"No, sir. The peak'll be all of five miles to starboard of the track."
"Good. Organize it to suit yourself, Peter."
"A look-out?" asked Captain Beynon. "How do you work that, Flight Commander?"
"We lower a cage, Captain," said Stewart. "The man in the cage has a voicepipe. As soon as he sees anything that he can identify he whistles up, and informs the Navigator. But here comes the watch now."
We stood to one side, watched the cover being thrown off a hand winch, watched a hatch in the deck being lifted. I did not, I reflected, envy the look-out—-but he, a short, wiry individual, lowered himself into the cage with great unconcern.
"Walk back," ordered the Navigator. "Walk back handsomely."
The man at the brake raised the long lever, watched the pointer moving round the dial set on top of the winch.
"One hundred," he reported. "Two hundred. Three . . . Four . . . Five . " "Check her."
"Six . . ."
"Brake!"
There was the chirp of a whistle. The Navigator went to the voicepipe.
"Fog still thick? No signs of thinning?" He turned to the Flight Commander. "Could you bring her down, sir?"
"Four thousand feet, Cox'n."
"Four thousand it is, sir."
"H'm. Make it three thousand."
There was a pause. Then . . . "She won't come below three and a half, sir."
"We can afford some gas. Ron!"
"Sir?" answered the officer of the watch.
"Stand by to valve from Number Three bag. Right. Gently, now."
"Three thousand," said the coxswain.
"You're sure she's clear, Peter? All right, make it two thousand, Cox'n. Another touch on the valve, Ron."
Again the whistle chirped.
"The fog's thinning, you say?" repeated the Navigator. "You can see the river?"
"One thousand, Cox'n," ordered the Flight Commander.
"Sturgeon's Bend, you say?" muttered the Navigator. He left the speaking tube, went swiftly to his chart table. "A mile and a half to the east'ard of my E.P., sir," he reported.
"Not bad, Peter. Not at all bad. We'll come in at five hundred." He turned to us. "They're going to be
busy in here from now on. We'll adjourn to the wardroom."
The Duke and Duchess greeted us as we landed, and the only sour note on their part was a touch of bitterness when he spoke to Paul Beynon. Adelie was scornful at the thought of treating Albany as an equal, even in light of the Duke's obviously sincere plea that all parties unite in order to treat with Earth.
"Do you think," she demanded, "that we should consent to sit with Albany, on equal terms, at any sort of conference? Albany, with her pocket handkerchief of territory, her handful of citizens? You think . . ."
"Don't be childish, my dear," said Captain Beynon softly.
"Childish? Keep out of this, Paul. It's you who are the child. The only world that you have ever known is the little, artificial world of your river steamer. Please give me the credit of knowing more about statecraft than you do! No, Duke John, your proposal is . . . impertinent."
The Duke smiled. "And have Miss King and Mr. Whitley any contributions to make to this discussion? No? Then I suggest that we adjourn to the Palace—it is but a short step from here. Mr. Bean, escort us, will you? And don't forget that you have my full authority to act as you see fit should any of the prisoners attempt to escape."
It was not the first time that I had been in the Ducal Palace at Albany, but it was the first time that I had sat down to dinner in the huge banqueting hall. The occasion would have been far more impressive had every table been filled, had the dais at the far end of the great room been occupied by the band of the Albany Marines. Even so—there was much to wonder at, much to admire. The bright, yet soft, glow of the gas burning in the incandescent mantles was far superior to anything we knew in Beulah Land, and the little, wheeled trolleys used by the waiters to bring in each course could have been copied, with advantage, at such few State functions as I had attended in my own country.
Only the center table was in use. At its head sat the Duke, still in the uniform of a Flight Commodore. At his right hand sat Adelie, her white robes cleaned of the soiling they had sustained when she was hoisted aboard the airship. At his left sat Captain Beynon. Then there was Flight Commander Stewart, and another Flight Commander whose name I never did get, the huge Captain Armstrong of Duke of Albany and a Colonel Worth of the Marines. At the foot of the table was the Duchess, with Claire on her right and myself at her left hand.
I was sorry for her. She had aged since last I had seen her—and I was astounded when I realized how short a time ago that was. She tried to make conversation—but it was plain to be seen that there was only one person among those present in whom she was interested, and he was sitting at her husband's left hand. Only one person, did I say? No—two. Every now and again I caught her looking towards Adelie— and I hoped that never would anybody look at me with such hate.
Conversation was difficult. The Duke tried hard to play the urbane, courteous host—but the material wasn't there to make a good party. The meal dragged on, course following course. For me it wasn't so bad— I was able to explain to Claire what some of the strange meats on her plate were, able to persuade her to try some of those that were too exotic for her taste.
The interruption, when it came, was more welcome than otherwise. There was, from somewhere outside, a clangor of bells, near and distant. There was the flat thud of a cannon, the screaming roar that told of the losing off of a salvo of rockets. There was an insistent throbbing—louder and louder, closer and closer. One of the Flight Commanders—Stewart—jumped to his feet, oversetting his chair. "It's one of their damned helicopters," he shouted. "Shall I take Firebird up, sir, and . . ."
"And what, Flight Commander? Ram?"
"No, sir. But I have worked out an idea to deal with these things. Get above 'em, and bomb ..."
We heard another salvo of rockets—the battery must have been in the Palace grounds—heard the throbbing roar of the helicopter built up to a crescendo, then cease.
"Got 'em!" said the Colonel, with grim satisfaction.
"No," said Claire. "I'm sorry to have to disappoint you good people—but it sounded to me like a perfectly good landing."
There were voices outside the hall, the sound of an argument. Bean came in, marched to the table, saluted.
"Your Grace," he reported, "an emissary from Wyndham's Landing, under the protection of a white flag . . ."
The girl who followed him in saluted Claire, looked at the rest of us with a cool disdain.
"Which of you is the Duke?" she demanded. "Oh, you. I've a message for you."
"And what might it be, young lady?"
"Just this. Surrender the prisoners to me, or . . ."
"Or what?"
"Or else," said the girl, grinning insolently.
"I don't understand," said the Duke.
"You will."
Claire's face was white, the small freckles dark against her sudden pallor. "Duke John," she said, "I understand. So does Miss Dale. I implore you, let us go."
"The Jeanne d'Arc technique," whispered Adelie. She, too, had paled.
"The Jeanne d'Arc technique," murmured the Duke. "I have read of Jeanne d'Arc. Or Joan of Arc. She was put to death by burning . . . But what bearing has that upon the present situation? Perhaps you ladies can tell me . . . What is this famous technique?"
"I can't tell you," said Claire. "But for your own sake, the sake of our people, let us go."
"Yes, let us go," said Adelie. "And I will see to it that the technique is never used against Albany."
"I wish I could believe you, my dear. But I fear that you overestimate your influence over the Commandante." He turned to the envoy. "Tell your superiors that I am keeping the prisoners, and that I will see to it that they are at the receiving end of whatever weapon it is you are thinking of using. That is all."
"You've asked
for it, brother," smirked the girl.
"Sorry, Miss King, but you shouldn't have been taken prisoner. Any last messages?"
"Get out!" flared Claire. "And when I get back to Wyndham's landing I'll see to it that you're disrated for insolence."
"// you get back, dearie. Goodbye, all!"
We sat around the table in silence, listening to the roar of the helicopter's drive fading and dying.
"Duke John," said Claire suddenly, "get the evacuation of the city under way at once. You must!"
"And the Bishop's guerillas will have themselves a good time . . . No "
"You must. To hell with my oath of allegiance and all that goes with it. This is why you must."
The Duke sat silent at the head of his table, lighting a cheroot with slow deliberation, looking at Claire with impassive eyes. Then ... "I don't trust you," he said. "I don't trust any of you. This is a trick, a ruse to disorganize my defenses."
"It's not, I swear it!"
"And you said just now that you had decided to forget your oath of allegiance, and divulge some highly secret information to me, the enemy. What am I to believe?"
"What I am going to tell you. I must be fast—there isn't much time. And you must be fast, too, if you are going to save your people. Please, please pass the word to organize the evacuation now, at once."
"After I've heard your story. You'd better make it convincing."
"All right. But don't blame me if there's no time to organize things. And I'll tell you first what this
Jeanne d'Arc technique is. It's the use of a spaceship as a weapon against land-based fortresses. Just that, and nothing more."
"I can't see it," said Stewart. "A spaceship is not an airship. From what I've studied on the matter, a spaceship can't be maneuvered in an atmosphere."
"Don't interrupt, Flight Commander," snapped the Duke. "As a weapon, you said . . ."
"Yes, as a weapon. The ship is taken up, and then drifts down, stern first, as though for a landing, on to the target. Her exhaust, as you know, consists of incandescent, radio-active gases. A skilled pilot can hold the ship stationary over one fixed spot, or she can drift the ship over a wide area, playing the blazing exhaust like water from a hose. It's been done—and Commandante Willis has seen it done. She was a junior officer in the Jeanne d'Arc when it was done."
The Duke removed the cheroot from his mouth and studied it. "Plausible." He snapped into alertness. "Armstrong—better get back to your ship. Have all vessels cleared for action. Colonel—have your spotters and batteries at Full Alert. Stewart—see that Ad Astra is fueled and that her magazines are full. Bean—go at once to the Mayor, tell him from me to organize the citizens for immediate evacuation. Wait, Armstrong! When you get down to the port, order the transports to raise a full head of steam."
"So you believe me," said Claire.
"Perhaps. But we have to wait until I get the reports back from my officers. Will you tell us the rest of the story?"
"I've heard it," said Adelie. "It's not pretty."
It wasn't. A convict colony on the Moon, manned by males who had refused to kowtow to the new regime of women—this was twenty years back—made a successful uprising, took the prison, holding guards hostages. They made demands on the Governor.
There was one ship in port—the Jeanne d'Arc. The Governor appealed to her Commandante to do something, as an assault on the prison had failed. The Commandante did.
"I've seen films of it," Claire said. "A tractor, fitted with cameras with telescopic lenses, lay a safe distance off the mine buildings, and there were cameras aboard the ship, too. You can see the blinding fire hit and spatter, you can see the little, Moonsuited figures of men and women running like ants from a kicked antheap and the flame licking them up, shriveling their bodies. Eighty-three men and thirty-five women were incinerated."
"Hmm, and your Commandante was on hand when this happened. . . . But we still don't know she intends to do it."
"She does," said Adelie. "She was discussing it with us at our last Council of War. I vetoed the idea."
"So she'll not be sorry to get you out of the way," said the Duke. "She'll kill two birds with one stone— the City State of Albany and the too-ambitious daughter of the Bishop."
"She hates Clair, too," whispered Adelie.
"You'll have to evacuate, John," said the Old Man.
"I know, Captain . . . Miss Dale, what chance is there of persuading your father's fleet to leave the transports alone? I know they'll be off Albany before very long."
"Let me have a pinnace, and a crew. Let me go down the river to meet them, to explain the situation."
The Duke was willing, the Duchess wasn't. "I don't mind burning," she said "if I see her burn first."
There was a nasty scene, and she had to be prevented from going at Adelie with a knife. The Duchess' idea of betrayal was letting "this strumpet" escape the fate Albany would suffer.
Adelie picked up her glass, refilled it from the decanter of rum. She took a sip, then said quietly, "Of course, Duke John, I would not dream of taking your pinnace now. The lady is determined that I shall burn, along with the rest of you—and I can't altogether say that I blame her. I'll stay, Duke John, and take whatever's coming. Meanwhile—pass the word to the transports to wear large white flags and to head up the river. If the steam rams get among them, there'll be slaughter."
"Listen!" interrupted the Duke, raising his hand. We all of us heard, faint and distant, the dull, flat reports. "The forts," he said. "The down-river batteries."
"Sword of the Lord" whispered Adelie, smiling slightly, "Dark Angel and Fiery Cross . . . Your forts'll not stop them."
"Take the pinnace, Miss Dale. Meet them and turn them back."
"I'm sorry. No. The . . . strumpet's motives might be misconstrued."
"Take the pinnace, Adelie," said the Old Man.
"Are you ordering me, Paul? You forget yourself, don't you? You are not my superior, you know. Beulah Land isn't Albany . . ."
Beynon strode to where Adelie was sitting. The noise of the flat of his hand striking her cheek was startlingly loud. He walked slowly to the Duke, stood towering over the little man.
"John," he said, "damn all women. Here's a world, our world, coming to an end, and they have to make things worse with their jealousies. I've wronged you, and I know it—but I'm on your side now. What can I do? I'm at your service."
"You can go to hell," said the Duke.
Stewart came in, walking briskly. He saluted.
"Ad Astra all ready for take-off, sir!" he reported.
"Good. I'll take her up, Flight Commander." He turned to face us all for the last time before he left the hall. "You may yet find, Paul—if you survive this mess—that ships are more faithful than women. I'm glad that I've got Ad Astra with me at the end."
CHAPTER TWELVE
We saw Albany die that night.
First there were the bells, shouting defiance at the lowering sky with brazen tongues as we made our way to the airfield. Huge and black—black against the overcast that was already glowing with the glare of rocket exhausts somewhere above it—loomed Ad Astra.
"John!" called the Duchess, her voice rising clear above the clamor of the bells. "John!"
"Yes? Yes Joanna?" The words drifted down from above.
The bells stopped, to be replaced by the sound of whistles, long and short blasts, signals of transports pulling out into the stream.
"John! What are you doing? What are your orders?"
"I'm fighting them—in the air. Lend a hand with the evacuation. Beynon and Whitley and the women can help."
"John! I wish you . . . luck!"
"I'll need it. You'll need it." His voice changed, assumed the bark of command. "Let go forward lines! Let go aft!"
We watched the Ad Astra lift and head for that part of the sky where the baleful glow was brightest. We were blinded then as the spaceship (Sylvia Pankhurst, it was, Claire told me later) dipped below the cloud layer. We heard t
he thud of steam cannon, the screaming rocket salvoes, the shouts as the enemy came into sight.
There was a cheer from the watchers on the ground as the first salvo flashed out from Ad Astra, but Sylvia f Pankhurst neither staggered nor faltered in her inexorable descent. The third salvo scored a hit—a brief blossom of orange fire on one of the huge tail fins. The rocket tilted, falling over from the vertical, momentarily out of control.
But only momentarily. Slowly, painfully, Sylvia Pankhurst struggled back to the upright. The light was blinding now, even when we were not looking directly at the sky, and searing waves of heat made us gasp for breath. Other hits were scored, but none in a vulnerable spot.
I saw Ad Astra turning away from the spaceship, and realized that the Duke had exhausted his ammunition. There was nothing to do but return to the ground and try to replenish his magazine before he was destroyed.
But she was turning again. Ad Astra was turning toward the enemy, driving in to ram, and I remembered how thin the walls of the spaceship were.
"Get them, John!" the Old Man was yelling.
"John!" the Duchess was screaming. "John! I love you! Do you hear me? I love you!"
Claire's fingers were bruising my arm. Then . . .
There was a dazzling burst of flame from the Sylvia Pankhurst's Venturis, and she lifted, lifted, and Ad Astra flew straight into that dreadful column of fire. She flew on, a flaring torch in the sky, losing altitude slowly at first, then falling suddenly.
And where she fell rose the flames of burning buildings, the first flames of the burning of Albany.
We ran blindly—and in something far too close to panic—but we ran. I like to remember that, all through it, I kept Claire's hand in mine, that I stopped to pick her up when she tripped and fell. And, somehow, we had enough sense to run roughly at right angles to the line of advance of the spaceship, with the column of fire descending from it.
We jumped into the canal, already crowded, and watched the burning, the explosions of gas storage tanks at the airport, the magazines in which the war rockets were stockpiled. A scorching wind followed, bearing with it all manner of debris.
The rocket was coming back now, systematically cutting blazing furrows through the city. She would miss us, I estimated, by all of a couple of hundred yards—but she would pass over the canal, and the already hot water would flash into steam.
Glory Planet Page 10