Bob Shaw - The Fugitive Worlds

“Instead of mooning around here like a maiden with the colic,” he continued, “you should be checking the loading and balance of your ship.”

“Lieutenant Correvalte is dealing with all that,” Toller replied indifferently. “And probably making a better fist of it than I would.”

Kettoran pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, creating a prism of shade from which he regarded Toller with concern. “Listen, my boy, I know it is none of my business, but this infatuation with the Countess Vantara bodes ill for your career.”

“Thank you for the advice.” Toller deeply resented the elderly man’s words, but he had too much respect for Kettoran to hint at his anger other than by mild sarcasm. “I’ll keep your good counsel in mind.”

Kettoran gave him a small, sad smile. “Believe me, son, before you know it, these days which seem so interminable and so full of pain will be nothing more than faint memories. Not only that—they will seem joyous in comparison to what is to come. You are foolish not to make the most of them.”

Something in Kettoran’s voice affected Toller, drawing his thoughts away from his own circumstances. “This hardly seems credible,” he said, claiming the right to intimacy he had earned on the interplanetary crossing. “I never expected to hear Trye Kettoran talk like an old man.”

“And I never expected to be an old man—that was a fate exclusively reserved for others. Ponder on what I am telling you, son. And don’t be a fool.” Commissioner Kettoran squeezed Toller’s shoulder with a thin hand, then turned and walked away towards the eastern flank of the Great Palace. His gait seemed to lack something of its usual jauntiness.

Toller stared after the commissioner for a moment, frowning. “Sir,” he called out, prompted by a sudden unease, “is all well with you?”

Appearing not to hear, Kettoran continued on his way and was soon lost to view. Toller, now troubled by premonitions about the commissioner’s well-being, somehow felt obliged to pay more heed to the advice he had just been given. He began making conscientious efforts to follow what was undoubtedly good philosophical counsel—after all, he was young and healthy and all his life lay before him—but each time he ordered himself to feel cheerful the only result was an obstinate upsurge of his misery. Something within him was antagonistic to reason.

He returned to his ship and went on board, supervising the departure arrangements with a gloomy inattentiveness which he knew was bound to communicate itself to the crew. Lieutenant Correvalte responded by becoming even more wooden and correct in his manner. The voyage was expected to take about sixty days, assuming no mishaps were to occur, and the gondola was a very small space for eight men to be cooped in for that length of time. The psychological strain would be considerable even under ideal conditions, and with a commander who was making it clear from the outset that he had no stomach for the mission there could be problems with morale and discipline.

Eventually all the formalities were completed, and the signal for departure came when a trumpet sounded on board the lead ship. The four vessels took off in unison, their jets sending flat billows of sound rolling out across the parks which surrounded the Five Palaces and into the sunlit environs of Ro-Atabri. Toller stood at the rail, hand on the hilt of his sword, leaving the control of the ship to Correvalte, and stared out at the sprawling expanse of the old city. The sun was high in the sky, nearing Overland, and the gondola was completely contained within the shadow of its elliptical gasbag, making the scenery beyond look exceptionally bright and sharply defined. Traditional Kolcorronian architectural styles made extensive use of orange and yellow bricks laid in complex diamond patterns, with dressings of red sandstone at corners and edges, and from a low altitude the city was a glittering mosaic which shimmered confusingly on the eye. Trees at different stages of their lives provided islands of extra color which ranged from pale green to copper and brown.

The ships made a partial circuit of the base and took a north-eastern course, seeking the trade winds which would help conserve power crystals during the voyage. Local surveys had indicated that there would be no shortage of mature brakka trees along the route, but broaching their combustion chambers to obtain the green and purple crystals would have been a time-consuming business, and it was intended that the little fleet should complete the circumnavigation using only its on-board supplies.

Toller gave an involuntary sigh as Ro-Atabri began to slide into the distance aft of his ship, its various features flattening into horizontal bands. The voyage, with all its promised tedium and privation, had begun in earnest, and it was time for him to face up to that fact. He became aware of Baten Steenameert, newly promoted to the rank of air-sergeant, eyeing him as he passed on his way to the lower deck. Steenameert’s pink face was carefully impassive, but Toller knew his recent moodiness had had its effect on the youngster, who had developed an intense loyalty to him since they had left their home world. Toller halted him by raising a hand.

“There is no need for you to fret,” he said. “I have no intention of hurling myself over the side.”

Steenameert looked puzzled. “Sir?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me, young fellow.” Toller was only two years older than the sergeant, but he spoke in the same kind of fatherly tones that Trye Kettoran often used to him, consciously trying to borrow some of the commissioner’s steadiness and stoicism. “I’ve become the butt of quite a few jests around the base, haven’t I? The word has gone about that I’m so besotted with a certain lady that I scarcely know night from day.”

The bloom on Steenameert’s smooth cheeks deepened and he lowered his voice so as not to be overheard by Correvalte who was nearby at the airship’s controls. “Sir, if anybody dared speak ill of you in my presence I would…”

“You will not be required to do battle on my behalf,” Toller said firmly, addressing his wayward inner self as much as anybody else, then saw that Steenameert’s attention had been drawn elsewhere.

The sergeant spoke quickly, before Toller could frame a question. “Sir, I think we are receiving a message.”

Toller looked aft in the direction of Ro-Atabri and saw that a point of intense brilliance was winking amid the complex layered bands of the city. He immediately began deciphering the sunwriter code and felt a peculiar thrill, an icy mingling of excitement and apprehension, as he realized that the beamed message concerned him.

By the time Toller got back to base the balloon of the skyship was fully inflated and the craft was straining at its anchor link, ready to depart for Overland. It was swaying a little within the three timber walls of the towering enclosure, like a vast sentient creature which was becoming impatient with its enforced inactivity. A further indication of the urgency of the situation was that Sky-commodore Sholdde was waiting for Toller by the enclosure instead of in his office.

He nodded ungraciously, obviously in a foul temper, as Toller—flanked by Correvalte and Steenameert—approached him at a quick march and saluted. He ran his fingers through his cropped iron-grey hair and scowled at Toller.

“Captain Maraquine,” he said, “this is a cursed inconvenience. I’ve already been deprived of one airship captain—and now I have to find another.”

“Lieutenant Correvalte is perfectly capable of taking my place on the round-the-world flight, sir,” Toller replied. “I have no hesitation in recommending him for an immediate field promotion.”