne­ces­sary! Af­ter all, Sur­rey is not a land of the Ot­to­mans. It was un­t­hin­kab­le!

  I was ro­used from my tho­ughts by a mo­tor. Hel­mes­ham re­tur­ned and win­ged swiftly back to earth. He pul­led from one poc­ket a lo­cal map on which va­ri­o­us de­ta­ils had be­en sket­c­hed. "Now," he an­no­un­ced, "The co­ach is he­re," he po­in­ted to a small is­land, "so the pri­so­ners must be held in one of the­se bu­il­dings. The sho­res are rocky. The­re's lit­tle wind, but the surf is too high to land easily. I be­li­eve it will be best to climb he­re," Hel­mes­ham in­di­ca­ted a spot well over the ma­in­land, "cut our en­gi­nes, and gli­de in to this fi­eld. Tho­ugh we'd best wa­it to nig­h­t­fall if we want sur­p­ri­se."

  "Sir," sa­id O'Ro­ur­ke, "I've be­en told we're lo­oking for three men, and 'so­me va­lu­ab­le pa­pers,' and that I am to gi­ve you as­sis­tan­ce. But did you say 'ra­il way co­ach'? On an is­land with ne­it­her brid­ge nor doc­k­yard cra­ne?"

  Helmesham was mo­men­ta­rily ta­ken aback. He had qu­ite for­got­ten that our pi­lot and his man had only the most li­mi­ted no­ti­on of our cli­ent's ne­eds. I used the pa­use to ex­p­la­in the si­tu­ati­on, ta­king ca­re not to re­ve­al the ac­tu­al na­tu­re of the mis­sing do­cu­ments, nor my ig­no­ran­ce as to how the vic­tims might ha­ve re­ac­hed this iso­la­ted spot. Our obj­ec­ti­ve was to res­cue Ge­ne­ral Og­let­hor­pe and a French co­uri­er, and to bring the vil­la­ins to jus­ti­ce.

  With the crac­k­le and sput­ter of oil on hot me­tal, we we­re on our way aga­in. Each of us was pro­vi­ded with a ser­vi­ce re­vol­ver, hand torch, and ex­t­ra am­mu­ni­ti­on. The sco­un­d­rels who per­pet­ra­ted this cri­me we­re cle­arly des­pe­ra­te men, who might not he­si­ta­te to per­form the most das­tardly of de­eds in or­der to es­ca­pe. I con­ti­nu­ed to won­der how the co­ach might ha­ve re­ac­hed the is­land, let alo­ne how Hel­mes­ham had ma­na­ged to lo­ca­te it.

  From the air the En­g­lish se­aco­ast to­ok the as­pect of ut­ter tran­qu­ility. Gre­at swells rol­led ever so slowly ac­ross the North Sea, glin­ting with the hid­den gold they trap­ped from the last rays of the set­ting sun. Our pi­lot wa­ved to Hel­mes­ham. In uni­son we cut our en­gi­nes and be­gan our des­cent. The wind whis­t­led thro­ugh the stays. At our al­ti­tu­de, we he­ard no ot­her so­und.

  The lan­ding was une­ven­t­ful. Hel­mes­ham and the mec­ha­nic went to se­arch one of the two out­bu­il­dings, whi­le O'Ro­ur­ke and I to­ok the ot­her. The hut we exa­mi­ned was qu­ite empty. Cob­webs hung in every cor­ner. The flo­or be­ne­ath a bro­ken win­dow was wa­ter-sta­ined, as tho­ugh the ra­in had for so­me ti­me be­en al­lo­wed to blow in­to the va­cant ro­om. Dust co­ve­red ever­y­t­hing, with no hint that an­yo­ne had wal­ked or sat or to­uc­hed the walls in re­cent ti­mes.

  Shots rang out in the dis­tan­ce! O'Ro­ur­ke and I burst out of the ho­use. Wit­ho­ut tho­ught to our per­so­nal sa­fety, we das­hed to­ward the dis­tur­ban­ce. Dar­k­ness was by now to­tal,
only the rays of the full mo­on and the flic­ker of hand-tor­c­hes pro­vi­ding the le­ast bit of light. We co­uld see ahe­ad of us two clus­ters of men, lar­gely hid­den in sha­dow, fi­ring oc­ca­si­onal ro­unds at each ot­her. "Hel­mes­ham," I cri­ed out, "Hel­mes­ham! Re­in­for­ce­ments are on the way."

  "Over he­re, Sir John!" Hel­mes­ham's gro­up was slowly bac­king away from the barn. "Ha­ve yo­ur men spre­ad out to the right."

  What men? Hel­mes­ham's wits on­ce aga­in es­ca­ped me. Our pi­lot, ho­we­ver, saw the in­ten­ded ru­se. "Flan­kers right!" he bar­ked. "Mas­ter Ser­ge­ant York! Ta­ke yo­ur men abo­ut that barn!" Cap­ta­in O'Ro­ur­ke, das­hing from tree to tree and fi­ring ra­pidly, ga­ve an ex­cel­lent imi­ta­ti­on of a do­zen men. His per­for­man­ce pro­ved what I had long ma­in­ta­ined, na­mely that not Ghur­k­has nor Pat­hans but Irish ma­ke the fi­nest light tro­ops in all the world, even when they are not pro­vi­ded with whi­te of­fi­cers.

  My ho­pe of early vic­tory was ru­dely in­ter­rup­ted by a burst of Ma­xim gun [MM1] fi­re. I threw myself to the gro­und, cro­uc­hing be­hind a low hil­lock. Clods of turf, torn vi­ci­o­usly from the­ir mot­her so­il by the cru­el cla­mor of the mac­hi­ne gun, ra­ined down from over­he­ad. I was well and truly pin­ned by op­po­sing fi­re.

  "We saw you land," ca­me an evil­ly-ac­cen­ted vo­ice in the dis­tan­ce. "Sur­ren­der, and you will be well tre­ated."

  This was an ob­vi­o­us lie. The mad­men we fa­ced co­uld ha­ve no in­tent to le­ave wit­nes­ses be­hind them. As Hel­mes­ham had left no word of our plan­ned des­ti­na­ti­on, we had no ho­pe of re­in­for­ce­ment. Whi­le dar­k­ness was on our si­de, the iso­la­ti­on of the spot and the foe's cle­ar su­pe­ri­ority in num­bers and we­apons sug­ges­ted that our si­tu­ati­on was des­pe­ra­te.

  An ex­c­han­ge of thre­ats and shots con­ti­nu­ed for per­haps an ho­ur. The barn was on cle­ar gro­und, with no ne­arby tre­es. Gen­t­le swa­les pro­tec­ted us from di­rect fi­re, but ne­it­her party had a re­ady path to fol­low. If they exi­ted the barn, they wo­uld be easy tar­gets. If we sto­od to ret­re­at to the ne­arby wo­ods, we wo­uld be sil­ho­u­et­ted by the mo­on­light and cut down. The kna­ves might ha­ve pin­ned us with the­ir Ma­xim gun, and then ta­ken us in a rush, but they did not. Do­ub­t­less they lac­ked En­g­lish co­ura­ge. On­ce I tho­ught I saw two men run­ning from the re­ar of the barn, but I to­ok them for co­wardly Prus­si­an kna­ves fle­e­ing the he­at of bat­tle whi­le the­ir com­pa­ni­ons fi­red at the­ir backs.

  There ca­me from the he­avens a dis­tant dro­ning so­und. "Sir John," cal­led Hel­mes­ham, "We ha­ve no co­ver aga­inst guns fi­ring from abo­ve. Hold yo­ur fi­re, or you are su­rely de­ad." I did as I was told.

  Out from the mo­on­lit blac­k­ness swam a ghostly tor­pe­do, scar­cely less dark than the sky it­self. It was a di­ri­gib­le, and-un­less my sen­ses de­ce­ived me-one far lar­ger than any Co­unt Zep­pe­lin has ex­hi­bi­ted to the pub­lic. The­re was a clat­ter of me­tal and mac­hi­nery, fol­lo­wed by the sho­ut of or­ders. The air­s­hip drif­ted to a po­si­ti­on abo­ve the barn. Its gas bags we­re a ma­le­vo­lent dar­k­ling clo­ud, aga­inst which a sin­g­le pis­tol wo­uld bark in va­in. Only then did I re­cog­ni­ze the pe­cu­li­ar rod which ro­se abo­ve the si­lo. It was a mo­oring mast. For so­me ti­me, the di­ri­gib­le ho­ve­red. We wa­ited, scar­cely da­ring to bre­at­he.

  An enor­mo­us splash was a gre­at vo­lu­me of wa­ter, dum­ped from abo­ve on­to the wa­iting fi­elds be­low. Slowly, ma­j­es­ti­cal­ly, the air­s­hip ro­se in­to the he­avens. Clo­se be­ne­ath, at­tac­hed in so­me way I co­uld not dis­tin­gu­ish, flo­ated Ge­ne­ral Og­let­hor­pe's pri­va­te tram, bor­ne to the ze­nith not by so­me el­d­ritch mon­s­ter but by an equ­al­ly de­vi­lish Ba­va­ri­an flying-mac­hi­ne. We wa­ited whi­le the air­s­hip fa­ded in­to the East, fe­ar­ful that any mo­ve­ment wo­uld re­ve­al our hi­ding-pla­ces to the sni­pers who no do­ubt sto­od wat­c­h­ful­ly in the air­s­hip's fu­se­la­ge.

  "Sir John, we ha­ve a wo­un­ded man he­re." I ran to Hel­mes­ham. "Co­lo­nel Par­ker, Gu­ards Ca­valry, and Cap­ta­in Ma­rie Lan­ge­vin." At his si­de we­re the two men who had fled the barn. They we­re not co­wardly Prus­si­ans. They we­re co­ura­ge­o­us pri­so­ners who had used the con­fu­si­on of bat­tle to ef­fect the­ir es­ca­pe.

  The Co­lo­nel's wo­unds we­re not se­ri­o­us, me­rely a cre­ase ac­ross the rib­ca­ge. Whi­le my pro­fes­si­onal ex­per­ti­se con­cerns a mo­re im­por­tant re­gi­on of the ana­tomy, a stretch of ser­vi­ce on the Nor­t­he­ast Fron­ti­er had left me fully ac­qu­a­in­ted with the ex­pe­di­ents of fi­eld sur­gery. "The pa­pers?" I as­ked. "The Ge­ne­ral?"

  "Oglezorpe, he iz wiss zem," ca­me the Fren­c­h­man's an­s­wer. "When we es­ca­ped, he sta­yed za­ir. And zee tre­aty, it too iz za­ir…" He ges­tu­red skywards. Hel­mes­ham and the co­uri­er shif­ted from En­g­lish to French, a lan­gu­age which the Cap­ta­in cle­arly al­so knew. I myself ha­ve long held that the sin­g­le gre­atest ob­s­tac­le to the en­lig­h­ten­ment of the Con­ti­nent is the ina­bi­lity of most Con­ti­nen­tals to le­arn a ci­vi­li­zed lan­gu­age, such as the En­g­lish, a fa­iling sub­s­tan­ti­al­ly en­co­ura­ged by my co­un­t­r­y­men's bad ha­bit of ag­re­e­ing to spe­ak lan­gu­ages ne­it­her the­ir own, nor fit for ci­vi­li­zed dis­co­ur­se. I, of co­ur­se, ha­ve ne­ver cul­ti­va­ted any bad ha­bits. In­de­ed, I ha­ve long con­si­de­red stan­ding for Par­li­ament, cam­pa­ig­ning on the sin­g­le is­sue of a Pri­va­te Mem­ber's Bill out­la­wing in­s­t­ruc­ti­on in tax-sup­por­ted scho­ols in fo­re­ign lan­gu­ages ot­her than La­tin and At­tic Gre­ek.

  Helmesham gra­ci­o­usly re­pe­ated the gist of the­ir vi­go­ro­us ex­c­han­ge. Og­let­hor­pe was a tra­itor, who­se con­ce­aled wi­re­less had aler­ted the Huns to the mo­ment at which the co­ach wo­uld pass Wo­king. Og­let­hor­pe's dri­ver had be­en a do­ub­le agent. Whi­le Og­let­hor­pe had dis­t­rac­ted his pas­sen­gers by pla­ying the bag­pi­pe-per­haps the only mu­si­cal in­s­t­ru­ment who­se dro­ne wo­uld be suf­fi­ci­ently hi­de­o­us to mask the ro­ar of an ap­pro­ac­hing air­s­hip-trol­ley and air­s­hip had be­en lin­ked. The trol­ley was then ho­is­ted in­to the night sky. Hat and wi­ne bot­tle we­re drop­ped by the co­uri­er in what he ex­pec­ted wo­uld be a va­in ef­fort to le­ave a clue to his fa­te. The tre­aty re­ma­ined on the tram, and was now well on its way to Prus­sia. The­re it wo­uld be cir­cu­la­ted by co­vert me­ans to the French press, ca­using the French Ca­bi­net to fall and ru­ining An­g­lo-French de­ten­te.

  "But, Hel­mes­ham, how can the Ka­iser ho­pe to get away with this?" I as­ked. "Kid­nap­ping En­g­lis­h­men from En­g­lish so­il? It's an act of war!" It ap­pe­ared, con­t­rary to my pri­or ex­pec­ta­ti­ons, that En­g­land now fa­ced two equ­al­ly gre­at con­ti­nen­tal thre­ats, na­mely the Prus­si­ans and the French.

  "Where is the evi­den­ce?" Hel­mes­ham as­ked. "If the plot had fa­iled, the air­s­hip cras­hed, they'd say it was di­sab­led, blown over En­g­land by a storm of the up­per air, and had a fre­ak ac­ci­dent. With suc­cess they'd deny the who­le thing, and of­fer the press to­urs of Co­unt Zep­pe­lin's air­s­hip han­gars. By a lar­ge mar­gin, no mac­hi­ne of his ever se­en in pub­lic has the ran­ge or lif­ting ca­pa­city to ac­com­p­lish this fe­at. If not­hing we­re sus­pec­ted, at so­me la­ter da­te Og­let­hor­pe-de­ad by his own hand-and his tram wo­uld be re­co­ve­red, say from a de­ser­ted spur li­ne in nor­t­hern Scot­land, to­get­her with Og­let­hor­pe's sig­ned con­fes­si­on of ha­ving mur­de­red Par­ker and Lan­ge­vin over a wo­man or so­me such thing. En­ti­rely ra­ti­onal, with no tra­ce of a Prus�
�si­an hand in the af­fa­ir."

  "Devilish, Hel­mes­ham, de­vi­lish," I sa­id. "But with the pa­pers go­ne, the plot has suc­ce­eded."

  "No," Cap­ta­in Lan­ge­vin in­ter­rup­ted. "Zee tre­aty izz not lost. I ga­ve zee fa­ir copy to Og­let­hor­pe for za­fe­ke­eping, but ze­re waz ano­za­ir copy, which I hid he­re, wis­sin zee li­ning of ziss co­at. If I can re­ach Pa­ris by only to­mor­row mor­ning, all will per­haps be still well."

  "Paris we can do," my pi­lot an­no­un­ced, "If you're not af­ra­id to land by night. We shall fly to Pa­ris, you and I, le­aving at on­ce, and you shall de­li­ver yo­ur tre­aty to yo­ur go­ver­n­ment wit­hin two ho­urs. The di­ri­gib­le is anot­her mat­ter. If the Prus­si­ans ca­use news of the tre­aty to be­co­me pub­lic, the­re may still be tro­ub­le."

  "I, af­ra­id? Of an aerop­la­ne?" Cap­ta­in Lan­ge­vin scof­fed. "A flying mac­hi­ne that has wings I can see? Af­ta­ir a trip in a flying trol­ley car? Ne­va­ir! Let us be on our way! But if zee Prus­si­ans talk, zee tre­aty will fa­il yet. It will ta­ke a day, be­fo­re all de­ta­ils are set­tled. Only zenn…" O'Ro­ur­ke and Lan­ge­vin we­re on the­ir way.

  Helmesham tur­ned and gib­be­red at the mec­ha­nic, who res­pon­ded in kind. I ha­ve sin­ce le­ar­ned that they con­ver­sed in the Fin­nish lan­gu­age, which I ha­ve ne­ver pre­vi­o­usly had the mis­for­tu­ne to he­ar spo­ken. Hel­mes­ham ga­ve me my or­ders: "Sir John, I must ask you to stay he­re to ca­re for the Co­lo­nel. I will de­al with the Prus­si­an pi­ra­tes."

  I did not in­qu­ire as to the de­ta­ils of Hel­mes­ham's plans, even when he as­ked me to po­ur the Prus­si­ans' stock of wi­ne and gi­ve him the empty bot­tles. He ca­re­ful­ly dra­ined pet­rol from his aerop­la­ne's tank in­to the bot­tles, stop­pe­red them, then wrap­ped each bot­tle in cloth. We had no ot­her sto­re of pet­rol. Why was Hel­mes­ham dra­ining the tanks? I aided Co­lo­nel Par­ker to the far­m­ho­use, and be­gan a se­arch for vi­ands. He was a wo­un­ded man, and co­uld not be al­lo­wed to suf­fer for want of pro­per no­uris­h­ment. I myself had only eaten lightly this day, and was po­si­ti­vely fa­mis­hed.

 

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