Bob Shaw: The Wooden Spaceships

Bartan and Berise kept looking back over their shoulders as they walked, and they were almost two furlongs from the ship when it abruptly disappeared.

In one second it was there—a dull grey sphere perched on the crest of a low hill; and in the next second there was a complex of globes of radiance, expanding and contracting through each other. There was no sound, but even the foreday sun was dimmed in comparison to the fierce light which washed out of the spectacle. It rose vertically into the sky, gaining speed, changing shape. For a moment Bartan saw a four-pointed star with in-curved sides, each point emitting a spray of prismatic colour. There was a core which seethed with multi-hued specks of brilliance, but even as he was trying to focus his eyes on it the beautiful star was dwindling out of sight, swinging clear of the great disk of Land before finally vanishing into the blue.

The emotional turmoil within Bartan intensified into an ache which swamped the pain from his wounded shoulder. Less than an hour earlier he had been on rain-swept Farland, watching his friends die one by one—Zavotle, Wraker, and finally Toller Maraquine. Somehow, even in those last terrible seconds, Bartan had not expected the big man to die. He had seemed unkillable, an imperturbable giant destined to go on fighting his wars for ever. It was not until he had asked Sondeweere to take him with her into the bleakness of infinity—an unthinkable prospect which withered Bartan’s soul—that he had realised Toller was more than just a gladiator. Now it was too late to get to know him, too late even to offer his thanks for the gift of life.

In addition to his grief over Toller, Bartan had been forced to accept that his wife could no longer be his wife, that she had become another kind of a giant, an intellectual colossus with whom he was unfit to share the man-woman relationship. He knew that Sondeweere had not yet flown off into the galaxy —she would spend some days guiding Tipp Gotlon safely home —but in a way she was already more remote from him than the faintest stars. His personal Gola had winked out of existence, leaving him with no direction to his life.

“I don’t think we need to walk any farther,” Berise said. “It looks as though we will have transport into the city.”

Bartan shaded his eyes and looked towards Prad, the outskirts of which were about two miles away. He was peering through a shifting screen of after-images, but was able to discern dust clouds being thrown up by wagons and riders on a winding road. Some agricultural workers, no doubt drawn by the spectacle of the symbonite ship, were approaching at a run through nearby fields.

“I’m glad we have plenty of witnesses,” Berise went on, “otherwise the King would have difficulty in swallowing all we have to report to him.”

“Witnesses,” Bartan said humbly. “Yes, witnesses.”

Berise looked closely into his face. “I don’t think you could go much farther, anyway. You’d better sit down and let me check that bandage.”

“I’ll be all right—I still have some of my excellent cure-all.” Bartan untied the skin of brandy from his belt and was pulling out the stopper when he felt Berise’s restraining hand on his own.

“You don’t really need that kind of medicine, do you?” she said.

“What’s it got to do with…?” He paused, blinking down into Berise’s face, noting that her expression was one of concern more than anger. “No, I don’t actually need the drink.”

“Then throw it away.”

“What?”

“Throw it away, Bartan.”

It came to him that it had been a long time since anybody had shown concern about what he did, but it was with some reluctance that he let the leather container fall to the ground.

“Anyway, it was nearly empty,” he muttered. “Why are you smiling?”

“For no reason.” Berise’s smile grew wider. “For no reason at all.”