The Weaver Fish (4 page)

6

Dear Dr Camenes

As the lead design engineer for the balloon craft about which you enquired, Dr Walter Reckles has asked me to respond on his behalf and provide you with whatever information you require. He has asked me to convey his sympathies, to which I add my own, for the loss of your friend in such tragic circumstances. Dr Reckles will also be writing to you separately.

We presume that your primary interest is in those design and performance characteristics that might be of relevance to optimum search planning. At the current time, we are unable to explain why mayday/GPS signals were not transmitted.

The craft is non-traditional in design and I expect you are not familiar with many of its features. I therefore give a brief overview, with more detailed design and test data in attached files. We have, of course, extensive flight simulation software for the craft, and you are most welcome to access this. The problem is that, at this stage, we don't have sufficiently detailed meteorology for that location. Aside from navigational error and freak weather stresses, we have to consider the possibility of some catastrophic structural failure, including due to fire. Dr Reckles has given this matter the highest priority, and we are doing our utmost to determine what might have happened. I should mention that British authorities have contacted Flight Control for assistance also.

The L-99 craft, of which
Abel
was a slightly modified example, is of hybrid type, having a sealed outer envelope containing
helium, and an inner hot air compartment serviced by dead-baffled butane burners. The helium provides approximate neutral buoyancy on station, adjustable as explained below. The burners fine-tune elevation and provide emergency lift.

Unlike conventional balloons, the L-99 is conformable, incorporating gas piston telescopic struts. This allows two things. First, the volume of the balloon, and therefore its density, can be altered, compensating for local thermal and barometric variations. Secondly, the shape of the balloon can be altered, specifically its horizontal-plane radial symmetry. The standard circular profile reconfigures to sigmoid, presenting a subtle convex–concave surface to the airstream. The effect of this is that the balloon will rotate in wind, rather like a turbine roof vent. Then, instead of the craft being propelled resistively at near wind velocity, much of the linear wind force is dissipated in rotational energy. In this way, down-wind ground speed can be reduced more than seventy per cent. This option rather complicates predicting the balloon's position, even if we had detailed weather data.

The gondola is a sealed cabin constructed of space-rated composites, and accommodates a crew of two. It will float if ditched. There are three hatches: the main one at side and emergency ones above and below. The whole assembly is stabilized gyroscopically using torque from the balloon controlled through an electric clutched gimbal transmission. The cabin is longitudinal and has airfoil curvature which generates a horizontal ‘lift', allowing the craft to tack across wind quite effectively. This also complicates prediction.

The main modification was to do with the fish trap mechanism, which was designed and fitted by another company (Custom X Engineering, 1010 Cambridge Technology Park, UK). They consulted us regarding mass, power, and structural strength constraints, but we never sighted the final design. Their concept was to operate the lines through the floor hatch; induction motor winches were snugged into the co-pilot's space. We recommended adding a photovoltaic membrane to the balloon fabric to ensure power needs were met. We also insisted that the hatch seal was not compromised. All modifications were supervised by the client, and we had no further input. We believe that there would be a
small, but not hazardous, effect of trap deployment on the balloon performance. Custom X was obliged to perform flight trials to document this, but they reported to the client directly, and we suggest that you approach that company for more information.

In order to tighten error bounds on our structural and dynamical estimates under typhoon stresses we are urgently embarking on more comprehensive wind tunnel analyses using L-99 scale models. We will forward to you results of these and other investigations as they become available. In the meantime, please feel free to contact me, or Dr Reckles, at any time.

Sincerely
Linda Feckles PhD

7

CONDORASIATICUS FUGAX.
THIS MAGNIFICENT BUT RARELY SIGHTED CREATURE IS NATIVE TO THE FERENDES. REPORTS INDICATE A WINGSPAN OF UP TO SIX FEET, AND ALTHOUGH OTHERWISE ANATOMICALLY SIMILAR TO AMERICAN SPECIES, IT HAS PLUMAGE OF A UNIFORM IRIDESCENT BLACK, LACKING A WHITE FRILL. FERENDE TRADITION HAS IT THAT THE CONDOR NESTS AT SEA, HALCYON-LIKE, AND RETURNS TO THE SEA WHEN DYING. WHATEVER THE TRUTH IN THIS, ITS HABITAT IS CERTAINLY ONE OF EXTREME REMOTENESS, FOR NO NEST HAS BEEN DISCOVERED, MUCH LESS APPROACHED FOR A STUDY OF THE YOUNG.

IN 1906, A RESEARCH PARTY LED BY MAJOR TERRENCE, UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE ROYAL ORNITHOLOGICAL SOCIETY AND WITH INSTRUCTIONS TO CAPTURE OR OTHERWISE OBTAIN A SPECIMEN, PENETRATED DEEP INTO THE JUNGLE OF THE JOSEPH PLATEAU. THEY REPORTED THREE DEFINITE AND SEVEN PROBABLE SIGHTINGS. LARGE NETTING TRAPS PROVED INEFFECTUAL. ON ONE OCCASION, A SHOT WAS AIMED AT NEAR RANGE BY AN ACCOMPLISHED MARKSMAN, WHEREUPON THE BIRD WAS SAID TO ‘VANISH IN FLIGHT' AND, DESPITE AN EXACTING GROUND SEARCH, NEITHER CORPSE NOR STRICKEN CREATURE COULD BE FOUND. THE EXPEDITION DID, HOWEVER, RETURN WITH AN IMPORTANT COLLECTION OF AVIAN SKELETAL FINDS WHICH MAJOR TERRENCE BELIEVES INCLUDE CONDOR REMAINS. THESE ARE CURATED AT THE SOCIETY'S MINGLE LANE MUSEUM.

SINCE 1918 THE CONDOR HAS BEEN PROTECTED UNDER ROYAL CHARTER, AND IS CELEBRATED IN THE COAT OF ARMS OF THE PROTECTORATE OF THE FERENDES.

LDI Station
South Joseph Plateau
Greater Ferende

Paulo Cinnamonte straightened in his chair, interlaced his fingers with palms outward, and stretched his arms whilst yawning. When his eyes opened they were focused precisely as before, on a smudge in the final frames of a video segment. Without shifting gaze he leaned forward and again clicked Replay. In the course of seven seconds the great bird arched in the sky, one wing momentarily occulting the full moon, before accelerating downward into the forest canopy. In the very second of the video finishing, that indistinct form appeared perhaps a hundred metres further along, but whether it was the same or another bird was impossible to know.

Next to his computer, a water bottle rested on a stack of papers, and he absently reached for it. The papers, relieved of weight, rustled slightly in the air current from the cooling fan. Paulo noticed, as if their agitation were sentient, seeking attention. Sympathetically, he took the uppermost document and read it through, though he had seen it many times before. It was a scanned copy of an historical note on the native condor.

In the seconds of reverie that followed, it began to rain. The first sign was not sound on the iron roof, not droplets on a window, not even the characteristic tropical smell. It was a subtle shift in the musical note of the air conditioner; a machine, mused Paulo, with the acuity of a forest animal.

He replaced the sheet, resilencing the stack with the water bottle. By now, the computer display was dimmed, the image of bird even less discernable. With a touch of the mouse, he relivened the screen and opened a previously suppressed page. Research Progress Report. He left it displayed as he walked to the door; perhaps, foregrounded in machine consciousness, it might become written for him.

The rain was heavier now, collecting in tyre ruts outside his hut. The main clearing was mostly gravelled and drained well; it glistened, mica-like. The forest edge had lost some definition, darkened and suffused with mist.

Paulo thought of his visitor, somewhere on her crazy, uncomfortable journey from Madregalo. He knew she was a special friend to Edvard Tøssentern, and had been pivotal in the politics and organization of the search operation. She was also a trustee of Language Diversity Initiative, and he had hoped to have the research report completed for her arrival. But the weeks since the storm and Edvard's death had been just too difficult, too exhausting. Still, there was a publication in press, which would be mitigating. He glanced back at his computer; the screen was dark. No progress there, then.

Leaving the door open, the rain intruding just slightly, he walked over to a second desk. It was Edvard's workspace, and he presumed Dr Camenes would settle there. She would also wish to see something of Edvard's LDI life, and Paulo's efforts to tidy the area had been dissipated by ambivalence. He missed his supervisor, his advice, their conversation, the shared enjoyment of speculation and rigour and iconoclasm that made this modest hut in the wilderness an exciting place to work.

The rain had moderated, and he could now hear voices from the canteen. Folding a light anorak under one arm, and putting on a peaked cap to protect his spectacles from the rain, he set off across the clearing.

The Land Rover laboured upwards, its slow diesel throb and racing whine sounding mixed resolve and complaint. For two hours they had followed the coast through dozens of fishing villages, each a few huts, public spaces, a water tank, canoes on racks in varied states of construction or repair, and silent souls, observing them. Only startled fowl and protective dogs had reacted to their passing. Now, on the long ascent to the plateau, the vehicle slid this way and that in mud, its tyres finding purchase on rock or tree roots to propel it forward, into more mud.

Anna was feeling sick from a combination of lurching ride, engine fumes, anti-malarials and insomnia. Beside her, clasping the wheel tightly, her driver was hunched forward, watching intently, as if every slide and thrust came of calculated steering. His name was Nicholas, and out of Madregalo they chatted easily. But as the road worsened, he had fallen silent.

Silence suited her. From time to time the track hardened and edged close to the escarpment, affording glimpses south to the Bergamot Sea. She imagined floating serenely above it a great silver and white balloon craft; it was
Abel
coming into view, emerging brightly from a private sojourn in the clouds and oblivious to earthly concerns. She would scold him:
Edvard, we thought you were dead!
So vivid was the mental narrative that, even in the wishful hypothetical, she felt the physicality of emotions. She wiped beginning-tears beneath her eyes and then the make-believe was broken. A displacing imagery of night and storm, of danger and disappearance, was the new, recurring encounter with her friend. She turned to view the way ahead.

Almost another hour had passed when, unexpectedly, Nicholas braked hard at a turn in the track. The Land Rover slid to a stop.

‘Sorry', he said. ‘There's something I need to look at.'

He forced the gearstick into reverse and backed up several metres, again sliding to a halt. Anna followed his gaze off to the right. Leading into the forest, almost concealed by the low, dense understorey, were recent tyre tracks. Without turning to face her, he said, ‘Loggers. Illegal. I'll need to take a look. You might like to stretch your legs as well.'

He opened his door and jumped out, leaving the engine idling. Within a few seconds he was out of sight. Anna also got out, pleased that she had the foresight to wear walking boots. Just as suddenly, Nicholas reappeared, holding in one hand a camera, in the other a large exotic-looking pink fruit.

‘I photographed the tyre tracks', he offered, as Anna looked inquisitively, and he replaced the camera in a deep pocket of his chinos.

‘And this,' he continued, as her curiosity seemed undiminished, ‘is seki fruit. I thought you might like to try some. Tea?'

That simple word seemed providential in this place. Nicholas looked into the luggage tray and lifted out a battered ammunition box, the inside of which was a renovated picnic case. He set it up on the bonnet, serving tea from a thermos, then reached through the driver's window to switch off the engine.

‘See what we can hear,' he said without elaboration. Anna warmed to the mystery, and the harmless contradiction of this.

The seki fruit had been sitting at the front of the bonnet, mascot-like. Nicholas took it up, and turning the base into view, ran a finger around the stem.

‘If it is brown here, don't eat it. They ferment inside. Send you crazy.'

‘Drunk?'

‘Insane.'

Anna concealed slight bemusement. But by now Nicholas was peeling its skin, using a serrated knife from the hamper. Underneath, the flesh was a darker pink colour. He placed it on a cutting board and sliced a segment, meticulously guided it to the edge of the board, then lifted it toward her. This was done, Anna thought, with surprising solemnity. As she reached for it, he said, ‘Take it slowly.'

He said ‘slowly', she knew, but she heard ‘respectfully'. Raising it to her lips, her eyes were drawn to Nicholas. But in her mind she saw the Bishop of Bilbao at her first Communion, and this forest bread as long-abandoned Host.

Nicholas watched her, saying nothing. Anna could feel his interest; she closed her eyes in protection of her other senses, of the exquisiteness of the moment, and in search of language.
‘Sacramento,'
she finally pronounced, softly. Nicholas smiled.

Paulo was back in his office when he heard the vehicle. The weather had cleared and two hours of light remained. He hurried outside to find Nicholas pulling up in front of the accommodation huts. He had never met Anna Camenes but they had corresponded frequently by email since Edvard's disappearance. They introduced themselves while Nicholas unloaded her bags, and Paulo led the way up some timber steps, pushing open a door to show Anna her living space.

‘Would you like me to come back in an hour or so to show you around?' Paulo expected she would like some privacy to unpack and clean up.

‘I'd like you to show me around now,' she said.

Paulo was surprised, but also pleased. His slight apprehension about their meeting was quickly easing. Nicholas had moved the Land Rover to a large open hut and was unloading some stores
from Madregalo. Paulo pointed.

‘That's the canteen. We all eat together. Seven o'clock.' He checked his watch. ‘No one dresses up. Come and I'll introduce you to people.'

They walked around the edge of the gravel clearing.

‘Paulo, was that Edvard's room, where I am staying?'

‘Yes.'

She stopped. ‘Before the canteen, can you show me where he worked?'

‘Of course.'

Paulo changed direction to cross the clearing, heading for the hut with a large aerial and a satellite dish on its roof. He pushed open the door.

‘You won't find many things locked around here,' he said.

As they entered, Anna looked around, identifying Edvard's desk. ‘This is it, isn't it?'

‘Yes. We shared the room. This is my lot.' He gestured to a desk piled with papers.

‘May I use Edvard's space while I'm here?'

‘I expected that you would. I tidied it, a little,' he added.

Anna smiled. She looked at a framed photograph of Edvard and herself taken at Chaucer Road.

‘Yes, I can see you must have. I'll set myself up tomorrow. Shall we continue our tour?'

When he had pulled the door shut, Paulo looked at her directly. ‘I was wondering if you would like to walk to the Edge before dinner. It's beautiful in the evening. One of the great sights of the Ferendes. We often do it.'

‘Yes,' said Anna, supposing that ‘we' had included Edvard.

‘Nicholas is interesting, a nice man.' She expressed the appreciation without warning.

‘He is a very nice man,' said Paulo. ‘What did you learn about him?'

‘He's quite a linguist. He's been here three years. He does odd jobs. Fetches groceries, maintains the computers as best he can, helps with the language recording. Parents elderly; a sister in England.'

Paulo laughed. ‘I ask because you never discover much about Nicholas from Nicholas. We've all learnt that here.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, he doesn't just look after our computers; he's a mathematician and the proverbial IT genius. All the linguistic analysis and statistical inference we do, he's developed or improved most of it. He came three years ago as a volunteer.'

‘What's his surname?' interrupted Anna.

‘Misgivingston.'

She immediately made the connection to the author list on several LDI publications.

‘I didn't realize.'

‘No, he wouldn't have said. Every morning he works four hours solid on the net. Financial models, risk evaluation, derivative costing, net security, amazing stuff; he consults for banks and brokers all over the world. That's how he's been able to stay on here, and help out so much. They must pay him well, but he's frugal personally. He's much more generous with the rest of us than with himself.'

‘What do you mean?' she repeated.

‘He's funded all our new computing hardware, lots of camera equipment that I'll show you tomorrow. That Land Rover you came up in, and a second one, he bought. I once went with him into Banco Ferende in the centre of Madregalo and he was treated like a rock star. He was embarrassed. I thought there was an identity mix-up, but it was because he has all these big London– New York–type fees being deposited and not much to spend them on. By the way, he financed most of the search, made wheels turn locally. He won't want you to know that. Some other big project costs, too.'

Anna had always puzzled about the finances of this LDI station. As a trustee she saw all the statements, and read them responsibly. It always seemed that Edvard managed to run a mysteriously sophisticated, expensively idiosyncratic research programme on a very modest, essentially charitable budget. She wondered now what other quiet philanthropy might be occurring.

The track widened into open space and they reached the plateau edge. Here was the docking station for
Abel;
tall steel
columns rising from the ground, and from their summits nylon mesh and flaccid tethers falling back. On its forest perimeter were some lean-to shelters, with helium cylinders and other equipment on view. Paulo walked across to one where half a dozen canvas director's chairs were stored against a support. He unfolded two, setting them up facing the ocean, and Anna and he sat down.