Barrington Bayley - Star Winds

“Well, he uses me as a sort of cabin boy,” Rachad said apologetically. “Running messages and doing odd jobs. But I don’t mind. What an adventure!” His eyes gleamed and he looked through the windows in the slanted rear wall of the cabin. Gebeth noted that the panes had been covered with a second frame containing a single sheet of unbreakable glass, tinted against the glare of the sun. Even the sternhouse had been caulked, in case the outside bubble should fail.

A drawing of Zhorga’s sail plan lay on the cabin table. Gebeth studied it briefly. An air sailing ship like the Wandering Queen was designed quite differently from the old transspatial ships, being closer in many respects to the old sea ships from which both were ultimately descended. Zhorga knew, therefore, that if he tried to sail in space as he did in the atmosphere the result would be a disaster; in space the ship would have no natural weight to keep it in balance. Instead he proposed to sail the galleon much like a cog. The ship would fly decks foremost, with the sails arranged overhead like a canopy. The hull’s inertia would thus provide the needed drag on the sails, whose pull could then act through the ship’s center of gravity, giving a stable system. This arrangement had one other important advantage, besides its simplicity: the ship’s constant acceleration would give objects on board weight in the accustomed direction. One would be able to walk the decks.

Gebeth turned to Rachad. “How is Zhorga managing as regards his men?”

Rachad grimaced, then laughed. “He keeps them in line somehow.”

In fact, on returning to the ship after his first meeting with Gebeth, Zhorga had been confronted by an anxious crew who, when he confirmed his intentions, had all quit on the spot. Zhorga had refused to hear anything about this collective vote of no confidence. He had half-bullied, half-jollied them into submission, keeping them by him mainly by fear and violence. He was forced to make regular visits to Olam’s taverns and boarding houses to seek out deserters, driving them back to the ship with much roaring and bluster. Nevertheless he had let the more lily-livered go, losing thereby nearly half his crew—a loss he had made good by recruiting various desperadoes and adventuresome spirits he had found in the town, luring them with tales of riches. These at least were not against him, and even some of his original men—Clabert the first mate, for instance—were now behind him.

For the rest, their main hope was that the Wandering Queen would never take off, at any rate not for the void. None of them had dared attempt to sabotage the preparatory work, however; Zhorga’s wrath in such a circumstance was something no one wanted to face.

“I must say I can’t help feeling sorry for him,” Rachad told Gebeth. “The Wandering Queen has become a standing joke. He is derided everywhere he goes. It will be awful if the thing flops. But it won’t!”

“Departure time is close,” Gebeth pointed out “Zhorga ought to begin making his practice runs soon.”

At that moment a sweating Zhorga entered the cabin and greeted Gebeth. “Those curs work as though they were dying of consumption,” he complained breathily. “Still, it won’t be long now.”

“There is one point I have not heard you mention heretofore,” Gebeth said. “Rachad here tells me you don’t actually have enough ether sail to make the voyage. You will, as a matter of fact, need more sail than is required for ordinary atmospheric flying.”

Zhorga waved his hand. “It’s being taken care of.”

“Shouldn’t your fresh sail be here by now? You’ll need it for your practice runs. Where are you getting it from?”

Rachad knew already—and had informed Gebeth—that Zhorga had tried to persuade one or other of the owner-captains to throw their lot in with him, lumping their sail together with his. Without exception they had laughed in his face.

“You needn’t worry about that,” Zhorga said after a frowning pause. “One of the town merchants is giving it to me.”

“You’ve certainly been trying hard,” Gebeth said admiringly, gazing through the open door of the cabin to the decks of the ship. “Will you be ready on time?”

“Should be,” Zhorga told him, “though I’ve only been able to do half what I’d like. There just isn’t any more money and nobody will lend me a penny, dammit!”

“Won’t your merchant partner finance you? He’s already loaning you the sail, and that represents a considerable risk.”

The big man moved his shoulders awkwardly, looking trapped and angry. “Don’t pester me, alchemist. I can take care of that side of things.”

He charged out again to continue berating his crew.

Every night, or nearly every night, Zhorga appeared at the alchemist’s house to learn more of the art of preparing navigational horoscopes. After the airman had departed that particular night, there came a further knock on Gebeth’s door. He opened it to see a group of men standing there, dressed in richly trimmed cloaks and soft hats of ermine and lambswool.

“We would have a word with you, Master Alchemist,” said one, politely enough. Gebeth recognized Hevesum, a wealthy merchant of Olam and owner of a whole fleet of ships.

Puzzled but not alarmed, he admitted them. Five in all joined him in his small living room, and when introductions were completed he discovered that he was in fact host to all the ship-owning merchants of the town.

It was Hevesum who again spoke next: “We may as well be direct about our business here, Master Alchemist,” he said. “Word has reached us that one Captain Zhorga, owner of the galleon Wandering Queen , plans to sail to Mars to bring back a cargo of ether silk. It is said that you are assisting him.”

“In a small way,” smiled Gebeth, pleased that his part in the project should have reached the ears of these gentlemen. “But what is your interest in the matter?”

“Only this,” snapped Hevesum, while the other merchants all cast glances of venomous suspicion at one another. “We all know that the Wandering Queen bears little more than rags for ether sail—yet Captain Zhorga apparently claims to have procured silk enough for a journey to Mars! Tell us if you will be so good—where did he get this silk?” And at this several merchants’ hands went unconsciously to rest on the hilts of dirks and rapiers, gestures which did not go unnoticed by Gebeth.

“About that I know little,” he said, scratching the side of his jaw, “except that some merchant is loaning him some sail—one would presume in return for a share of the return cargo.”

“There! I knew it!” exclaimed a tall thin man. “One of us is lying!”

“Be quiet, Druro,” said a somewhat fat merchant named Gawing, more amiable looking than the rest He turned to Gebeth. “What is the name of this merchant? He must have mentioned it.”

“No, he did not,” answered Gebeth with a shake of his head. “Indeed he seemed circumspect about the matter—with good reason I am beginning to think, seeing the attitude of you gentlemen.”

“It must be from one of us!” Druro insisted. “Where else would he get it? We already know the other owner-captains scorn Zhorga’s scheme.”

“I am puzzled,” said Gebeth. “Why do you object to this enterprise? What would be the harm in lending Zhorga sail—apart from the risk of losing it, of course.”

“We recognized some time ago that the air trade is over,” Hevesum explained brusquely. “And having laid other plans, we would prefer to keep it that way. Most of us are heavily committed to the building of sea-ships at Umbuicour.” With a sudden movement he produced a small velvet bag tied with a cord. “It would be easy enough for you to ensure the failure of the expedition. A mistake on your charts, perhaps. Here is enough money to make it worth your while.” The bag chinked as he tossed it to the table.