David Gerrold - The Flying Sorcerers

Orbur nodded and started to climb the rigging — that is, he tried to — what happened was that he pulled the balloon down to where the rest of us could reach it. “Umph,” said Purple, “that is limp, isn’t it?”

He attached the hose to the funnel and battery and lowered it into the water. “I am going to fill these very carefully,” he said to no one in particular and switched on his battery.

While he worked the rest of us began to fill the ballast bags. “You won’t need those,” said Purple when he saw what we were doing. “We’re going to have to make it without ballast,”

“Yes, but we’re going to need some in the boat while you fill the balloons,” I said.

“Yes, of course — you’re right, I forgot.” He turned back to his gas making.

After two balloons had been filled, Wilville and Orbur climbed out onto the outriggers and began pedaling. The boat rode up and down the ocean swells. Five balloons later, it stopped riding the waves. Instead, the water just slapped at the bottom.

Shoogar and I exchanged a glance. “We need more water in the boat,” he said and reached for the bucket. I helped him for a bit, then something occurred to me.

“Why are we doing it the hard way?” I asked. “Just pull the plug and let the water flow in.” As I spoke I was already tugging.

There was a yelp from the stern. “No!” shouted Purple, but it was too late. Water spurted up and struck me in the face.

“Stop it, stop it!” Purple cried. “Stop it!”

“Why?”

“Just do it! Don’t ask why! Just do it!” He dropped his gasmaker and came splashing back, slipped in the water and fell. “Stop it Lant!”

“But — but —” The water was rapidly filling the boat and I began to understand. “I can’t! I let go of the plug when the water hit me!” And then we were all down on our hands and knees feeling around for it under the rising water. It was cold and it surged into the boat eagerly — a spouting fountain marked the spot where the hole was.

We scrambled around frantically in that cold wetness and then suddenly I had it — something small and round and hard. The plug! I tried to jam it back into the hole, but the water was up to my thighs already — I went down on my knees, but then I had to stretch my neck to hold my head above the water, and after a few seconds even that didn’t work. Shivering, I took a deep breath and went under. I pressed hard on the plug, but I couldn’t get the leverage, and the water continued to pour in too fast.

There was another pair of hands on top of mine — Shoogar’s — he was trying to help. But it wasn’t working — Even the two of us couldn’t press hard enough. I surfaced for air. Wilville and Orbur were shouting at me from their outriggers. They were up to their necks in water already — and still pedalling furiously. Purple was bailing frantically with the bucket.

And then the water stopped rising .

It was up to our chests, and waves were sloshing over the sides of the boat. We had stopped sinking. The windbags held the boat just a few hand’s-breadths from total immersion. We stood there up to our chests in cold sea water and glared at each other. I said, “Well, don’t just stand there treading water, Purple! Do something!”

He glared at me. Shoogar glared at me. Wilville and Orbur glared at me.

The bags of wind hung over us, the restless sea tossed around us. The red sun began to seep behind the horizon. We had perhaps an hour and a half of daylight left.

Well, since nobody else was going to do anything.

I trod water to the center of the boat and ducked under. I came up with a ballast bag, pulled it to the rim — I could not have lifted it without going under — opened the mouth and poured the ballast over the side. I ducked, found another bag and emptied it.

Purple began to laugh.

Shoogar had gotten the idea and was helping me empty the bags of water overboard. It wasn’t enough. The windbags tugged upward on the boat frame, but they couldn’t lift it. They could only keep it from sinking into the uneasy swells. Shoogar searched around for some more ballast bags, ducking under the feeling around with his hands. The dumping of ballast did not help noticeably. The rim of the boat frame continued to show only as an outline in the water.

Purple had been clinging to the rigging and chortling helplessly while we worked. It seemed a singularly rude act. Now he found his voice and said, “Stop. Please stop. You’re only emptying water out of water.”

“But it’s ballast,” said Shoogar.

“But it’s water too — it just replaces itself as fast as you bail it.” He swam over to us. “Put the plug in first then bail.”

I looked at the plug in my hand and shrugged. Why not? — I ducked into the water and felt around for the hole. There was no pressure to fight this time, and the plug slipped in easily. I surfaced with a gasp.

“Is it in?” asked Purple. I nodded. He dove under to check it himself. He came up beside me. “All right, it’s firm enough.” He gave Shoogar and me a look. “You two start bailing while I finish refilling the balloons. Wilville, Orbur, keep pedaling.”

“We have to,” they called back, “Otherwise we’ll sink.”

Grumbling, Purple splashed aft. Shoogar and I grabbed buckets and set to work. We bailed fast and furiously. By the time Purple had two more balloons refilled, we had the water level down to our thighs. “You know,” I mused, “this might be a good way to keep boats from sinking — hang them from windbags.”

Purple only glared at me.

I went back to my bailing.

The red sun seeped down behind the horizon, leaving only a festering glow across the western edge of the world. We worked in shivering darkness. The water splashed coldly about our knees.

After a while I became aware that we were rocking more noticeably. “Purple,” I called, “we’re riding higher m the water.”

He looked up from his battery device, peered over the edge. “So we are.” He tied off the neck of the balloon — the tenth to be filled and slogged forward to where we stood. “One more balloon and we should be out of the water altogether.”

“How is your battery holding up?”

“Better than I had hoped,” He tugged at the rigging, pulled down another nozzle. “It’s getting awfully cold, isn’t it, Lant? Why don’t you break out the blankets?”

“You threw them overboard,” I said. “All except for three — and those are soaking wet.”

“ Everything is soaking wet,” grumbled Shoogar.

“Oh,” said Purple. He sloshed aft for his battery. There was nothing more to say.

Shoogar and I paused in our bailing to hang the sodden blankets across the rigging, hoping to dry them out. I imagined that tiny icicles were forming on the ends of my body fur.

“Our food supplies are a mess too,” said Shoogar, sniffing at a package. “The hardbread isn’t.” He tossed it soggily over the side.

“You should have said a ballast blessing over it,” I said, but it was a cheerless joke.

He didn’t appreciate it anyway — this was no time for joking. Purple was just filling the twelfth balloon, and we were miserable and cold.

“Shoogar,” I said.

He looked at me from where he was huddling in his damp robe. “What?”

“Feel! We’re not rocking anymore! We’re out of the water!”

“Huh?” He turned to the railing and looked. I joined him.

In the last fading glow of red sunset, we could just make out the black water skimming effortlessly below.

There was no doubting it — and every moment we rose higher and higher. The twelfth balloon was bulging taut overhead. “Purple,” I called, “we’re in the air!”