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RODNEY HOVERRIM STROLLED the length of his little airship running his fingers along the gondola’s glossy new plum-red canvas. He was amazed. So many improvements!
He turned to his benefactors, the two oil barons Nectoy and Krarvatt. “This is splendid, sirs, simply splendid! And I love the colour.”
“It’s the very least we could do,” answered Nectoy, “You are a hero to all Vicaria!”
“Oh no, really, it was nothing,” murmured Rod, still aware of a few unhealed bruises from his terrible brush with that murderous villain Pinkington in the previous week.
Nectoy’s associate Harry Krarvatt chuckled. “Oh really, Captain Hoverrim, you’re too modest. But wait, sir, for there is more.” He turned to the third man there, the one from Havencliffs who had done the rebuilding, “Mr Jollie, if you wouldn’t mind?”
The third fellow was the entire opposite of the first two. Tall, broad and sporting a rampant ginger beard, Master Aerosmith Jollie’s eyes gleamed as he smacked his carpenter’s hands together as if announcing a show.
“I’ve been given permission by King Atta Schriick himself to undertake a further fitting while you’re in Havencliffs, Captain, and the first thing I’m going to do is give you proper ballast bladders! That’s why I built her a little deeper in the belly here:” Mr Jollie slapped the gondola affectionately on the plump under-curve as a boisterous drunk might slap his wife on the rump, causing the entire thing to sway under the lofting bag above (still coloured its original chromium yellow).
“Ah yes,” said Rod, eyeing the new curves below his floorboards, “I’d wondered ...” but he got no further. Mr Jollie was off again, his voice booming throughout the cavern.
“Water is the way to ballast any ship, mate, even yer little hunter here. Forget sand bags! Nothing but a hassle! Yessir, she’ll be a beauty when I’m done!” His eyes lifted to the gas bag, “And I’ve got ideas on improving that, too. But first thing’s first: test flight termorra!”
Rod was set to respond when the irrepressible Jollie resumed again, “Oh you’ll love the improvements, sir, but these motors are strangers to me. Got a ton of questions for you.”
“Gad! Oh. Well, um, I’ll do my best.”
“You do know everything about it?”
“I’ve read the manual.”
The fellow laughed thunderously. “Never fear, I’ve been given a decent run-down by the local expert,” Jollie glanced at the fifth man there, a sour-faced chap in tidy clothes who could not hide the fact that he had dark stains under his fingernails. Woodbind by name.
“I ran it continuously for seven hours yesterday,” said Mr Woodbind, “disassembled it, and found nothing of concern. It is a splendid machine, except for its tendency to leak oil.”
“Well,” spluttered Rodney, “it’s British!”
“Yes, except for your airscrew,” interjected Nectoy, “I acquired that one from an invader... sorry an Adventurer, about a year ago. Been dying to try it out.”
“French, isn’t it?”
“Ah, that’s the word, yes.”
Rodney eyed his new propeller with suspicion, but said not a word. His previous one had had endless problems with balancing, so he was glad to be rid of it.
“Ready to take her up?” asked Jollie.
“Absolutely!”
Rod turned to his benefactors, trying to think of some phrase that might somehow reward their generosity, “Tomorrow will be a giant leap forward for ... for mail deliveries!”
“Hear, hear!” they answered heartily.
#
THE TEST FLIGHT WENT perfectly, and Rod was impressed with the workings of the improved motor. It required no preheating, was easier to start, and ran with more vigour. His new propeller, which had undoubtedly been acquired from an adventurer’s airship from beyond the Stormwall, was perfect. Rod of course, was too polite to inquire too closely.
They flew back and forth across the top of Vicaria, making several pre-arranged runs along a measured course to calibrate their speed at various settings of the throttle, then did a full circuit. Thousands of onlookers had braved the conditions to wave and cheer from below, and Rod made an effort to wave back to them, not quite feeling the hero that the happy crowds thought he was. In fact, his heart was heavy. He missed Britain and crumpets and decent tea and his dear old pooch who’d died so recently, but most of all he missed that wild and delightful woman Romarny Skijypzee. Why, he had flown with her across this same landscape barely a week ago, in the most intimate of circumstances.
What an adventure that had been!
His gaze turned to trace the actual path: up over the clifftops, across the orchards and mansions and vents, the impressive skylight domes that let light deep into the interior, and across the high-peaked roofs of the Grand Palace of Vicaria where they had landed upon a lawn within a courtyard – in the very same spot, in fact, where he had last seen her. But there was no point in indulging in melancholy: she’d gone her way, and he was about to go his.
With a sigh, he brought his attentions back to controlling his airship, only his second flight since he had bravely flown from British Air Territory and into The Storm’s Domain. (‘Varste’ as it was called here.) Tomorrow he was bound for the very heart of this world; the very centre of the biggest empire hereabouts: Havencliffs, in a highly-publicised flight using Nectoy and Krarvatt’s wondrous new fuel, petroline. He should have been happy, but it seemed as if there was a hole in his heart where Romarny should have been.
(He shared none of this with Jollie, of course. After all, Rod was British.)
“We’ll be doing the run in daylight tomorrow,” Jollie was saying, “then back as soon as the new ballast system is fitted. Two decent test flights, and to get you trained in signals and suchlike. Nectoy wants the first night-mail run to be perfect.”
“Oh, of course. Looking forward to it.”
“But apparently, we’ll be taking one letter. Is that right?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Rod, distractedly, “From Lord Vicario to King Attar.”
“Hush-hush, though, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Pull it out if we succeed. And if we don’t...” Rod let his sentence trail off.
“Then no-one’s the wiser, eh?”
“Quite.”
“We’ll be fine!” Jollie looked around, the only part of him showing under his goggles being his nose and bushy beard. “Right, we’re high enough, let’s take her out through the cliff wind. East, I think.”
Rod spun the wheel and the new rudder swung smoothly. They crossed the cliffs and felt a minor surge in altitude. Rod reached for the venting handle.
“Easy up there, soldier,” advised Jollie, “Don’t adjust anything until you’ve done a few miles in the new air. There’s no rush.”
Rod relaxed. He was liking this fellow a lot.
“So, you work for King Attar, do you?” he asked as they edged away from Vicaria and the gulf everyone knew of as ‘The Deep’ opened out below them like an infinite mouth.
“Sure do, mate! Chief Engineer I am now, Royal Airship Works of Havenscliff. Was in the navy for starters, but this is better. I prefer building things, not shooting them down.”
“Oh, I quite agree.”
Jollie glanced at the large picnic hamper he had brought along. “What do you think the time is, then?”
“Around about noon, I’d say.”
“That’s near enough for me! Open her up! It’s alright, I’ll take the wheel.”
Rod was happy to comply. To his delight the hamper was full to the brim with excellent provisions. “Oh, how splendid!”
“Just a light lunch,” laughed Jollie, “We’ll be packing twice as much tomorrow!”
Rod had the most satisfying of feelings. Tomorrow was going to be a perfect day!
#
BUT IT WASN’T. AT DAWN, he was hurrying through the final gate of Airship Field Three (the one reserved for private yachts, royalty and suchlike), and there was the Lizzie, still afloat and tied down to the anchor-wagon. Some ten men stood ready for the launch under the command of Mr Jollie, plus of course Krarvatt, Nectoy and their servants.
“Here he is!” Jollie bellowed as Rodney hove into view, “The hero returns!” The rope-men and servants all politely applauded. Rod felt somewhat embarrassed.
“Really, old chap,” he protested, “it’s just another test flight.” His breath frosted in the icy conditions. The sky was clear after a light overnight fall of snow.
“It’s always a special day when a ship takes her first run,” grinned Jollie.
Rod decided not to protest the inaccuracies in this. He patted the Lizzie and looked towards the east where the sun had yet to struggle up from a bank of pink cloud. He had the odd feeling that something was different, but odd feelings were commonplace since that villainous scientist Victor Vicario had injected him with skywhale brain. His mind felt like a complex map filled with inexplicable details. Each passing airship felt like a gliding ghost – as if it were alive in itself. It was a feeling he tried hard to ignore most of the time.
“Shall we go, then?” he said with forced cheer, unconsciously patting the slender bag he had slung from his shoulder – the first ever Varstian mail to go via a British powered airship (that he knew of), a letter from Vicario to King Attar.
“Well damned if I’m going to stand around here and freeze!” boomed Jollie. He gestured to the fixed steps attached to the anchor wagon, “After you, Captain!”
Rod took his travelling bag from the man who had come with him from the palace, his butler for the last week. “Thank you ever so much, Mr Jaffer.”
“A pleasure, sir.”
Then Rod was up and aboard. By the time he had stowed his bag (a splendid new set of personal grooming items and undergarments thanks to the generosity of the people of Vicaria) and looked up, there were more people arriving upon the field. He recognised Victor Vicario the Seventh and his courtiers, but alongside them strode three gentlemen in military uniforms of a colour and style he did not recognise at all.
Jollie, halfway up the steps, noticed Rod’s fixed gaze and twisted to look. Rod heard him immediately gasp and then to mutter, “Curse of a Thousand Ships!”
“What is it, old chap?”
“Could be nothing,” replied Jollie, but his voice was less than reassuring, “Just a chance of trouble.” His voice lifted a little, “Mennase is here!”
“MenNACE?” repeated Rod, puzzled. Was it a word he hadn't learned?
“Major Mennase; the one in the middle with the scar.” Jollie pointed with one hand as his other gripped the gunwale, causing the gondola to tilt, “Plus two of his men. No arms presented, yet.”
That was a rather troubling remark. Rod peered across the field at the approaching party. The central figure in the grey-clad group was certainly noticeable. Tall, and moving with a crisp and efficient stride, he wore an impeccable uniform buttoned tight against the cold. His peaked cap was detailed, suggesting a man of some rank. Why was Mr Jollie so troubled? The Lord Vicario seemed untroubled.
“Good morning, Captain Hoverrim,” hailed Vicario the Seventh as if he were a regular man greeting an old friend (as indeed they were), “so glad we caught you! Wouldn’t have wanted to have missed this occasion!”
“No, indeed! Is there some trouble, Lord Vicario?”
Vicario glanced at the mystery major. “No, not at all! But a slight change of plans for you. Seems that King Attar of Havencliffs has chosen you a different flying companion for today. This is Major Menace – ”
“Mennase!” corrected Mennase sharply.
“So sorry. So, ah, so the Major here is going to be your navigator for the day, Captain Hoverrim, but don’t panic. He knows all the signals and turns. Been flying these skies for many a year. Attar’s most trusted man.”
Jollie hissed and snarled, as if he knew a different truth, and his massive hand continued to rock the boat. But he barely turned to look at this interloper. Rod glanced at the fellow, wondering what really was bothering him. As it was, Rod was also quite lost for words. Here was his friend Vicario the Seventh telling him this. He could hardly refuse. Surely Victor would never send him into trouble?
“Well oh dear, that’s a frightful shame,” Rod finally said, “For you, old chap,” he quickly added, addressing Jollie so all could hear. Then he added as quietly as he could, “Whatever’s the matter?”
“Just let me do the talking,” was all Jollie whispered in reply. Then aloud he turned and boomed down towards the newcomers, “My good sirs, are you entirely sure of this? Why if even the slightest problem should arise, who better to be on hand than my good self to rescue your hero from going adrift?”
Nectoy almost staggered back, “But Mr Jollie, you yourself said just this morning that everything was perfect. Is there something we should be worried about?”
“Not my meaning at all, sir! I was trying to point out that in the unlikely event...”
“Stop blustering, you fat buffoon!” interrupted Major Menace, “You know perfectly well that I am a superior skyman to you. You just don’t want to come down because you don’t want to miss out on the enormous lunch you have packed.”
There was laughter at this.
“Now see here –”
“No, you see here!” Mennase strode forward, right to the foot of the ladder, and handed a letter up to Jollie. “King’s personal order, Mr Jollie. Are you trying to refuse the King?!”
At this range, Rod finally got a good look at Major Mennase, and it was a disturbing sight. Three long drag-lines marked his face from top to bottom; starting above his right brow and ending at his chin. One of the most unfortunate details was in the corner of the man’s mouth, where the sagging scar acted as a little pool for spittle that constantly escaped the poor chap’s mouth. It caused the spittle to progressively foam as Mennase spoke. Rodney wondered what could possibly have done this awful damage. A savage beast, perhaps? A violent clawing? He imagined the poor chap lying in the woods bleeding and disfigured, then struggling back to civilization, holding together his wounds as best he could but arriving too late for any physician to decently close the gaps.
Rod felt a pang of sympathy for him and allowed that his abrupt manner was perhaps just the natural defenses of a man who had long suffered such ugliness.
Meanwhile Jollie had taken the letter but had not even broken the seal. Rod saw his eyes flick about, almost as if some inner terror was about to overcome him. He tapped the letter repeatedly against his leg as he struggled to find something to say. “So tell me, Major,” he finally asked in something approaching a level voice, “why it is so important for you to take this crossing? It will not exactly be very comfortable.”
“I only do the King’s bidding, Mr Jollie. Comfort does not come into it. Perhaps he just wishes our hero the best protection, but I do not question my King. Do you?”
“No, ah, certainly not.” Pause. Jollie was not done yet. “Please, I beg you not to take on any firearms. Captain Hoverrim is quite adamant about it.”
The tragic face puckered into what Rod guessed was a smile. “Really, Mr Jollie, you should know me better than that. But I certainly don’t intend to go undefended.” He turned to one of his four assistants, “Baste!”
The man unslung a hefty bow and stepped close, ready to pass it forwards along with a plump bag showing the fletched ends of a number of arrows.
Mennase looked up at Jollie. “And you had not even thought of this?”
Jollie had no reply, yet Rod could see him stewing with twenty different emotions.
“Come on, Mr Jollie, get down!” cajoled Mennase, “If you’re quick you can run and catch the regular service home and meet us at the other end. I promise; I’ll leave you a few pork pies and a decent slice of cake.”
Rod had seen a few men reach murderous rage, and at this remark Jollie came perilously close. Then he seemed to reach a decision. He lifted his eyes to Rodney, put forth his hand and said, “Keep her safe and steady, Captain. She’ll take care of herself, I’m sure. Due east all the way. Half throttle as agreed. I’ll be there to take your ropes at the other end.”
They shook hands, then Jollie patted the gunwale one last time. “No tricks, now, my precious. You behave!” He went down, widely avoided Mennase, and strode off a distance to watch. Mennase came aboard, barely glanced at Rod until he had stowed his hardware and hat. Another of his men passed him up a pair of goggles, thick gloves and a padded leather flying helmet – all impeccably tailored. When Mennase was quite satisfied, he turned to Rod.
“Captain Hoverrim, I presume?” Rod took the proffered hand and Mennase immediately gripped hard. It was one of those very masculine, eyeball-to-eyeball sort of handshakes. Who will quit first? Who will look away? Who will weaken?
He knew this sort of shake: it was a test of strength; one man testing the other. His grandfather had taught him about it when Rod was ten. ‘Don’t squeeze harder, you’ll wear yourself out,’ the old coot had said, ‘but don’t give away any of your squeeze either. Try it. Do it now.’ Little Roddy had eased off, and at once granddad tightened his grip. Within moments Roddy’s hand was like a sausage in a dog’s mouth. A painful lesson he well remembered.
Mennase relented, allowing a smile to cross the tortured landscape of his face like the shadow of a fleeing bird. “Right. You are to manage this motor of yours, and I shall take care of all navigation, departure and final approaches. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Rod was feeling most annoyed by this whole turn of events, but did his best not to show it. He stepped to the edge, took in the little crowd below, and as the distant sun broke through he raised an arm and shouted, “Farewell, Vicaria! Thank you ever so much!”
“Thank you, sir!” answered their Lord Vicario, “Bon Voyage!”
“See you in a few days’ time!”
“Whenever you are ready! Do write!”
“Of course!”
The launching crew stepped to the anchor wagon and took up their positions. His landing ropes had been locked into a set of cunningly contrived hawsers that could be cranked down tight, then released by one pull of a lever. He just needed to get the motor running, and they’d be off. And indeed, within a minute he had it running well and they were off. The Lizzie surged up, faster than planned since his substitute navigator was less burdensome than the first. But Rod allowed it, remembering Jollie’s advice from yesterday. Vicaria seemed to drop away until all its features looked like perfectly made toys.
Rod forced himself to look east, and their crossing began.
#
AS IT WAS STILL EARLY and the conditions wintery, crossing the clifftops went smoothly and within ten minutes Vicaria was well behind them. Rod tried not to look back, nor recall too many of the events that had happened there. Instead he kept his eye on the compass and made repeated, if not excessive, checks on the motor. Mennase watched the whole procedure with an utter lack of expression.
“So, there is a fire inside this thing. A naked flame?”
“No, the fuel is burnt entirely inside the chambers, and the resultant smoke dissipates and cools via the outlet until it offers no threat of fire. And besides, even if our hydrogen were to be leaking at the same time, the hydrogen would be flying upwards and away from all danger. We’ve even tested them in hydrogen-filled chambers and they have proven safe in most instances.” Here he decided to take a moment to practice promoting his sponsors, “And thanks to my splendid new fuel from V-Lines Oil and Gas, I have now dispensed with the preheater. All the combustion occurs internally.”
“So, it’s an internal combustion motor?”
“I say, that’s quite a good name for it!”
“What do you call them then?”
“They’re generally known as Alcoholic Twin-Cycle Reciprocating Steam-Burst Pistonators. But since this one has been modified to run on petroline, I suppose I shall have to rename it!” He tried to sound merry, but his navigator kept his stony expression.
“Sounds unnecessarily complex to me, but it is certainly very effective.”
“Would you care to take the wheel?”
“Very kind of you.”
Rodney took the time to carefully coil and stow the landing lines, then spent a few minutes checking through the supplies on board. Except for a number of extra ballast bags laid in the backs of the stowage spaces (presumably to offset the extra lift Jollie had achieved), there were only the absolute basics for safe handling, a repair kit that Jollie had insisted upon, and Jollie’s substantial picnic hamper. Rodney resisted his boyish temptation to peek under the lid, stood again into the bracing breeze, and looked about.
They did not entirely have the sky to themselves. Not far behind, two of the local dirigibles were afloat and on a similar course. Over the next hour, those monsters slowly progressed until they were ahead, then further ahead, then so far ahead as to seem like dots in the sky. Rod kept an eye on them and several times wondered about the accuracy of their course, but out of politeness to his guide he said nothing.
Over the first three hours, conversations arose, progressed, and sputtered out repeatedly. His guest had a maddening tendency to bend everything into yet another lecture based on his own strict notions. For example, Rod inquired about the source of motive power for the industries of Havencliffs. The conversation went like this:
“Our engineers have long made use of the cliffwinds – which as you would know is an intermittent source of industrial power, but more principally and reliably they have harnessed water power, capturing all possible rainfall and repeatedly directing it through waterwheels as it takes its journey back to the Deep. But Havencliffs shall soon reach that limit too. How would you British solve the problem?”
“Why, with steam engines of course!”
“Burning coal?”
“Of course.”
“Which, I hear, you burn freely? How efficient is a steam engine?”
“I, um, I don’t rightly know. About 20 percent, I think.”
“Eleven percent, I’m told. And you Outsiders just dig it up and burn it as if it is wood from your backyard, recovering just eleven percent of its value?”
“Ahhh...”
And away the fellow would go again: “...I think we must always impose order and use everything to its utmost efficiency. Society is a prime example. The morals of every generation get a little looser, order is lost, and thus social efficiency is lost to individuals contesting their place in the scheme of things. Does the ant complain? Does the queen bee demand the freedom to wear this year’s hat instead of last? No, and we should not either. Liberalisation of our social code always leads to greater inefficiency. Crime does the same thing, so any aberration must be crushed at once. The ant always eats the imperfect larva, and so should we. Efficiency, you see, should be our centre-most touchstone...”
At which point Rodney would once again start wondering if he had some way of causing a fuel leak to justify turning back ... No; that would be entirely too obvious. He looked up hopefully. Perhaps the envelope was leaking? No such luck. The Lizzie was still fat and sleek and motoring steadily eastwards and he was trapped with a dreary man who was producing philosophy and spittle in about equal measure.
May the gods preserve him from death by boredom!
#
ONE HOUR LATER MENNASE was still at the wheel, and Rodney was becoming increasingly concerned about the compass setting. He did not need his new and bizarre sense of direction to tell him they were off course. Finally, he had to say something.
“I ... ah, seem to get the feeling we’re off course. Am I being fooled by the shadows or something?”
“No.”
“Then we are off course?”
“A little.”
“Well, ah, should we not do something to correct this? Even a few degrees of error could put us twenty or thirty miles off target.”
“It is no error, Captain. I’m taking you somewhere.”
“Oh?” Rod tried to sound neutral, but his stomach had just lurched.
“Never fear, Captain. I know these skies well. Consider it merely sightseeing.”
Rod was now looking ahead with more interest. There was something ahead – the characteristic smudge of darkness amidst rising cloud than always indicated a skyland from great distance. He could also sense it there.
“Not Havencliffs, then?”
No. That is Upjut, also known as Old Man’s Chin. Officially it is ‘The King’s Hunt’, but he seldom gets there these days. Nor do I.”
“Why are we visiting?”
“Sentimental reasons.”
That surprised Rodney, considering everything this fellow had previously been spouting. So, there was a sentimental side to the fellow after all? Well, under every man’s exterior, Rodney privately knew, there was a need for a woman’s touch or the company of a good dog. He supposed that Major Mennase was like any other, despite his hardened exterior.
They flew for another ten minutes. Mennase selected a line of approach, carefully explaining to Rod how to read the clouds and seek the point of least cliffwind, usually by approaching on the shadowed side, and they crossed the clifftops with barely a bump. Rod gazed down. The land here were riven by a thousand faults but wasn't bare rock. It positively seethed with birdlife and were thick with dense veins of greenery. There seemed no precise boundary between clifftop and flat land; the cliffs just climbed ever upwards until they merged with the dense rainforest that hunkered upon the margins.
Rod looked ahead at what seemed an unbroken wilderness.
“Are there towns further in?”
“No.”
“It’s all like this?”
“Yes.”
“Why is it called The King’s Hunt?”
“This skyland has long been the preserve of the King, for his hunting pleasure. But he is not the only one who comes here. It's long been the practice of the ruling classes to send their sons here, hunting. I used to do it myself.”
“Ah!”
Silence. The motor throbbed and they inched their way across the tangle below. The forest was now changing, opening out a little as the land kept rising. Ahead Rod saw snow-covered ridges. They would soon have to release some ballast.
“So, you boys would land and –”
“No, it is all done from the air in little ships almost the same as this; ‘hunters’. But, of course, this thing would be useless. You need silence to hunt.”
Rod finally understood something: why Jollie had several times referred to the Lizzie as a ‘Hunter’. It made sense to have an open deck where men could stand with weapons ready and a full view all around. In this world the Lizzie was a Hunter. How curious.
Silence fell between them. Of course, there was no actual silence, what with the motor running, but all conversation has suddenly and strangely ceased. His unpleasant companion was becoming less talkative by the minute.
The trees below were sparse now, either winter-bare or fir trees seemingly huddled in their coats. The steep ridges on all sides carried a heavy dusting of snow. It was difficult country. Not a place to encounter trouble, or have a breakdown.
“Loose a little more ballast, Captain. About a small’s worth.”
Rod complied, guessing Mennase meant to spill the sand rather than drop the whole bag. They lifted higher as the land did too. Below, the snow got deeper. It was cold up here! His pilot got his bearings and turned a little further north.
Rod was getting worried. “I ... um, is this entirely sensible? If we get into any bother out here...well, it’ll be a bit of a hike at the very least.”
“I trust your little ship, sir, it’s well made. Master Jollie is one of the best.”
“Perhaps that was why he was so protective...”
“No, he was just being difficult. He doesn’t like me. Never did.”
“You cannot know that for sure.”
“We were at school together a while. Do you British have boarding schools?”
“Yes.”
“All a jolly caper, eh? Larking about with your friends, teasing the juniors. Tell me, was there some boy you all picked on? Some poor wretch who for no great fault of his own had something about him that made him into a bit of a target?”
“Well ...” Rodney was reluctant to answer, but one glance at Mennase’s tragic face gave away his thoughts anyway.
“You think I was the whipping boy?” Mennace suddenly spat. “Hah! In those days, I was in the elite! Head boy, leader of the sports team, I had girls swooning all about me. No, let me assure you, I was busy being rotten to someone else.”
“Jollie?”
“Wrong again. Oh, we had our pick of little misery-gutses to teach some spine to; that was our job as seniors, but Jollie fancied he could keep on bending the rules right through his final year. I, on the other hand, realised that rules were to be exemplified. How else to advance society? And how else to impress one’s superiors, eh?”
“Quite right.”
Mennase turned the wheel again as if he had finally reached some specific spot above the landscape. “Ease back the motor, right down.”
Rodney complied. The Lizzie was now moving gently over a high flat dome or plateau of primeval forest that went for miles in every direction. Below, between the threadbare trees, he saw thick snow. There was a light wind blowing from the southwest, for he could see the motion of the cloud-shadows below. What he didn’t notice was Major Mennase reaching up for the vent-pull, but he did realise as soon as he heard the huff of venting gas.
“What are you doing? We cannot try a landing here!”
“Not landing, hunting. Turn it off now. Off, sir!”
Worried, Rodney shut off the motor. The silence was like a blow to the ears.
They were now close over the trees, but Mennase vented off another half-second’s worth of hydrogen. The Lizzie dipped even lower.
“We used to come here hunting,” began Mennase softly, “We’d drift like this for hours, watching below, then go about, open our stone and drive up-wind for another pass. In summer the wildenherds would come up here to graze. They seldom looked up. We’d float over them silently, crossbows out, waiting the moment, then f-wang! Hah! Then it was all on! Sometimes a wild chase and another bolt or two into its brains before it would finally fall. I always enjoyed the chase. Then we’d anchor off, go down and rope it up. There were ballast bags all over the place but I dropped the sand and kept my bags. Efficiency, you see. They laughed at me for that. I soon taught them out of it.”
Rodney wondered how young Mennase taught them, but dared not ask.
“Then one day, some years later, I was smitten by a real beauty of a girl. Did my best to romance her, but she wanted nothing of art galleries, cafés and the theatre. She seemed to have a hankering for the wild side, and so one day I brought her here.”
Rodney gazed down at the desolate scene, tried to imagine a handsome young man and a pretty girl riding the airs, alone, in love...
Mennase suddenly sucked in his spittle ball and spat it violently over the side, “But damn it she rejected my declarations! Imagine it: a man in love; the woman of his dreams; he raises the courage to ask for her hand; and she slaps him in the face!” He pointed into the prow of the gondola as if she were actually there. “There she was, laughing at me, jeering at my manhood! I tell you, Rodney, I was furious. But I tried to control myself. Oh, yes I tried! But she was so spiteful, so .... Ooooogh!” Mennase spun the wheel violently. The rudder swung around, causing the Lizzie to turn slightly in the air. The treetops seemed only inches below them now.
“But oh no, that wasn’t enough for her! She began to attack me with her vicious claws, forcing me to the edge. Should I have fought back, you might ask? Should I have just slapped some sense back into her? No, I didn’t, though I sorely wanted too. You see, sir: I tried to be a gentleman even then, with my life in danger!” Mennase paused to once again suck in his loose spittle, “And how I have lived to regret it every day since!” Spit!
Rodney was stunned by the surge and plunge of the man’s tale, the intensity of his anger and the agony of this most awful of memories. It was so convincing that he felt sick in his own gut. He was afraid the poor wretch was about to start weeping.
“And then she threw me overboard. Tried to murder me I guess. But I was made of sterner stuff than that. I fell about this same distance, bounced on the summer green, and got up in time to see her steal away with my ship! I roared at her, begged her to return, but finally I had to watch as she disappearing over the treetops. I was alone. Just the clothes I stood up in, and one small knife.
“For two days, I walked southeast, knowing it was the best line to be seen by others, and late that second day I was overtaken by a dog-bear. Its first slash did this – ruining my beautiful face, ruining my life. Why it didn’t finish me off I’ll never know, and oft times I've wished it had. Two nights I huddled, starving, trying to prevent my face from splitting yet again, until I was finally sighted by some hunters. They were not physicians, of course. I was forced to wait another five hours before we docked in Havenscliffs. The scars ...”
Mennase touched his face, and his voice quivered with a hatred so fierce it made Rod fear even for himself, “That vixen did this to me; she ruined my life!”
Mennase then looked away across the bleak landscape as if recalling those hellish days. Rodney heard the man’s teeth grind together.
“I, I’m very sorry,” he began to say.
Mennase screamed at him unexpectedly, “I don’t want your sympathy, I want to find that bitch and I want to take her apart!” At which point he'd grabbed Rodney by the throat and begun forcing him back to the gunwale, harder and harder, out over the edge as Mennase kept on snarling. The gondola was swaying wildly.
Then Rodney realized that he was staring into the barrel of a gun. He froze, his primary thought being: What an absolute cad!
Mennase was now so close Rodney could smell his breath as the snarling continued unabated. “...And you are going to give me what I want, stupid hero boy, because I know she’s been on this boat! Oh, you know who I’m talking about, oh yes you do. I’ve done the research, I’ve heard the stories, and it is quite apparent that you and Miss Skijypzee were in cahoots. You were even lovers!”
Rod was then shaken with such force that a whole new level of pain became available.
“Now you’re going to cooperate with me, Britisher, or else I’m tossing you down there with the dog-bears. Do you understand?”
“You won’t get away with this,” Rod managed to gasp.
“Oh, won’t I?” Mennase laughed, “It will be very easy to arrange for your dear little Lizzie to have an accident, sir. A crash, a fire, wherever I want. And who’s going to care about you anyway? You’re an Outsider; an Invader!”
All this time Mennase was shoving at Rodney, hurting his spine on the frame and setting the gondola swaying and creaking. He feared the timbers would give way under him, that he’d go over backwards. He tried to use his legs but Mennase had anticipated that and swiftly punished his puny effort. Rod dared not make another move. Gads, this Mennase chap certainly knew how to induce pain!
“Now tell me where she is,” hissed Mennase, spraying Rodney with warm spit, “Or so help me I’ll kill you instead of her!”
“Don’t bother, Percy, I’m right here!”