The Fugitive Worlds (18 page)

A scornful expression briefly animated Kettoran's fea
tures. "Those blood-letters will never get their hands on
me."

"But if you are ill. . . ."

"The doctor who could cure my complaint has yet to be
born," Kettoran said, almost with satisfaction. "I suffer from
nothing less than a dearth of time. Speaking of which, young
Maraquine, I was under the impression you also were anxious
to make a speedy return to Overland."

Toller mumbled an apology and turned to the sergeant,
who immediately moved away from the burner controls and
clambered over the gondola's side. Pausing for a few seconds
on the outside ledge, he explained to Steenameert where all
necessary provisions, including skysuits, had been stored. As
soon as he had dropped out of sight Toller fed a plentiful
charge of hot gas into the pliable dome of the balloon above
him and pulled the anchor link.

The skyship surged upwards, its acceleration enhanced by
the lift created as the curved upper surface of the balloon
moved into the current of air flowing over the enclosure.
Well aware that the extra buoyancy would be cancelled as soon as the balloon fully entered the westerly airstream and
began to move with it, Toller kept the burner going. The
skyship—in spite of being so much below its maximum
operating weight—performed a queasy slow-motion
shimmy as it adapted to the changing aerial environment, causing Steenameert to clutch theatrically at his stomach.
From Commissioner Kettoran, hidden behind his wicker
partition, came a moan of complaint.

For the second time in less than an hour the sprawling
panorama of Ro-Atabri began to recede from Toller, but
now it was retreating downwards. I
can scarcely believe that
all this is happening to me,
he thought dreamily, almost stupefied by the flux of circumstance. Only minutes earlier
he had been racked by fears that he would never see Vantara Dervonai again—now he was on his way to her, keeping an
appointment which had been specially arranged for him by
the forces of destiny.

Soon I will be able to see Vantara again,
he told himself.
For once, things are working out in my favor.

Toller had not eaten anything for a day, and had taken only a few sips of water, barely enough to replace the bodily
moisture lost by exhaling into the arid air of the middle
passage. Toilet facilities on a skyship were necessarily primi
tive and unpleasant to use at the best of times, but in
weightless conditions the disadvantages—including the sheer
indignity—were so great that most people chose to suspend
their natural functions as completely as possible for a day on
either side of turnover. The system worked reasonably well for a healthy adult, but Commissioner Kettoran had begun the voyage in a severely weakened state, and now—much to Toller's concern—appeared to be using up the last dregs of
his strength merely to stay alive.

"You can take those slops away from me," Kettoran said in a grouchy whisper. "I refuse to be suckled like a babe at my time of life—especially from a revolting dug like that."

Toller unhappily fingered the conical bag of luke-warm
soup he had been proffering. "This will do you good."

"You sound just like my mother."

"Is that a reason for not taking sustenance?"

"Don't try to be clever, young Maraquine." Kettoran's breath issued in white clouds from a small opening in the mound of quilts in which he had ensconced himself.

"I was only trying to—"

"My mother could make much better food than any of the
cooks we ever employed," Kettoran mused, paying no heed to Toller. "We had a house on the west side of Greenmount
—not far from where your grandfather lived, incidentally—
and I can still remember riding up the hill, going into our
precinct and knowing immediately, just by the aromas,
whether or not my mother had chosen to prepare the evening
meal. I went back there a few days after we landed in
Ro-Atabri, but the entire district had been burnt out a long
time ago . . . during the riots . . . gutted . . . hardly a
building left intact. It was a mistake for me to go there—I
should have preserved my memories."

At the mention of his namesake Toller's interest picked up. "Did you ever see my grandfather in those days?"

"Occasionally. It would have been hard
not
to see him—
a fine figure of a man, he was—but I more often saw his
brother, Lain . . . going back and forth between his house
and the Lord Philosopher's official residence in Greenmount
Peel."

"What did my grand—?" Toller broke off, alarms clamoring silently in his mind, as there was a subtle but abrupt change in his environment. He rose to his feet, holding a transverse line to keep himself from drifting clear of the deck, and looked all about him. Steenameert, muffled in his skysuit, was strapped into his seat at the control station. He was firing the main jet in the steady rhythm needed to maintain the ship's ascent, and he appeared completely unperturbed. Everything seemed absolutely as normal in the square microcosm of the gondola, and beyond its rim the familiar patterns of stars and luminous whirls shone steadily in the dark blue sky.

"Sir?" The swaddled, anonymous bulk of Steenameert moved slightly. "Is there something wrong?"

Toller had to survey his surroundings again before he was able to identify the source of his unease. "The light! There was a change in the light! Didn't you notice?"

"I must have had my eyes closed. But I still don't. . . ."

"There was a drop in brightness—I'm sure of it—and yet we have more than an hour till nightfall." Baffled and disturbed, wishing he could have a direct view of the sun, Toller drew himself closer to the control station and looked up through the mouth of the balloon. The varnished linen of the envelope was dyed dark brown so that it would absorb heat from the sun, but it was to some extent translucent and he could see a geometrical design of panel seams and load tapes radiating from the crown, emphasizing the vastness of the flimsy dome. It was a sight he had seen many times, and on this occasion it looked exactly as it had always done. Steenameert also looked into the balloon, then lowered his gaze without comment.

"I tell you something happened," Toller said, trying to keep any hint of uncertainty out of his voice. "Something happened. There was a change in the light... a shadow . . .
something."

"According to the height gauge we are somewhere close
to the datum plane, sir," Steenameert said, obviously striving
to be helpful. "Perhaps we have come up directly beneath the permanent stations and have touched their shadows."

"That is virtually impossible—there is always a certain
amount of drift." Toller frowned for a moment, coming to
a decision. "Rotate the ship."

"I ... I don't think I'm ready to handle an inversion."

"I don't want it turned over yet. Just make a quarter-
rotation so that we can see what's above us." Realizing he
was still holding the food bag he tossed it towards the
passenger compartment on a descending curve. It fouled a
safety line, swung round it and floated out over the gondola's
side, slowly tumbling as it went.

Toller pulled himself to the rail, straining to see upwards,
and waited impatiently while Steenameert fired one of the tiny lateral jets on the opposite side of the gondola. At first the jet appeared to be having no effect, except that the slim
acceleration struts on each side of Toller emitted faint creaks;
then, after what seemed an interminable wait, the whole
universe began a ponderous downwards slide. The whorled
disk of Land moved out of sight beneath Toller's feet, and
above him—stealthily uncovered by the ship's balloon—
there came into view a spectacle unlike anything he had ever
seen.

Half the sky was occupied by a vast circular sheet of white
fire.

The sun was slipping out of sight behind the eastern edge,
and at that point the brilliance was intolerable, a locus of
blinding radiance which sprayed billions of prismatic needles
across the rest of the circle.

There was a slight falling off in the intensity of light across
the disk, but even at the side farthest from the sun it was
enough to sting the eyes. To Toller the effect was akin to
looking upwards from the depths of a sunlit frozen lake. He
had expected to see Overland filling a large area of the
heavens, but the planet was hidden behind the beautiful,
inexplicable,
impossible
sheet of diamond-white light,
through which rainbow colors raced and danced in clashing
zigzag lines.

As he stood at the rail, transfixed, he became aware
that the incredible spectacle was drifting down the sky at
undiminished speed. He turned and saw that Steenameert
was staring out past him, jaw sagging, with eyes which had
become reflective white disks—miniature versions of the
phenomenon which was mesmerizing him.

"A
quarter
turn I told you," Toller bellowed. "Check the
rotation."

"Sorry, sir." Steenameert stirred into action and the lateral jet mounted low down on Toller's side of the gondola began
to spew miglign gas. Rings of condensation rolled away from
it through the gelid air. The sound of the jet was puny,
quickly absorbed by the surrounding void, but it gradually
achieved the intended effect and the skyship came to rest
with its vertical axis parallel to the sea of white fire.

"What's going on out there?" The querulous voice of Trye
Kettoran issuing from the passenger compartment helped bring Toller out of his own tranced condition.

"Have a look over the side," he called out for the commissioner's benefit, then turned to Steenameert. "What do
you think yonder thing is? Ice?"

Steenameert nodded slowly. "Ice is the only explanation
I can imagine, but. ..."

"But where did the water come from? There is the usual supply of drinking water in the defense stations, but that
amounts to no more than a few barrels.
..."
Toller paused
as a new thought struck him. "Where are the stations,
anyway? We must try to locate them. Are they embedded in
the. . . ?" His voice failed altogether as related questions
geysered through his mind. How thick was the ice? How far
away from the ship was it? How wide was the enormous
circular sheet?

How wide is the circle?

The last question suddenly reverberated in his conscious
ness, excluding all others. Until that instant Toller had been
overawed by the brilliant spectacle confronting him, but it
had inspired no sense of danger. There had been a feeling
of wonder—but no threat. Now, however, certain facts of
aerial physics were beginning to assume importance. A dis
turbing importance. A potentially
lethal
importance. . . .