"Sirois, A L - Across The Wind" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sirois Al)

Far below the dirigible the Windy Sea curved out toward the horizon like a wrinkled gray carpet. Above, a crescent of Yoko, the outer moon, rode the icy green afternoon sky. Pietera Scotten, with the greater part of his awareness directed inward at the core of his sorrow, had no eye for this wild beauty. Six months after his wife's funeral, Scotten was at last emerging from a grief-induced haze of alcohol. The pain was waiting for him.
Down the length of the poop the door to the pressurized cabin swung open and a slim figure, clad like Scotten in flight overalls, ducked under the bridge’s cowling and stepped out. The figure removed the breathing apparatus from its mouth.
"Mir Scotten!" Lysandra Pankiw’s voice was a high, irritating whine in the rarefied air. "You’ve been standing there for an hour." She paused to suck oxygen from the mask. "You’ll get a hell of a sunburn! If anything keeps you from that Council session, Mal—uh, Dwartenzio will split his husk."
Scotten stood with one big gauntleted hand gripping the polished railing of the Windchime's prow and blinked at her, realizing numbly that he'd been adrift in memories of Travia the entire time. He flexed his fingers. Even in gloves they ached with cold.
"All right," he shouted through his mask. "I’m coming in." She turned and re-entered the cabin.
With an effort Scotten tore his thoughts from his lost wife. In less than four hours he’d be addressing a special session of Breebaharben's ruling council. How had he ever let Dwartenzio talk him into this? He grimaced up at Yoko and spat over the side.
Because, Scotten admitted sourly, if it wasn't for his partner Continental Aeronautics would have floundered. Malka Dwartenzio's constant womanizing never seemed to blunt his genius for business, but he was no public speaker. Pietera Scotten was the man people thought of when they thought of Continental.
Frowning, Scotten stooped under the cowling’s protective overhang and opened the door. Inside the cabin, shielded from the UV radiation sluicing through Lennon's thin atmosphere, he yanked off his goggles and respirator and tossed them down on the chart table.
"Bring her about," he said to the young woman in the pilot’s seat. "Quarter throttle to maintain trim."
"Sir." Lysandra Pankiw, lithe and dark, didn’t turn from the controls, but he couldn’t miss the sullen tone of her voice.
He sighed. She was one of Dwartenzio’s "personal projects." Pankiw was a good pilot, but Scotten found her overly assertive and rather loud. She knew he didn’t like her, but her feelings were of no concern to him. He turned his attention to the charts.
This shakedown cruise had been another of Dwartenzio's ideas. As far as Scotten was concerned, the only good thing about the flight was that it had given him respite from friends' sympathy. They were all so sorry; they all wanted to help; they would all be glad to listen if he needed to talk.
But Pietera Scotten had found that he didn’t know how to unburden himself, even to the priest and priestess of his circle, any more than he knew how to live without Travia.
They'd been together since they were teenagers. Both mad to fly, both tempestuously tempered, their marriage had surprised everyone. No one thought it could last.
But it had—right up until the day of their last fight.
They’d argued over her insistence on flying even though she had just gotten pregnant. He forbade her, she refused to listen—after a shouting match she stormed out, went to one of the hangars and prepped a small airship, taking an engineer with her as crew. One of Lennon's terrible, swift storms blew up, and Travia crashed the airship into a mooring pole while trying to bring the craft back in. She and the engineer both died.
After that, Scotten had too busy drinking his pain away to have time for introspection.
For a moment, as he stared at the charts on the table, grief threatened to overwhelm him and he was harshly grateful for Pankiw’s presence: It compelled him to control himself.
He forced his attention to the Windchime. The airship was, without doubt, a sweet fly. Her hull, of tough cane and wirewood shellacked to near metallic hardness, hung by a complicated system of rigging beneath a hundred-meter long, twenty-five meter wide hand-stitched gasbag. Her range was nearly three thousand kilometers, with a top speed of 75 knots and a ceiling of 12,000 meters. She could remain aloft for up to a junth and a half without recharging. If the engines, mounted on outboard "power eggs," were used sparingly, another week could increase that time to a full month.
Gradually descending now, the Windchime passed presently into the throat of a huge, sheltering bay. Land closed in to either side and the temperature climbed a few degrees. Soon Breebaharben, situated at the western end of the bay, came in view.
In the busy harbor, sampans and barges jostled one another between larger vessels. The dirigible's approach touched off a salute of hoots, whistles and blats from the boats. Scotten broke out pennants in the Majanatian colors next to the ones of Breebaharben. An airship was a relatively rare sight in the wind-scoured skies of Lennon, especially the further north or south one went from the equator. It was entirely possible that some of the sailors from more remote Majanatian city-states had never seen one.
As he guided the Windchime closer to the aerodrome north of the walled city, Scotten noticed a motorized vessel anchored in the canal near the administration building. Stenciled on the roof of its cabin was the official device of the Breebaharb Council. So, Councilor Gormlen, Scotten thought, you don't trust me to make the session on time. Or sober. He felt his temper rising, and tried to defuse it by busying himself helping Pankiw with the docking procedure. On the ground at last, he returned the salutations of the crew with a perfunctory wave.
Malka Dwartenzio, trim and younger-looking than his forty-three years, stood waiting for him with Councilor Cydley Gormlen, a stocky fiftyish woman. Gormlen seemed unlikely leadership material despite the dignity with which she wore the pearly grey robes of office. Scotten knew that her matronly appearance masked a mind surpassed in sharpness only by her tongue.
"Hello, Your Honor," he said dryly. "Come to shepherd me to the meeting?"
Gormlen folded her arms and frowned up at him. "I thought you might appreciate an escort." She glanced meaningfully at Pankiw as the younger woman gracefully stepped out of the cabin smoothing her tunic down over her flat belly and slim hips. "Or should I say a chaperone," Gormlen added.
Scotten took a breath and clamped down on his ire. "I’m starting to think that this presentation is a mistake. Personally and professionally."
"The politics of the situation make it necessary," Gormlen replied.
"Then, I hope you have a good answer when you’re accused of abusing Council privileges by allowing us access to the archives."
"Without facts, Rauch and his supporters would laugh us out of the chamber," the councilor said flatly. "There was no other choice."
Dwartenzio seized Scotten’s arm. "Rauch and everyone in Majanatia must face the truth. Farquntry is up to something, and we need intelligence."
"Especially if it’s of benefit to Continental Aeronautics!" Scotten said. Out of the corner of his eye he noted Lysandra Pankiw listening attentively to the conversation. Realizing he had raised his voice, Scotten subsided. "Apologies. I'm tired—not thinking clearly. You'll excuse me." Scotten headed for his office, leaving Gormlen and Dwartenzio standing in the middle of the field. Pankiw had gotten an earful of information not meant for her, but Scotten was too angry to care. Besides, Dwartenzio’s pillow talk had probably already filled her in.
While showering and changing, Scotten's irritation phased down into glum apathy. He tried to plan out his remarks to the council, but was continually distracted by memories of the play of light in Travia’s hair, Travia swimming nude in the canal outside their home, Travia’s smoldering eyes as they made love.
He cast his eyes toward the cabinet where he kept wine and liquor. Then he stood angrily and stalked away toward the canal, where a boat awaited him with Dwartenzio already aboard.

#
Scotten, brooding, said nothing during the gondola ride. After the vessel passed under the arches of Breebaharben’s city wall it became part of the traffic flow. Greensailors and fishwives crowded the canals in flimsy-looking sampans, hawking their wares to customers craning from high narrow windows overlooking the chill lap of water.
The activity revived Scotten somewhat. He had always loved the city's bustle, its life, but now he felt himself to be apart from it as though it were simply a dream and the misery inside him the reality.
"How much have you told your little elbow ornament, there, Dwart?" he suddenly asked.
Dwartenzio blinked at him. "Lysandra?" He smiled and shook his head.
Scotten grunted. "She has relatives in Farquntry, doesn’t she?"
"A sister living outside of the capital, I believe. And some cousins. Visits them once a year or so. But the subject hasn't come up."
Scotten nodded. "Good." She was just a bed-warmer, then. He knew Dwaretenzio’s attitude toward women too well to disbelieve him. Still, Pankiw was observant and clever. Now that she knew a little, it might make sense to keep an eye on her doings.
From the municipal landing they boarded rickshaws for the trip up the twisting thoroughfares to the government acropolis overlooking the city. The buildings’ stone columns and buttresses were so slim and delicate as to be translucent.
As Scotten and Dwartenzio entered the meeting chamber a ragged dissonance of boos made them pause in the colonnade. Beyond, the polished stone floor stretched to raised ranks of councilors' boxes, all lit by a galaxy of bulbs in the enormous electrolier suspended from the ceiling.
Cydley Gormlen stood on a dais before the tiers of seats. The large isolationist faction was reacting vociferously to whatever she had just said.
"Councilors!" she cried over the commotion. "We are cushioning ourselves on a pillow of history! And it's about to be yanked from under us." The catcalls increased. "Hear me out!" she shouted.
A man in the front row, unusually tall and thin even for a Lennish, unfolded himself from his seat. He spread his hands, and said on a rising tone, "Why should we, councilor? This is your usual tune. Or should I say bleat—and you'd take half a session to sing it, if we let you."
"Rauch! Rauch!" The cry was taken up by others, and punctuated with appreciative laughter and a scattering of applause.
"And that is your usual counterpoint, Basel," Gormlen said, smiling. This time it was her supporters who applauded.
"Very good, councilor," said Rauch, "very, very good. Better a witticism—or an attempted one, should I say?—than an unsupported contention that Rislo Cantato is becoming Lennon's first dictator."
More laughter and applause followed his remark. He sat down and flapped his hand at Gormlen for her to continue.
She looked around and saw Scotten and Dwartenzio standing in the arcade. Scotten noted that she appeared unruffled despite the energetic heckling. Got to hand it to the old ratsnagger, he thought—she’s tough.
"I've asked a well-traveled citizen to attend today's session," she said. "Pietera Scotten --" a murmur of surprise fluttered through the chamber, "-- of Continental Aeronautics, whose business on our behalf in Farquntry has taken him there many a time."
Scotten stepped forward and bowed to the assembled councilors. There was a spattering of applause as he did so and a laugh or two. Gormlen murmured, "I half suspected you wouldn’t show up." Her eyes flashed. Her unspoken coda, Because you got drunk, stung him.
Rauch stood suddenly and peered suspiciously down at him. "Mir Scotten! You're the schulait who dressed up in a funny hat at the reception for the Yosan ambassador three months ago?"
Scotten ground his teeth. Schulait, in the Yosan tongue, meant buffoon. The episode at the reception had made the papers. After it, he'd started to deal with his alcohol problem. "Um, if that's relevant," Scotten began.
Rauch cut him off. "You were in a condition I think I recall someone at the time referring to as 'snockered'. Yes, we had a hard time smoothing that one over... Yosans being such strict fundamentalists and all... You tried to kiss one of his semi-wives, didn't you."
Scotten opened his mouth to reply but Rauch waved his protest away.
"Proceed," said the councilor, and yawned.
Gormlen had faded back to one side of the dais. Now she and Dwartenzio came forward bearing a folded easel. Scotten, swallowing his irritation, faced the easel toward the councilors and took a folding pointer from his tunic.
"Rislo Cantato, whatever one may call him, is unarguably seeking to develop industry in Farquntry." He glanced at Rauch, who was scowling—but the point was unopposed: even Rauch’s colleagues shared the view. Scotten continued, "His development program is sparking a need for raw materials. Metals! Fuels! Earth had a vast supply of these things, councilors, but Lennon does not. What we do have is ironrot, which corrodes all untreated metal. So we have not been tempted to create a military-industrial complex here, freeing us from atomic technology and the economic tyranny of fossil fuels." He paused. "And imperialism."
He felt his thoughts begin to move along familiar but recently unused paths. This was a challenge, like trying for a new altitude or flight longevity record. Challenges required clear, dispassionate thinking and the willingness to take risks. Travia had always encouraged him—Scotten shook the thought of her out of his head and concentrated on the challenge.
"But Cantato has forgotten about these evils, or is choosing to ignore them." He turned to the easel. "Observe this section of the Durmarkin River, about a hundred kilometers upstream from the Windy Sea, almost halfway to Josenroel." He looked around the chamber. "And almost due east of Breebaharben." Even Rauch was paying attention.
"Normal storm patterns force an overland route from Breebaharben most of the year, by caravan across the isthmus and then up the coast to the mouth of Durmarkin. From there one takes a riverboat to the city.
"Weather permitting, I spend most of my riverboat time on deck. On my last trip I noticed some sort of construction activity at this section of the river." He tapped the chart with the pointer. "Huge wasp-waisted towers, unfamiliar to me. The captain told me they were water treatment facilities intended for new towns in that region. A reasonable explanation? Perhaps. When I returned home, however, I learned that my visa had been revoked and that I was no longer welcome in Farquntry."
"Maybe they'd been talking to the Yosans," someone in the gallery called to a ripple of general laughter. Scotten's grip tightened on his pointer.
"Councilor Gormlen," he said, "has asked those of us who occasionally do business with Farquntry to alert her to anything unusual. I described the Durmarkin River site to her, and sketched the towers. She recognized them."
He flipped over a page of the chart to a large photograph. "This is an nuclear power plant, on Earth circa 1985," he said. "These hourglass-shaped cooling towers are almost identical to the structures I saw along the river."
The audience erupted into confusion. Rauch stood and bellowed over the hubbub. "A clever presentation, but misleading! You conveniently neglect to mention that Farquntry derives most of its electric power from geothermal stations. That particular part of the country is active with hotsprings!"
Scotten spoke over the derisive laughter of Rauch’s supporters, louder and more quickly. "You're right, Councilor. I’m afraid, however, that there is more to it." He flipped a few pages of the chart.
Rauch looked at the new page and leaned forward scowling. "What is that," he said in a low voice.
"You recognize it," Scotten said. "It's a copy of one of the original satellite geoscans done centuries ago when the Imagine arrived here from Earth."
"That information is classified!" Rauch said, aghast. "It's illegal to inspect it without a plebiscite!"
"Normally, yes," said Gormlen, stepping up beside Scotten on the dais. "But a public discussion of this situation would have alerted Farquntry of our suspicions." She nodded at Scotten.
He said, "Analysis of the scans indicates that the river region is a likely place to find pitchblende. The likeliest on Lennon, as it happens. And pitchblende, on Earth at least, was regarded as the richest source of uranium."
The chamber erupted in confusion. Scotten and Gormlen stood without speaking as Rauch argued with his advisors.
Rauch turned from his advisors. Staring at Cydley Gormlen, he said, "We'll table the discussion of your abuse of privilege, Councilor! Right now I think we'd all rather know how Cantato came by this information. There aren't supposed to be any copies of the scans outside of our own archives."
Gormlen spread her hands. "Correct," she said. "Therefore Farquntry has had copies all along, hidden as are ours; or else our security has been compromised."
Rauch rubbed his chin. "It’s possible," he said reluctantly. "However, your evidence of atomic experimentation remains circumstantial."
"Indeed," said Gormlen. "Further investigations must be made."
"How is that to be accomplished?" queried a female councilor. "The old satellites have long since burned up in reentry, and we’ve no means to launch others."
"As it happens," replied Scotten, "Continental Aeronautics has a proposal. . . . "

#
The door to the bridge banged open in the wind. Dwartenzio and Lysandra grabbed for the charts before them as Scotten ducked in.
"Close that!" The respirator covering Dwartenzio’s nose and mouth muffled his voice.
"Take a look to the northeast," Scotten said, handing him the telescope. Dwartenzio peered into it, then cursed and handed it to Pankiw.
"A line of clouds," she said after a few moments, looking up at Scotten. "Front coming in." Scotten nodded.
Dwartenzio stared out the door at the clouds. "It might have been wiser to have had a full crew come along," he said, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the rarefied air.
"We couldn't justify the risk of family men being shot down—or captured," Scotten said. It was true that he was no longer a man with a family. "And Pankiw’s the only qualified unmarried pilot." The irony of having to ask her to volunteer for the mission hadn’t been lost on him. "Now let’s batten down; the front might shake us up."
"I wouldn't mind the turbulence if it didn't make me so flaring ill," Dwartenzio said. A day and a half out now, they were far from land near the middle of the Windy Sea, borne along at a good clip by the seasonal trade winds. As yet there had been no need to use the ship's engines. "You may run squalls all the time," Dwartenzio added, glancing out at the approaching front, "but I'm not used to it."
"Well," said Scotten, smiling, "if you’d get up from behind your desk once in a while and actually fly some of the ships we build, you’d toughen up soon enough." Rather to his surprise, he noticed Lysandra duck her head to hide a similar smile. He added, "What's our position?"
"We're here," said Dwartenzio, pointing. "A degree or so south of the equator."
Scotten looked at the chart. The land bridge connecting the continents of Majanatia and Farquntry stretched along a U measuring nearly two thousand kilometers. At the arc's nadir, a triangle of land thrust north a hundred kilometers into the Windy Sea. This was the Farquntrian province of Schank, a jungled region six hundred kilometers south of their present position. It was the nearest land.
Being with the two of them on the bridge made Scotten ill at ease. The scar left by the wound of Travia’s death was still too new to sustain the proximity of anyone else’s love—or lust. "I’m going to inspect the glider," he announced, pulling his leather flight jacket out of a small cubby. He left Dwartenzio and Lysandra murmuring over the map.
Outside, on deck, he gazed out into the cloud-stained depths of the green Lennish sky and wondered about the god and the goddess. They were said to exist, and the moons were their representatives. Certainly Travia had believed, and had dragged Scotten along to services. He had even acted as high priest to her high priestess when it came their time to lead the rituals, but his heart had never been in it. He had been untouched by the spirits.
After her death he prayed desperately for reassurance but there was nothing, only an abyss inside him in which not even an echo answered.

#
Late on the following afternoon land loomed over the eastern horizon. "Flea Island, right on schedule," said Dwartenzio excitedly. He and Scotten stood at the ship's prow, ignoring the cold.
"We'll be in sight of the mainland before nightfall," said Scotten, handing the telescope to his partner. He absently rubbed at a greasy spot on the lens's curved metal fitting. Ironrot had penetrated the shellac there. He made a mental note to have the instrument re-coated when they got back to Breebaharben.
"Do you think Cantato will have scouts watching for airships?" Dwartenzio asked.
"I don't know," said Scotten, frowning up at the sky. "We'll be approaching land from out of the sunset. A lookout won't easily mark us."
"I don't see many clouds now... will we have cover tonight?"
Scotten thought for a moment. "The coast north of the Durmarkin's mouth is heavily forested; we'll pass over to land there. You and Lysandra get some sleep, Dwart. I’ll take the first watch."
Dwartenzio departed—eagerly enough, Scotten noted—for his sleeping quarters.
The dirigible raced along as stars sparkled in the twilight. Scotten, enjoying the feel of the ship, altered course so that he ran before the wind, north. Two hours after sunset the Windchime crossed from sea to land. He deployed a drogue parachute to slow the craft somewhat. Then he locked the controls and went out on deck.
The stars shone brightly, emphasizing the clear thin air, but Scotten knew the clarity couldn't last. A cold front would even now be sweeping down from the north, bringing clouds in its wake.
Scotten scowled up at the firmament. Clouds would help cover their approach but the accompanying winds would be violent and unpredictable when they slammed into the relatively warm, moist equatorial air. This last leg of the mission would be the most dangerous.
He slept for a few hours while Dwartenzio and Lysandra alternated turns at the wheel. Scotten woke just before dawn, and broke his fast with a light meal of fruit and a mug of chaaf. He saw through the galley's porthole that lenticular clouds floated to the northwest. Scotten nodded to himself as his fingers tapped against his mug.
"Clouds in the lee of cold northern air," said a quiet voice. Scotten turned in surprise. He hadn’t heard Lysandra come in. "Mountain waves," she added.
He nodded slowly. She was perfectly correct. Mountain waves were powerful updrafts caused by warm air flowing up from the Sullen Fens, the vast swamp south of the Durmarkin River. The updrafts would help the glider gain altitude.
Even better, the barometer was falling. A storm cell was probably forming over the Fens. That meant that the river air, cooled by the glacier, was going to be pushed further and further south into the developing low-pressure zone as the day progressed.
"It’s an interesting day for flying," he said, swallowing the last of his chaaf. He looked her in the eye. She stared back expressionlessly. "You have relatives in Farquntry, don’t you," he said at last, unable to think of anything else.
"Most of my family is there," Pankiw said, setting about preparing a cup of chaaf for herself.
"I suppose you don’t often see them," Scotten ventured.
Pankiw snorted. "Not lately. Breebaharben keeps slapping travel restrictions on common people seeking to visit Farquntry. They even tax the money I send back! Rislo Cantato is anxious to keep families together. He says it makes a stronger nation. I have a sister there I haven’t seen in two years." She poured her chaaf and banged out of the galley.
Outside, Dwartenzio had pulled the tarp off the glider and was slinging the cargo crane's lift web under it. The Peregrine, an experimental glider developed by Continental, was constructed of fiberglass and wood and weighed only a few hundred kilos. Peregrine's cockpit was neither heated nor pressurized; the craft had not originally been intended for altitudes as high as she was to fly today. Instead, Scotten had a portable breathing apparatus, and an insulated flight suit designed to be heated by batteries under his seat. He paid special attention to his respirator, making sure the reserve tanks' valves were operating properly. As the sun began to appear over the horizon, Scotten decided that Peregrine was ready for flight. Dwartenzio helped him strap on his sailchute.
"I hope you know what you're doing," said Dwartenzio. He stood staring at the fragile-looking craft in the launching frame.
"So do I," Scotten said. He clambered up the side of the frame and settled gingerly into the cockpit. The seat was designed to receive the sailchute on his back; there was no other place for it. He'd have to wear it throughout the flight. Dwartenzio lowered the canopy. Scotten strapped himself in and gave Dwartenzio a thumbs-up. His hand tightened on the launch trigger.
He took a deep breath and pressed the button.
A powerful spring release kicked the glider out of the frame. Continental's engineers had come up with the launch frame idea. Peregrine, they assured Scotten, was more than resilient enough to withstand the take-off stress.
"Not that I ever doubted you, lads," he muttered as he got the glider under control. He banked in a wide turn. There was the Windchime, and there was Dwartenzio next to the launch frame. He could even see Lysandra in the control cabin. Scotten turned Peregrine's nose south, toward the target site.
For a while he concentrated on soaring. The terrain below him was mountainous, marked by cliffs and fissures. A rocky ridge running east and west cut across the flow of glacial air from the north, deflecting it upwards. Scotten spiraled around this current, ascending gradually for several minutes.
With luck he'd be over the target in about two hours. He planned on riding the slope winds and mountain waves south until he was within a few kilometers of the site. Then he'd head in in a long dive, picking up speed and passing over the area at an altitude of about 2,000 meters, out of the late morning sun. By that time of day shear lines should be forming over the Durmarkin River as cool northern winds flowed into the region, forcing the relatively warm river air upwards. Those atmospheric conditions might birth a stormcell, but Scotten didn't plan on lingering to make sure after snapping his photos.
He was high enough now that he could faintly see a dull glitter to the south: the river. Beyond lay the Sullen Fens, thousands of square kilometers of swamp. There was no color other than the pale green of the sky to relieve the endless grey and tan vistas below; what passed on Lennon for chlorophyll was brown and black, these being the most efficient energy-absorbing colors.
During the next hour he spiraled higher and higher into colder air. By the time his altimeter read 10,000 meters the outside temperature had fallen to several degrees below zero Centigrade. A film of ice was crystallizing near the canopy seal. He glanced at the thermometer and grimaced. Well, he'd be heading down soon. His flight suit kept him adequately warm. He hoped that Rislo Cantato had not planned any sort of reception for foreign aeronauts.
The clouds drew his attention. Far to the east there was a suspicious curdled look to the sky. Clouds shielded that region from the weak rays of the rising sun, but soon they'd burn off and the curdling would continue. Scotten knew he was looking into a protostorm.
The developing stormcell didn't worry him as much as the possibility of airfalls. These currents of cold air descending from rain clouds caused sudden changes of wind direction. Dirigibles, which maintained their own buoyancy, were far less threatened by airfalls than were gliders.
Scotten put the worry aside. Right now all he wanted to think about was the camera. Not being part of the glider’s original design, a hole had been cut for it in the belly of the fuselage. The mechanism was elementary: A simple lever arrangement engineered by Continental's machinists worked the shutter.

Doubtless detailed information about aerial photographic techniques had existed in the archives, but much of it had been lost forever before the first people to arrive on Lennon realized the ubiquity and indiscriminate appetite of ironrot. In a sense, all this effort served merely to reinvent a rather simple wheel that had been perfected centuries ago on Earth. But that couldn’t be helped.
Scotten peered forward towards the site along the river. He could make out little ground detail through the thin rime of ice on his windshield. He rubbed at the window but the ice was outside. There was scant doubt about his position, however. The Durmarkin took a hairpin bend near the site. He squinted. There was the bend. It was time to begin his descent.
He had soared some distance east of the site. Behind him, low-lying clouds temporarily blocked the sun. He waited a few more minutes for them to burn away, but the developing storm cell seemed to be interfering with that process. He sucked his teeth and put Peregrine's flaps down. A cloud ahead of him began to slowly rise out of his field of vision as the craft went into a dive.
Out of habit he glanced at the variometer every so often, but through long practice he could pretty much feel the rate of descent by the changing pitch of wind whistle and difference in turbulence. Air density increased quickly enough even during shallower dives to be perceptible to a seasoned aeronaut.
Far below, the river wound through what looked to be a dead landscape. Scotten concentrated on the territory near the bend. No buildings were visible. He bit his lips in dismay. Had he made a mistake after all?
The outside temperature had risen above freezing but his descent had been so rapid that the ice obscuring the canopy hadn't yet melted. Suddenly a flare of sunrays through the clouds behind him caught a gleam of metal ahead.
The structures he'd expected were there, all right, but draped in nets of camouflage that had concealed them until the oblique rays of the rising sun reflected off a fitting. Scotten grinned as confidence surged through him. The buildings, now obvious despite their painted nets, grew before him.
The photos would prove that whatever Cantato was doing, he wanted it hidden. Why bother, unless whatever was going on here was illegal by the standards of the planetary charter?
Scotten gripped the lever controlling the camera's shutter. As he approached the hidden plant, he pushed it forward.
Nothing happened. A chill colder than the outside air swept through him. He worked the lever again, and again. It was no use; something was jammed.
The wind rushed in his ears. His eyes unfocused as the shock of failure grew in him. He stared unseeing at the canopy and its frosting of ice ---
And realized what the problem had to be.
Suddenly something went whack outside to his right. Startled, he looked out at the wing. There was a small hole in it. Then, faintly, he heard several distant pops.
They'd spotted him, all right. Which will make the second pass interesting indeed, he told himself grimly. He turned the Peregrine west, toward the coast, and was soon out of range of the gunfire.

#
He landed the glider on a strip of deserted beach north of the Durmarkin's mouth. One look at the camera told him that he was right about the cause of its failure. He stripped off his sailchute and detached Peregrine's wings while Dwartenzio carefully brought the Windchime in close enough to unroll a rope ladder.
After hauling the glider aboard with the dirigible’s handling crane, Scotten joined Dwartenzio and Lysandra on the bridge.
"We never gave a thought for the camera," he said as he took the controls. "It’s not sufficiently insulated from the sub-zero cold. While I was flying, its shutter mechanism froze. The lens iced over, too."
"Well, then, that’s it," said Dwartenzio. "The idea won't work. We’ll have to go back to Majanatia and --"
"No! I'll not have Rauch laugh us out of the Council chamber, Dwart. I need those photos as proof of what I saw there, otherwise he'll rationalize it away as an hallucination or some such pizzle." He slapped Dwartenzio on the shoulder. "Stop looking so worried! I can fix the problem."
I hope, he added to himself.
Shortly the Windchime was heading northeast at speed, bound for the drop site. Scotten went down belowdecks to the engine compartment.
The dirigible's outboard pods did most of the work when mechanical flight was called for, but there were also props on the main hull. Highly efficient power cells connected in series ran the engines for these. Wooden racks of these batteries stretched the length of the chamber. Working carefully, Scotten disconnected one of the cells. It was the size of a suitcase, and weighed about twenty kilos. He scowled, calculating how the extra mass would affect the Peregrine's flight. Finally he shrugged. There really wasn't any other option.
He lugged the cell up on deck, then went to fetch his toolbox.
Dwartenzio looked up from his inspection of Peregrine and said, "What are you doing?"
"Preventing the camera from freezing," Scotten said. "We can to do it by running current through the shutter mechanism. The batteries heating my flight suit are almost depleted, though—we hadn’t planned for a second pass. I’ll have to use this power cell for both."
"A constant flow will cook the fittings," Dwartenzio said. "Those cells aren't toys."
"I have an idea about that."
The camera had been installed in a small hastily cut compartment aft of the cockpit. Scotten's upper body was barely able to fit into the little space. Sweating and muttering curses into his respirator, with Dwartenzio holding a small electric torch over his shoulder, Scotten disconnected the linkage between the shutter and the controlling lever in the cockpit, removed the camera and secured the power cell behind the camera's bracket. Then he re-installed the camera.
Taking two longer wires, he twisted them to a third, stiffer, length. He then squirmed headfirst into the cockpit and snaked the wires through the plastic tubes that fed the cable for the shutter linkage to the control lever by his seat.
"Okay," Scotten said, backing out of the cockpit. "Now for the hard part." He took a small battery-powered soldering iron out of the toolbox.
Working quickly he soldered the end of one of the long wires to the cell's positive pole, and the end of the other one to the lens fitting. Then he soldered a shorter wire from the negative pole to the mount.
By the time he finished with the second wire and rigged up a connection for his flight suit, his eyes, unprotected by the respirator mask from the soldering fumes, were streaming. He slithered out onto the deck wiping them, and headed for the dirigible’s engine room, where he scrounged two small, thin squares of metal. To these he soldered the wire ends coiled in the cockpit. Using linen tape, he secured one contact to the hull in front and to the right of his seat.
"I’ll glue the other one to the sole of my boot," he said, handing the tools to Dwartenzio. "Stop gaping, Dwart. This way I can send current through the lens mounting when I choose. Should be enough to keep it free of ice if I do it regularly every minute or so."
Dwartenzio crouched down under the glider with his hand cupped around the lens while Scotten tapped the contacts together.
"Does it get hot?" called Scotten.
"Yes! Immediately. I think your idea will work! But without an uninterrupted flow of current to your suit, you’re going to get full cold, Piet."
"Yes, and we're exposing untreated metal to the rot. But if you can think of a better way, please tell me."
Just past mid morning, Peregrine again took to the air. Scotten circled the Windchime, dipping his wings in salute to his crew, then turned the glider's nose south.
The air was colder now, and the turbulence more pronounced. Scotten had a much harder time keeping the glider on an even keel. Even more difficult was the need to remember the contact glued to his foot.
Dark clouds were closing in from the east as he neared the river. The storm cell that had been developing earlier was almost ready to begin its career. Its clouds flickered with internal lightning.
Keeping his eyes on the still distant site, he noticed two small dots in the air above it. He realized that the Farquntrians, alerted by his earlier try, had sent their own dirigibles aloft. The craft hovered above the camouflage netting like bagwings protecting their nest.
He tapped the contact more frequently as he began the approach. Air speed, just under one hundred kilometers per hour. Not very fast, but it was the best the glider could do in the tricky pre-storm wind patterns. Half way through the dive he tried the lever. It moved smoothly. He let loose a pent breath and nodded once.
The enemy dirigibles were posted on the eastern and western sides of the site, along the prevailing wind path. Water cascaded from their undersides as they blew their ballast tanks and began rising swiftly to meet him. He'd have to fly close by both of them while making his pass.
They began firing at him while he was still several hundred meters distant. As he flew over the site, tapping his foot and working the lever, he saw gunsmoke blossom along the decks of the Farquntrian airships like black popcorn.
A bullet holed the hull between his legs, exiting through the canopy. Another tore through his left wing. With cold certainty, Scotten realized that they'd got his range and would shoot his glider apart before he could escape.
No additional speed could be coaxed out of Peregrine. Nor could Scotten take extreme evasive action for fear of slipping out of his tail wind and losing forward momentum. He craned his neck, looking over the canopy lip for the source of the shots.
He saw an area of the forest ahead being tossed and rippled by winds. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. The trees were being blown toward him, along a curved line like the rim of a wheel. By the pattern, he knew that an airfall was pouring down into the forest just ahead of the glider.
Normally he wouldn't be watching the ground, so would never have seen the airfall's signature. He would probably have flown unsuspectingly into it. Now he could avoid the treacherous current.
Instead he held his course, heading straight into the swiftly descending column of cold air.
As the glider entered the airfall it ran into a strong headwind. Scotten immediately pulled back on the stick, bringing Peregrine's nose sharply up to take advantage of the sudden increase in lift. Something in the craft creaked. Scotten forced himself not to think about it.
His course had changed so abruptly that his attackers had lost their range, but he knew they'd soon regain it if he made any mistakes in the next few seconds.
It had to be done by feel. He hadn't had more than a glimpse of the wind-blown trees. The trick was to judge the diameter of the arc along which they were being blown, thereby estimating the "splash" area of the airfall column. Airfalls were typically little more than a kilometer across and lasted from five to fifteen minutes. There was no telling how long this one had been active.
Scotten coaxed every possible centimeter of altitude out of the glider in the few moments he had before arriving at the center of the airfall into the shear of a powerful downdraft. Anticipating that moment, he pushed back on the stick. Peregrine stalled in its climb. As it heeled over, on the edge of control, the change in wind direction came without warning.
Scotten hadn't gained much height. If he didn't have enough, he would be blown down into the forest.
As he passed out of the central downdraft, his glider was swept by a vigorous tailwind. Robbed of lift, it began to fall. Instantly he put his flaps up.
Peregrine's descent became more controlled. Five hundred meters, four hundred... three hundred. Picking up speed, it swooped low over the treetops as Scotten gripped the stick and willed himself up into the grey clouds of the strengthening storm.
The gunshots died away in the distance as he found himself a weak vortex associated with the airfall and began to climb over the top of it. One final report startled him. It was, he realized after a moment, a thunderclap.
Assisted by the winds of the storm behind him, he gathered more speed as he headed for the coast where the Windchime was moored.
Shortly he spotted the ocean far ahead and began looking for the Windchime. It wasn't at the agreed-upon spot. Had Dwartenzio been driven off by Farquntrian warships?
Closer in, there was still no sign of the dirigible. Scotten scanned the ground for wreckage but saw nothing. He caught a weak updraft coming off a ridge near the forest bordering the beach and took the glider up. Leveling out, he examined the horizon.
Due west, so far that he would never have seen it had he remained at a lower altitude, he saw a dot in the sky.
"By my blood, Dwarty, what are you doing out there?" Scotten muttered. As he watched, the dot vanished.
Scotten cursed set out after the dirigible.
Aeronauts hated flying gliders over open water. There were virtually no updrafts you could count on. If he had to ditch, Peregrine would float long enough for Scotten to swim free, assuming he rode it all the way down instead of bailing out. He was a strong swimmer and experienced enough in the water to be able to stay afloat indefinitely. But the film would be lost, and he'd have a long walk back home.
What could have happened to Dwartenzio and Pankiw? Scotten scowled at the thought of her ties to Farquntry and her sympathetic remarks about Rislo Cantato. Had she seized control of the airship in an attempt to ruin the mission? His scowl deepened.
The dot reappeared on the horizon. Thrusting his anger aside, Scotten concentrated on feeling the currents around the glider. Two things were clear: the dirigible was running before the wind, apparently without the assistance of the engines—and the dark line of clouds behind him indicated that that wind would remain steady for some time as the storm near the atom plant grew stronger.
But Peregrine was losing altitude despite the tailwind. The downdrafts produced by the cool ocean water would eventually force Scotten to bail out.
Time crawled. The distance between the two aircraft narrowed. Scotten was by now feeling the effects of nervous exhaustion. He had had little sleep for the past two days and had not eaten since early morning. For most of the past week he had been breathing through a respirator and was getting heartily sick of it. He hadn't bathed since the day before. And somehow in the excitement of preparing for a second glider flight he had neglected to take time to go to the bathroom.
His mood grew fouler as he considered his options. If he bailed out close enough to the Windchime and at sufficient altitude, he could probably fly his sailchute down onto the dirigible's deck. But the camera would be lost as it sank with the glider.
He was close enough to the Windchime now to see that its engines were indeed not engaged. He hadn't thought they were; otherwise he wouldn't have been able to catch up. The darkening sky flickered around him. Not far astern the storm had broken.
That decided him. Sailchuting through a storm would be even more dangerous than being in a glider or a dirigible. His only alternative was a controlled crash-landing on the deck of the Windchime. Lysandra might see him, but he had no choice.
He had no idea what he'd do after that. Depends if I live through it, he thought grimly.
Scotten tensed as the glider closed on the dirigible. His instincts yelled at him, insisting he was too close for safety. The gasbag loomed below like a little asteroid. Intermittent flashes of distant lightning etched momentary details of webbed rigging against the taut linen bag.
Complicated air currents rushing over the gasbag buffeted the glider. Scotten fought grimly to keep his craft level in the turbulence. He inched the flaps down and the glider slipped into the relative calm of the dirigible's wake, drawn along now instead of fighting the backwash.
He had scant seconds in which to attempt a landing on the Windchime's deck before he lost headway and fell into the chaotic patterns further back in the wake. The launch frame was only meters away. Without thinking he tapped the Peregrine's flaps up, gaining perhaps a meter of altitude over the frame. Then he slapped them down. Peregrine slid forward into the beginning of a dive, catching the launch frame amidships.
The glider's nose tilted sickeningly toward the deck, then back as the wind caught at the wings. Scotten cursed and threw himself forward as far as he could. The glider quivered, on the brink of being swept off the frame. Scotten cursed again and stabbed a finger at his instrument panel. Peregrine's cowling popped off. He yanked off his safety harness and stood up in his seat.
Several things happened in the next three seconds. The canopy crashed against the dirigible's stern railing and tumbled away. Scotten caught a glimpse of the canopy as it vanished into the darkness along with pieces of the rail. Scotten, more terrified than he ever had been in his life, reached up and grabbed a portion of the rigging as the glider overbalanced to one side. His leg caught on the canopy lip and for just an instant the weight of the glider pulled at him. He felt the joint of his left shoulder separate and screamed in pain. The Peregrine slipped free and fell to the deck with a splintering smash. Scotten, his shoulder dislocated, somehow managed to hold on.
Scarcely aware that he was doing so, he thrust his arms and legs into the ropes. His respirator was torn away. That was bad. He gulped hungrily at the thin air while his vision blurred and his ears rang. It was, he understood, the end of his life.
A strange, luminous mist flooded over him. In the midst of it, something wonderful approached from a spaceless direction for which he had no name. Instinctively he knew it meant him no harm. Accompanying this formless Being, part of its living fabric, were the sounds of tinkling bells, the scent of incense, and sparkling, starry lights. He knew he was not dreaming: here, at the meeting of worlds, he was being allowed a glimpse of what lay beyond. The vastness of it opened out all around him, gloriously, and his heart sang.
Travia was there, somewhere. He felt her.
She waits, agreed the Being, not in words, but in flashes of light and musical notes. The choice is yours.
Moments later he came to, and the hallucination fell away from him. The fainting spell had evened out his panicked breathing. He fought against the impulse to whoop for breath.
The rigging had kept him from being blown overboard, but his shoulder jolted him with agony as he struggled to extricate himself. Gasping, he paused for rest. Red shapes rolled across his field of vision, and with them a distant tinkle of bells. The glider, he saw as he looked down at the deck several meters below, quivered on the point of being swept away.
As far as Scotten could tell, the underside of the fuselage hadn't been badly damaged. The film might still be salvageable, if he could get the camera out before the glider was snatched by the wind.
Suddenly the hatch leading down to the crew quarters banged open. Dwartenzio's head slowly came into view. Scotten squinted against a sudden red film across his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. The low air pressure had ruptured the fragile blood vessels in his nose and ears. Soon he'd begin bleeding from his eyes as well.
By the time Scotten regained his sight, Dwartenzio stood on the deck facing him, holding a gun.
He must’ve managed to overpower Lysandra when she tried to attack him, Scotten thought. Took the weapon away from her! Didn’t know he had it in him!
Dwartenzio's eyes over his oxygen mask mirrored astonishment and dismay as he approached Scotten. Red drops flicked past Scotten's eyes.
"I wish you hadn't managed to catch me," Dwartenzio shouted over the wail of wind.
"Wha—what?" Scotten croaked, tasting blood in his mouth.
"I can't let you take those pictures back to the Council," Dwartenzio said.
Things clicked into place for Scotten. "You?" He could manage only the one word.
Dwartenzio nodded thoughtfully. "I’ll tell them you died a hero's death fighting off a Farquntrian airship," he said. "You and Sandra." He sighed. "I thought she might turn, but she didn’t. Ah, well." He gestured with the gun and grinned almost sheepishly.
Scotten’s head swam, but he forced himself to think rationally. Dwartenzio's eyes were puffy, he saw. Doubtless Dwart thought he'd been safe enough just letting the Windchime run before the wind, away from the gathering storm while he grabbed some of the sleep he'd lost helping fly the dirigible.
Dwartenzio, an inexperienced flyer, hadn't known that the dirigible would make its best time running at a 45-degree angle across the wind. That way the gasbag wouldn't have its own air resistance to overcome. With Lysandra gone, there’d be no one to correct Dwartenzio’s misconception—which had allowed the Peregrine to catch up.
Dwartenzio was speaking again. "Our failure will persuade Rauch and the Council that photoreconnaissance isn't feasible. Nothing Gormlen can say or do will convince him to send out another mission like this. We'll gain some time until --"
He paused.
"Well, until we don’t have to worry about Majanatia any longer. I really am sorry, Piet." Dwartenzio walked to within a few paces of Scotten's perch in the rigging. His face was paler than Scotten could recall ever having seen it before.
"I must admit, I never thought you'd actually succeed," Dwartenzio said. He stood directly below Scotten now. "That’s the only reason I came along on this trip: to make sure. I was tempted to strand you while you were on that first flight, but I needed to see if the idea would work. When the lens iced up I figured you were finished. Then you conjured up the battery trick." He shook his head in admiration. "Always the clever one, Piet."
Scotten glanced toward the smashed railing. Wind whistled through the jagged breaks. There was nothing he could do to defend himself. "Shoot me?"
Dwartenzio bit his lips. "I'm good with a gun, Piet," he said. "Believe it or not. You won't feel anything. I can promise you Sandra didn’t. I shot her in the head while she was sleeping, after we’d—well."
His gaze followed Scotten's toward the broken railing. He took a few steps towards it, as if fascinated with the storm-filled abyss beyond. Soon rain would begin sluicing over the dirigible's decks.
"Why?" Scotten croaked out.
"Well, I certainly don’t need any witnesses—oh, you mean why I’ve gone to the Farquntrian side." Dwartenzio scratched his jaw thoughtfully. "Pretty simple, really. Rislo Cantato is commanding the most advanced technology on this poor little planet. He’s far beyond us, Piet. What he’s pulled out of his copy of the Archives would amaze you. Plus he’s good at, shall we say, ‘encouraging’ those under him to do their best work. He’ll get us into space! The moons! And I can be a part of it. He needs me, Piet. He needs good administrators like me. He’s said so."
Dwartenzio, Scotten saw, was so carried away with himself that he had neglected to fasten his safety tether. One misstep would send Dwartenzio into eternity.
Then Scotten had an idea. There was no time to ponder it—all he could do was to act. He twisted his limbs into the rigging again and pulled his sailchute's ripcord.
Taken by the wind, the 'chute burst out toward the stern in a red and white cloud. It enveloped Dwartenzio and forced him back toward the smashed railing.
The shock as the 'chute's lines snapped taut against his harness, tearing a cry of pain from Scotten as his shoulder popped back into place. He tugged the release and the 'chute came free. Dwartenzio, enveloped and blinded, clawed at it, firing blindly in panic.
Scotten let go of the rigging and dropped the two meters to the deck. Crablike he scuttled under the billowing 'chute and tackled Dwartenzio's legs, bringing him down. Dwartenzio cursed, trying to club Scotten with the pistol. Scotten struggled to his knees and backhanded Dwartenzio fiercely twice, knocking his respirator away. He grasped the wrist of Dwartenzio's gun hand and slammed it down on the deck—and again. But Dwartenzio wouldn’t let go. He wrested loose from Scotten’s grip and smashed the gun across his face.
Scotten’s vision faded in and out. He saw Dwartenzio above him, bringing the gun to bear—and then a sudden, terrible thing, dripping blood, loomed up behind Dwartenzio and slammed a hard map casing into his head. Dwartenzio collapsed across Scotten’s body.
The horror pushed Dwartenzio’s senseless form aside with her foot.
Lysandra Pankiw would never be beautiful again. The bullet had taken her left eye.
She helped Scotten to his feet.
"Wasn’t—wasn’t so good with a gun as he thought," Scotten murmured. They bound Dwartenzio. He came to during the process, and gaped at the bloody wreckage of his lover’s face.
"You’ve got to understand! The Farquntrians—they told me they’d kill me if I didn’t do what they wanted!" Dwartenzio blubbered.
Scotten regarded him stonily. "Well, maybe there’s things worse than death."
"Let’s shove the bastard overboard," Pankiw said in a blurred, agonized voice.
Scotten remembered the hallucination. So extraordinarily vivid—the sparkling being, the hints of endless, radiant life beyond anything anyone suspected.
He understood that it had not been a hallucination. It had been more real than the pain in his lungs, more real even than the torn, empty place in his heart. Travia was there, somewhere—he knew it—waiting lovingly for him.
Why the hell should we send this dark-blooded scum into that?
"No," Scotten said. The moment of rage had passed. He wiped blood from his lips and with his knife cut a section of the chute’s cordage to bind Pankiw’s wounds. "We need him to tell his story to the Council. I’m just an old drunk, they’d never believe me. But you—they’ll believe you, Sandra. Plus that gun of his." He stared down at Dwartenzio. "We’re not even going to ask the Council to execute you for treason and murder, Dwarty. I’ll beg them for your life." He smiled. "I’ll pray for your life."

---

Cascade Mountain Publishing [ http://www.cascadepublishing.com/ ]
Clocktower Fiction [ http://www.clocktowerfiction.com/ ]
Hard Shell Word Factory [ http://www.hardshell.com/ ]
A.L. Sirois personal web site [ http://www.w3pg.com/jazzpolice/ ]

A.L. Sirois cites creative influences as diverse as Firesign Theatre, the Beatles, Pieter Brueghel, Wally Wood and Frank Zappa. An artist as well as a writer, he has done hundreds of illustrations, including drawings for Lullaby Angel, a children's book written by his wife, Paula, and for Penguin Island, a children's book of his own now available from Hard Shell Word Factory. Two of his short stories made the Top 25 in Eternity's Best of the Web '98 contest—more than any other author. The stories, March 11 1936, 5:30 AM and As Bad As It Gets, originally published in Deep Outside, each received Nebula recommendations. His first novel, Blood Relations, is available from Cascade Mountain Publishing. Its sequel, Blind Ambitions, from which Across the Wind was adapted, is available from Clocktower Fiction. His collection, The Beginnings of Forever from Clocktower Fiction, includes the Pushcart Prize-nominated story In the Conservatory, and others that have appeared in Amazing Stories and Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine.

A.L. Sirois lives in Flemington, NJ with his wife Paula, daughter Kira and son Daniel. He works as a technical writer/web developer for Bear Stearns in Whippany. For recreation he plays drums and sings for the rock band Bedbug Eddie, often appearing in local cafes and other venues. Visit his personal web site for more news about upcoming writing and musical projects, as well as sample graphics and animations.

Far below the dirigible the Windy Sea curved out toward the horizon like a wrinkled gray carpet. Above, a crescent of Yoko, the outer moon, rode the icy green afternoon sky. Pietera Scotten, with the greater part of his awareness directed inward at the core of his sorrow, had no eye for this wild beauty. Six months after his wife's funeral, Scotten was at last emerging from a grief-induced haze of alcohol. The pain was waiting for him.
Down the length of the poop the door to the pressurized cabin swung open and a slim figure, clad like Scotten in flight overalls, ducked under the bridge’s cowling and stepped out. The figure removed the breathing apparatus from its mouth.
"Mir Scotten!" Lysandra Pankiw’s voice was a high, irritating whine in the rarefied air. "You’ve been standing there for an hour." She paused to suck oxygen from the mask. "You’ll get a hell of a sunburn! If anything keeps you from that Council session, Mal—uh, Dwartenzio will split his husk."
Scotten stood with one big gauntleted hand gripping the polished railing of the Windchime's prow and blinked at her, realizing numbly that he'd been adrift in memories of Travia the entire time. He flexed his fingers. Even in gloves they ached with cold.
"All right," he shouted through his mask. "I’m coming in." She turned and re-entered the cabin.
With an effort Scotten tore his thoughts from his lost wife. In less than four hours he’d be addressing a special session of Breebaharben's ruling council. How had he ever let Dwartenzio talk him into this? He grimaced up at Yoko and spat over the side.
Because, Scotten admitted sourly, if it wasn't for his partner Continental Aeronautics would have floundered. Malka Dwartenzio's constant womanizing never seemed to blunt his genius for business, but he was no public speaker. Pietera Scotten was the man people thought of when they thought of Continental.
Frowning, Scotten stooped under the cowling’s protective overhang and opened the door. Inside the cabin, shielded from the UV radiation sluicing through Lennon's thin atmosphere, he yanked off his goggles and respirator and tossed them down on the chart table.
"Bring her about," he said to the young woman in the pilot’s seat. "Quarter throttle to maintain trim."
"Sir." Lysandra Pankiw, lithe and dark, didn’t turn from the controls, but he couldn’t miss the sullen tone of her voice.
He sighed. She was one of Dwartenzio’s "personal projects." Pankiw was a good pilot, but Scotten found her overly assertive and rather loud. She knew he didn’t like her, but her feelings were of no concern to him. He turned his attention to the charts.
This shakedown cruise had been another of Dwartenzio's ideas. As far as Scotten was concerned, the only good thing about the flight was that it had given him respite from friends' sympathy. They were all so sorry; they all wanted to help; they would all be glad to listen if he needed to talk.
But Pietera Scotten had found that he didn’t know how to unburden himself, even to the priest and priestess of his circle, any more than he knew how to live without Travia.
They'd been together since they were teenagers. Both mad to fly, both tempestuously tempered, their marriage had surprised everyone. No one thought it could last.
But it had—right up until the day of their last fight.
They’d argued over her insistence on flying even though she had just gotten pregnant. He forbade her, she refused to listen—after a shouting match she stormed out, went to one of the hangars and prepped a small airship, taking an engineer with her as crew. One of Lennon's terrible, swift storms blew up, and Travia crashed the airship into a mooring pole while trying to bring the craft back in. She and the engineer both died.
After that, Scotten had too busy drinking his pain away to have time for introspection.
For a moment, as he stared at the charts on the table, grief threatened to overwhelm him and he was harshly grateful for Pankiw’s presence: It compelled him to control himself.
He forced his attention to the Windchime. The airship was, without doubt, a sweet fly. Her hull, of tough cane and wirewood shellacked to near metallic hardness, hung by a complicated system of rigging beneath a hundred-meter long, twenty-five meter wide hand-stitched gasbag. Her range was nearly three thousand kilometers, with a top speed of 75 knots and a ceiling of 12,000 meters. She could remain aloft for up to a junth and a half without recharging. If the engines, mounted on outboard "power eggs," were used sparingly, another week could increase that time to a full month.
Gradually descending now, the Windchime passed presently into the throat of a huge, sheltering bay. Land closed in to either side and the temperature climbed a few degrees. Soon Breebaharben, situated at the western end of the bay, came in view.
In the busy harbor, sampans and barges jostled one another between larger vessels. The dirigible's approach touched off a salute of hoots, whistles and blats from the boats. Scotten broke out pennants in the Majanatian colors next to the ones of Breebaharben. An airship was a relatively rare sight in the wind-scoured skies of Lennon, especially the further north or south one went from the equator. It was entirely possible that some of the sailors from more remote Majanatian city-states had never seen one.
As he guided the Windchime closer to the aerodrome north of the walled city, Scotten noticed a motorized vessel anchored in the canal near the administration building. Stenciled on the roof of its cabin was the official device of the Breebaharb Council. So, Councilor Gormlen, Scotten thought, you don't trust me to make the session on time. Or sober. He felt his temper rising, and tried to defuse it by busying himself helping Pankiw with the docking procedure. On the ground at last, he returned the salutations of the crew with a perfunctory wave.
Malka Dwartenzio, trim and younger-looking than his forty-three years, stood waiting for him with Councilor Cydley Gormlen, a stocky fiftyish woman. Gormlen seemed unlikely leadership material despite the dignity with which she wore the pearly grey robes of office. Scotten knew that her matronly appearance masked a mind surpassed in sharpness only by her tongue.
"Hello, Your Honor," he said dryly. "Come to shepherd me to the meeting?"
Gormlen folded her arms and frowned up at him. "I thought you might appreciate an escort." She glanced meaningfully at Pankiw as the younger woman gracefully stepped out of the cabin smoothing her tunic down over her flat belly and slim hips. "Or should I say a chaperone," Gormlen added.
Scotten took a breath and clamped down on his ire. "I’m starting to think that this presentation is a mistake. Personally and professionally."
"The politics of the situation make it necessary," Gormlen replied.
"Then, I hope you have a good answer when you’re accused of abusing Council privileges by allowing us access to the archives."
"Without facts, Rauch and his supporters would laugh us out of the chamber," the councilor said flatly. "There was no other choice."
Dwartenzio seized Scotten’s arm. "Rauch and everyone in Majanatia must face the truth. Farquntry is up to something, and we need intelligence."
"Especially if it’s of benefit to Continental Aeronautics!" Scotten said. Out of the corner of his eye he noted Lysandra Pankiw listening attentively to the conversation. Realizing he had raised his voice, Scotten subsided. "Apologies. I'm tired—not thinking clearly. You'll excuse me." Scotten headed for his office, leaving Gormlen and Dwartenzio standing in the middle of the field. Pankiw had gotten an earful of information not meant for her, but Scotten was too angry to care. Besides, Dwartenzio’s pillow talk had probably already filled her in.
While showering and changing, Scotten's irritation phased down into glum apathy. He tried to plan out his remarks to the council, but was continually distracted by memories of the play of light in Travia’s hair, Travia swimming nude in the canal outside their home, Travia’s smoldering eyes as they made love.
He cast his eyes toward the cabinet where he kept wine and liquor. Then he stood angrily and stalked away toward the canal, where a boat awaited him with Dwartenzio already aboard.

#
Scotten, brooding, said nothing during the gondola ride. After the vessel passed under the arches of Breebaharben’s city wall it became part of the traffic flow. Greensailors and fishwives crowded the canals in flimsy-looking sampans, hawking their wares to customers craning from high narrow windows overlooking the chill lap of water.
The activity revived Scotten somewhat. He had always loved the city's bustle, its life, but now he felt himself to be apart from it as though it were simply a dream and the misery inside him the reality.
"How much have you told your little elbow ornament, there, Dwart?" he suddenly asked.
Dwartenzio blinked at him. "Lysandra?" He smiled and shook his head.
Scotten grunted. "She has relatives in Farquntry, doesn’t she?"
"A sister living outside of the capital, I believe. And some cousins. Visits them once a year or so. But the subject hasn't come up."
Scotten nodded. "Good." She was just a bed-warmer, then. He knew Dwaretenzio’s attitude toward women too well to disbelieve him. Still, Pankiw was observant and clever. Now that she knew a little, it might make sense to keep an eye on her doings.
From the municipal landing they boarded rickshaws for the trip up the twisting thoroughfares to the government acropolis overlooking the city. The buildings’ stone columns and buttresses were so slim and delicate as to be translucent.
As Scotten and Dwartenzio entered the meeting chamber a ragged dissonance of boos made them pause in the colonnade. Beyond, the polished stone floor stretched to raised ranks of councilors' boxes, all lit by a galaxy of bulbs in the enormous electrolier suspended from the ceiling.
Cydley Gormlen stood on a dais before the tiers of seats. The large isolationist faction was reacting vociferously to whatever she had just said.
"Councilors!" she cried over the commotion. "We are cushioning ourselves on a pillow of history! And it's about to be yanked from under us." The catcalls increased. "Hear me out!" she shouted.
A man in the front row, unusually tall and thin even for a Lennish, unfolded himself from his seat. He spread his hands, and said on a rising tone, "Why should we, councilor? This is your usual tune. Or should I say bleat—and you'd take half a session to sing it, if we let you."
"Rauch! Rauch!" The cry was taken up by others, and punctuated with appreciative laughter and a scattering of applause.
"And that is your usual counterpoint, Basel," Gormlen said, smiling. This time it was her supporters who applauded.
"Very good, councilor," said Rauch, "very, very good. Better a witticism—or an attempted one, should I say?—than an unsupported contention that Rislo Cantato is becoming Lennon's first dictator."
More laughter and applause followed his remark. He sat down and flapped his hand at Gormlen for her to continue.
She looked around and saw Scotten and Dwartenzio standing in the arcade. Scotten noted that she appeared unruffled despite the energetic heckling. Got to hand it to the old ratsnagger, he thought—she’s tough.
"I've asked a well-traveled citizen to attend today's session," she said. "Pietera Scotten --" a murmur of surprise fluttered through the chamber, "-- of Continental Aeronautics, whose business on our behalf in Farquntry has taken him there many a time."
Scotten stepped forward and bowed to the assembled councilors. There was a spattering of applause as he did so and a laugh or two. Gormlen murmured, "I half suspected you wouldn’t show up." Her eyes flashed. Her unspoken coda, Because you got drunk, stung him.
Rauch stood suddenly and peered suspiciously down at him. "Mir Scotten! You're the schulait who dressed up in a funny hat at the reception for the Yosan ambassador three months ago?"
Scotten ground his teeth. Schulait, in the Yosan tongue, meant buffoon. The episode at the reception had made the papers. After it, he'd started to deal with his alcohol problem. "Um, if that's relevant," Scotten began.
Rauch cut him off. "You were in a condition I think I recall someone at the time referring to as 'snockered'. Yes, we had a hard time smoothing that one over... Yosans being such strict fundamentalists and all... You tried to kiss one of his semi-wives, didn't you."
Scotten opened his mouth to reply but Rauch waved his protest away.
"Proceed," said the councilor, and yawned.
Gormlen had faded back to one side of the dais. Now she and Dwartenzio came forward bearing a folded easel. Scotten, swallowing his irritation, faced the easel toward the councilors and took a folding pointer from his tunic.
"Rislo Cantato, whatever one may call him, is unarguably seeking to develop industry in Farquntry." He glanced at Rauch, who was scowling—but the point was unopposed: even Rauch’s colleagues shared the view. Scotten continued, "His development program is sparking a need for raw materials. Metals! Fuels! Earth had a vast supply of these things, councilors, but Lennon does not. What we do have is ironrot, which corrodes all untreated metal. So we have not been tempted to create a military-industrial complex here, freeing us from atomic technology and the economic tyranny of fossil fuels." He paused. "And imperialism."
He felt his thoughts begin to move along familiar but recently unused paths. This was a challenge, like trying for a new altitude or flight longevity record. Challenges required clear, dispassionate thinking and the willingness to take risks. Travia had always encouraged him—Scotten shook the thought of her out of his head and concentrated on the challenge.
"But Cantato has forgotten about these evils, or is choosing to ignore them." He turned to the easel. "Observe this section of the Durmarkin River, about a hundred kilometers upstream from the Windy Sea, almost halfway to Josenroel." He looked around the chamber. "And almost due east of Breebaharben." Even Rauch was paying attention.
"Normal storm patterns force an overland route from Breebaharben most of the year, by caravan across the isthmus and then up the coast to the mouth of Durmarkin. From there one takes a riverboat to the city.
"Weather permitting, I spend most of my riverboat time on deck. On my last trip I noticed some sort of construction activity at this section of the river." He tapped the chart with the pointer. "Huge wasp-waisted towers, unfamiliar to me. The captain told me they were water treatment facilities intended for new towns in that region. A reasonable explanation? Perhaps. When I returned home, however, I learned that my visa had been revoked and that I was no longer welcome in Farquntry."
"Maybe they'd been talking to the Yosans," someone in the gallery called to a ripple of general laughter. Scotten's grip tightened on his pointer.
"Councilor Gormlen," he said, "has asked those of us who occasionally do business with Farquntry to alert her to anything unusual. I described the Durmarkin River site to her, and sketched the towers. She recognized them."
He flipped over a page of the chart to a large photograph. "This is an nuclear power plant, on Earth circa 1985," he said. "These hourglass-shaped cooling towers are almost identical to the structures I saw along the river."
The audience erupted into confusion. Rauch stood and bellowed over the hubbub. "A clever presentation, but misleading! You conveniently neglect to mention that Farquntry derives most of its electric power from geothermal stations. That particular part of the country is active with hotsprings!"
Scotten spoke over the derisive laughter of Rauch’s supporters, louder and more quickly. "You're right, Councilor. I’m afraid, however, that there is more to it." He flipped a few pages of the chart.
Rauch looked at the new page and leaned forward scowling. "What is that," he said in a low voice.
"You recognize it," Scotten said. "It's a copy of one of the original satellite geoscans done centuries ago when the Imagine arrived here from Earth."
"That information is classified!" Rauch said, aghast. "It's illegal to inspect it without a plebiscite!"
"Normally, yes," said Gormlen, stepping up beside Scotten on the dais. "But a public discussion of this situation would have alerted Farquntry of our suspicions." She nodded at Scotten.
He said, "Analysis of the scans indicates that the river region is a likely place to find pitchblende. The likeliest on Lennon, as it happens. And pitchblende, on Earth at least, was regarded as the richest source of uranium."
The chamber erupted in confusion. Scotten and Gormlen stood without speaking as Rauch argued with his advisors.
Rauch turned from his advisors. Staring at Cydley Gormlen, he said, "We'll table the discussion of your abuse of privilege, Councilor! Right now I think we'd all rather know how Cantato came by this information. There aren't supposed to be any copies of the scans outside of our own archives."
Gormlen spread her hands. "Correct," she said. "Therefore Farquntry has had copies all along, hidden as are ours; or else our security has been compromised."
Rauch rubbed his chin. "It’s possible," he said reluctantly. "However, your evidence of atomic experimentation remains circumstantial."
"Indeed," said Gormlen. "Further investigations must be made."
"How is that to be accomplished?" queried a female councilor. "The old satellites have long since burned up in reentry, and we’ve no means to launch others."
"As it happens," replied Scotten, "Continental Aeronautics has a proposal. . . . "

#
The door to the bridge banged open in the wind. Dwartenzio and Lysandra grabbed for the charts before them as Scotten ducked in.
"Close that!" The respirator covering Dwartenzio’s nose and mouth muffled his voice.
"Take a look to the northeast," Scotten said, handing him the telescope. Dwartenzio peered into it, then cursed and handed it to Pankiw.
"A line of clouds," she said after a few moments, looking up at Scotten. "Front coming in." Scotten nodded.
Dwartenzio stared out the door at the clouds. "It might have been wiser to have had a full crew come along," he said, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the rarefied air.
"We couldn't justify the risk of family men being shot down—or captured," Scotten said. It was true that he was no longer a man with a family. "And Pankiw’s the only qualified unmarried pilot." The irony of having to ask her to volunteer for the mission hadn’t been lost on him. "Now let’s batten down; the front might shake us up."
"I wouldn't mind the turbulence if it didn't make me so flaring ill," Dwartenzio said. A day and a half out now, they were far from land near the middle of the Windy Sea, borne along at a good clip by the seasonal trade winds. As yet there had been no need to use the ship's engines. "You may run squalls all the time," Dwartenzio added, glancing out at the approaching front, "but I'm not used to it."
"Well," said Scotten, smiling, "if you’d get up from behind your desk once in a while and actually fly some of the ships we build, you’d toughen up soon enough." Rather to his surprise, he noticed Lysandra duck her head to hide a similar smile. He added, "What's our position?"
"We're here," said Dwartenzio, pointing. "A degree or so south of the equator."
Scotten looked at the chart. The land bridge connecting the continents of Majanatia and Farquntry stretched along a U measuring nearly two thousand kilometers. At the arc's nadir, a triangle of land thrust north a hundred kilometers into the Windy Sea. This was the Farquntrian province of Schank, a jungled region six hundred kilometers south of their present position. It was the nearest land.
Being with the two of them on the bridge made Scotten ill at ease. The scar left by the wound of Travia’s death was still too new to sustain the proximity of anyone else’s love—or lust. "I’m going to inspect the glider," he announced, pulling his leather flight jacket out of a small cubby. He left Dwartenzio and Lysandra murmuring over the map.
Outside, on deck, he gazed out into the cloud-stained depths of the green Lennish sky and wondered about the god and the goddess. They were said to exist, and the moons were their representatives. Certainly Travia had believed, and had dragged Scotten along to services. He had even acted as high priest to her high priestess when it came their time to lead the rituals, but his heart had never been in it. He had been untouched by the spirits.
After her death he prayed desperately for reassurance but there was nothing, only an abyss inside him in which not even an echo answered.

#
Late on the following afternoon land loomed over the eastern horizon. "Flea Island, right on schedule," said Dwartenzio excitedly. He and Scotten stood at the ship's prow, ignoring the cold.
"We'll be in sight of the mainland before nightfall," said Scotten, handing the telescope to his partner. He absently rubbed at a greasy spot on the lens's curved metal fitting. Ironrot had penetrated the shellac there. He made a mental note to have the instrument re-coated when they got back to Breebaharben.
"Do you think Cantato will have scouts watching for airships?" Dwartenzio asked.
"I don't know," said Scotten, frowning up at the sky. "We'll be approaching land from out of the sunset. A lookout won't easily mark us."
"I don't see many clouds now... will we have cover tonight?"
Scotten thought for a moment. "The coast north of the Durmarkin's mouth is heavily forested; we'll pass over to land there. You and Lysandra get some sleep, Dwart. I’ll take the first watch."
Dwartenzio departed—eagerly enough, Scotten noted—for his sleeping quarters.
The dirigible raced along as stars sparkled in the twilight. Scotten, enjoying the feel of the ship, altered course so that he ran before the wind, north. Two hours after sunset the Windchime crossed from sea to land. He deployed a drogue parachute to slow the craft somewhat. Then he locked the controls and went out on deck.
The stars shone brightly, emphasizing the clear thin air, but Scotten knew the clarity couldn't last. A cold front would even now be sweeping down from the north, bringing clouds in its wake.
Scotten scowled up at the firmament. Clouds would help cover their approach but the accompanying winds would be violent and unpredictable when they slammed into the relatively warm, moist equatorial air. This last leg of the mission would be the most dangerous.
He slept for a few hours while Dwartenzio and Lysandra alternated turns at the wheel. Scotten woke just before dawn, and broke his fast with a light meal of fruit and a mug of chaaf. He saw through the galley's porthole that lenticular clouds floated to the northwest. Scotten nodded to himself as his fingers tapped against his mug.
"Clouds in the lee of cold northern air," said a quiet voice. Scotten turned in surprise. He hadn’t heard Lysandra come in. "Mountain waves," she added.
He nodded slowly. She was perfectly correct. Mountain waves were powerful updrafts caused by warm air flowing up from the Sullen Fens, the vast swamp south of the Durmarkin River. The updrafts would help the glider gain altitude.
Even better, the barometer was falling. A storm cell was probably forming over the Fens. That meant that the river air, cooled by the glacier, was going to be pushed further and further south into the developing low-pressure zone as the day progressed.
"It’s an interesting day for flying," he said, swallowing the last of his chaaf. He looked her in the eye. She stared back expressionlessly. "You have relatives in Farquntry, don’t you," he said at last, unable to think of anything else.
"Most of my family is there," Pankiw said, setting about preparing a cup of chaaf for herself.
"I suppose you don’t often see them," Scotten ventured.
Pankiw snorted. "Not lately. Breebaharben keeps slapping travel restrictions on common people seeking to visit Farquntry. They even tax the money I send back! Rislo Cantato is anxious to keep families together. He says it makes a stronger nation. I have a sister there I haven’t seen in two years." She poured her chaaf and banged out of the galley.
Outside, Dwartenzio had pulled the tarp off the glider and was slinging the cargo crane's lift web under it. The Peregrine, an experimental glider developed by Continental, was constructed of fiberglass and wood and weighed only a few hundred kilos. Peregrine's cockpit was neither heated nor pressurized; the craft had not originally been intended for altitudes as high as she was to fly today. Instead, Scotten had a portable breathing apparatus, and an insulated flight suit designed to be heated by batteries under his seat. He paid special attention to his respirator, making sure the reserve tanks' valves were operating properly. As the sun began to appear over the horizon, Scotten decided that Peregrine was ready for flight. Dwartenzio helped him strap on his sailchute.
"I hope you know what you're doing," said Dwartenzio. He stood staring at the fragile-looking craft in the launching frame.
"So do I," Scotten said. He clambered up the side of the frame and settled gingerly into the cockpit. The seat was designed to receive the sailchute on his back; there was no other place for it. He'd have to wear it throughout the flight. Dwartenzio lowered the canopy. Scotten strapped himself in and gave Dwartenzio a thumbs-up. His hand tightened on the launch trigger.
He took a deep breath and pressed the button.
A powerful spring release kicked the glider out of the frame. Continental's engineers had come up with the launch frame idea. Peregrine, they assured Scotten, was more than resilient enough to withstand the take-off stress.
"Not that I ever doubted you, lads," he muttered as he got the glider under control. He banked in a wide turn. There was the Windchime, and there was Dwartenzio next to the launch frame. He could even see Lysandra in the control cabin. Scotten turned Peregrine's nose south, toward the target site.
For a while he concentrated on soaring. The terrain below him was mountainous, marked by cliffs and fissures. A rocky ridge running east and west cut across the flow of glacial air from the north, deflecting it upwards. Scotten spiraled around this current, ascending gradually for several minutes.
With luck he'd be over the target in about two hours. He planned on riding the slope winds and mountain waves south until he was within a few kilometers of the site. Then he'd head in in a long dive, picking up speed and passing over the area at an altitude of about 2,000 meters, out of the late morning sun. By that time of day shear lines should be forming over the Durmarkin River as cool northern winds flowed into the region, forcing the relatively warm river air upwards. Those atmospheric conditions might birth a stormcell, but Scotten didn't plan on lingering to make sure after snapping his photos.
He was high enough now that he could faintly see a dull glitter to the south: the river. Beyond lay the Sullen Fens, thousands of square kilometers of swamp. There was no color other than the pale green of the sky to relieve the endless grey and tan vistas below; what passed on Lennon for chlorophyll was brown and black, these being the most efficient energy-absorbing colors.
During the next hour he spiraled higher and higher into colder air. By the time his altimeter read 10,000 meters the outside temperature had fallen to several degrees below zero Centigrade. A film of ice was crystallizing near the canopy seal. He glanced at the thermometer and grimaced. Well, he'd be heading down soon. His flight suit kept him adequately warm. He hoped that Rislo Cantato had not planned any sort of reception for foreign aeronauts.
The clouds drew his attention. Far to the east there was a suspicious curdled look to the sky. Clouds shielded that region from the weak rays of the rising sun, but soon they'd burn off and the curdling would continue. Scotten knew he was looking into a protostorm.
The developing stormcell didn't worry him as much as the possibility of airfalls. These currents of cold air descending from rain clouds caused sudden changes of wind direction. Dirigibles, which maintained their own buoyancy, were far less threatened by airfalls than were gliders.
Scotten put the worry aside. Right now all he wanted to think about was the camera. Not being part of the glider’s original design, a hole had been cut for it in the belly of the fuselage. The mechanism was elementary: A simple lever arrangement engineered by Continental's machinists worked the shutter.
Doubtless detailed information about aerial photographic techniques had existed in the archives, but much of it had been lost forever before the first people to arrive on Lennon realized the ubiquity and indiscriminate appetite of ironrot. In a sense, all this effort served merely to reinvent a rather simple wheel that had been perfected centuries ago on Earth. But that couldn’t be helped.
Scotten peered forward towards the site along the river. He could make out little ground detail through the thin rime of ice on his windshield. He rubbed at the window but the ice was outside. There was scant doubt about his position, however. The Durmarkin took a hairpin bend near the site. He squinted. There was the bend. It was time to begin his descent.
He had soared some distance east of the site. Behind him, low-lying clouds temporarily blocked the sun. He waited a few more minutes for them to burn away, but the developing storm cell seemed to be interfering with that process. He sucked his teeth and put Peregrine's flaps down. A cloud ahead of him began to slowly rise out of his field of vision as the craft went into a dive.
Out of habit he glanced at the variometer every so often, but through long practice he could pretty much feel the rate of descent by the changing pitch of wind whistle and difference in turbulence. Air density increased quickly enough even during shallower dives to be perceptible to a seasoned aeronaut.
Far below, the river wound through what looked to be a dead landscape. Scotten concentrated on the territory near the bend. No buildings were visible. He bit his lips in dismay. Had he made a mistake after all?
The outside temperature had risen above freezing but his descent had been so rapid that the ice obscuring the canopy hadn't yet melted. Suddenly a flare of sunrays through the clouds behind him caught a gleam of metal ahead.
The structures he'd expected were there, all right, but draped in nets of camouflage that had concealed them until the oblique rays of the rising sun reflected off a fitting. Scotten grinned as confidence surged through him. The buildings, now obvious despite their painted nets, grew before him.
The photos would prove that whatever Cantato was doing, he wanted it hidden. Why bother, unless whatever was going on here was illegal by the standards of the planetary charter?
Scotten gripped the lever controlling the camera's shutter. As he approached the hidden plant, he pushed it forward.
Nothing happened. A chill colder than the outside air swept through him. He worked the lever again, and again. It was no use; something was jammed.
The wind rushed in his ears. His eyes unfocused as the shock of failure grew in him. He stared unseeing at the canopy and its frosting of ice ---
And realized what the problem had to be.
Suddenly something went whack outside to his right. Startled, he looked out at the wing. There was a small hole in it. Then, faintly, he heard several distant pops.
They'd spotted him, all right. Which will make the second pass interesting indeed, he told himself grimly. He turned the Peregrine west, toward the coast, and was soon out of range of the gunfire.

#
He landed the glider on a strip of deserted beach north of the Durmarkin's mouth. One look at the camera told him that he was right about the cause of its failure. He stripped off his sailchute and detached Peregrine's wings while Dwartenzio carefully brought the Windchime in close enough to unroll a rope ladder.
After hauling the glider aboard with the dirigible’s handling crane, Scotten joined Dwartenzio and Lysandra on the bridge.
"We never gave a thought for the camera," he said as he took the controls. "It’s not sufficiently insulated from the sub-zero cold. While I was flying, its shutter mechanism froze. The lens iced over, too."
"Well, then, that’s it," said Dwartenzio. "The idea won't work. We’ll have to go back to Majanatia and --"
"No! I'll not have Rauch laugh us out of the Council chamber, Dwart. I need those photos as proof of what I saw there, otherwise he'll rationalize it away as an hallucination or some such pizzle." He slapped Dwartenzio on the shoulder. "Stop looking so worried! I can fix the problem."
I hope, he added to himself.
Shortly the Windchime was heading northeast at speed, bound for the drop site. Scotten went down belowdecks to the engine compartment.
The dirigible's outboard pods did most of the work when mechanical flight was called for, but there were also props on the main hull. Highly efficient power cells connected in series ran the engines for these. Wooden racks of these batteries stretched the length of the chamber. Working carefully, Scotten disconnected one of the cells. It was the size of a suitcase, and weighed about twenty kilos. He scowled, calculating how the extra mass would affect the Peregrine's flight. Finally he shrugged. There really wasn't any other option.
He lugged the cell up on deck, then went to fetch his toolbox.
Dwartenzio looked up from his inspection of Peregrine and said, "What are you doing?"
"Preventing the camera from freezing," Scotten said. "We can to do it by running current through the shutter mechanism. The batteries heating my flight suit are almost depleted, though—we hadn’t planned for a second pass. I’ll have to use this power cell for both."
"A constant flow will cook the fittings," Dwartenzio said. "Those cells aren't toys."
"I have an idea about that."
The camera had been installed in a small hastily cut compartment aft of the cockpit. Scotten's upper body was barely able to fit into the little space. Sweating and muttering curses into his respirator, with Dwartenzio holding a small electric torch over his shoulder, Scotten disconnected the linkage between the shutter and the controlling lever in the cockpit, removed the camera and secured the power cell behind the camera's bracket. Then he re-installed the camera.
Taking two longer wires, he twisted them to a third, stiffer, length. He then squirmed headfirst into the cockpit and snaked the wires through the plastic tubes that fed the cable for the shutter linkage to the control lever by his seat.
"Okay," Scotten said, backing out of the cockpit. "Now for the hard part." He took a small battery-powered soldering iron out of the toolbox.
Working quickly he soldered the end of one of the long wires to the cell's positive pole, and the end of the other one to the lens fitting. Then he soldered a shorter wire from the negative pole to the mount.
By the time he finished with the second wire and rigged up a connection for his flight suit, his eyes, unprotected by the respirator mask from the soldering fumes, were streaming. He slithered out onto the deck wiping them, and headed for the dirigible’s engine room, where he scrounged two small, thin squares of metal. To these he soldered the wire ends coiled in the cockpit. Using linen tape, he secured one contact to the hull in front and to the right of his seat.
"I’ll glue the other one to the sole of my boot," he said, handing the tools to Dwartenzio. "Stop gaping, Dwart. This way I can send current through the lens mounting when I choose. Should be enough to keep it free of ice if I do it regularly every minute or so."
Dwartenzio crouched down under the glider with his hand cupped around the lens while Scotten tapped the contacts together.
"Does it get hot?" called Scotten.
"Yes! Immediately. I think your idea will work! But without an uninterrupted flow of current to your suit, you’re going to get full cold, Piet."
"Yes, and we're exposing untreated metal to the rot. But if you can think of a better way, please tell me."
Just past mid morning, Peregrine again took to the air. Scotten circled the Windchime, dipping his wings in salute to his crew, then turned the glider's nose south.
The air was colder now, and the turbulence more pronounced. Scotten had a much harder time keeping the glider on an even keel. Even more difficult was the need to remember the contact glued to his foot.
Dark clouds were closing in from the east as he neared the river. The storm cell that had been developing earlier was almost ready to begin its career. Its clouds flickered with internal lightning.
Keeping his eyes on the still distant site, he noticed two small dots in the air above it. He realized that the Farquntrians, alerted by his earlier try, had sent their own dirigibles aloft. The craft hovered above the camouflage netting like bagwings protecting their nest.
He tapped the contact more frequently as he began the approach. Air speed, just under one hundred kilometers per hour. Not very fast, but it was the best the glider could do in the tricky pre-storm wind patterns. Half way through the dive he tried the lever. It moved smoothly. He let loose a pent breath and nodded once.
The enemy dirigibles were posted on the eastern and western sides of the site, along the prevailing wind path. Water cascaded from their undersides as they blew their ballast tanks and began rising swiftly to meet him. He'd have to fly close by both of them while making his pass.
They began firing at him while he was still several hundred meters distant. As he flew over the site, tapping his foot and working the lever, he saw gunsmoke blossom along the decks of the Farquntrian airships like black popcorn.
A bullet holed the hull between his legs, exiting through the canopy. Another tore through his left wing. With cold certainty, Scotten realized that they'd got his range and would shoot his glider apart before he could escape.
No additional speed could be coaxed out of Peregrine. Nor could Scotten take extreme evasive action for fear of slipping out of his tail wind and losing forward momentum. He craned his neck, looking over the canopy lip for the source of the shots.
He saw an area of the forest ahead being tossed and rippled by winds. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. The trees were being blown toward him, along a curved line like the rim of a wheel. By the pattern, he knew that an airfall was pouring down into the forest just ahead of the glider.
Normally he wouldn't be watching the ground, so would never have seen the airfall's signature. He would probably have flown unsuspectingly into it. Now he could avoid the treacherous current.
Instead he held his course, heading straight into the swiftly descending column of cold air.
As the glider entered the airfall it ran into a strong headwind. Scotten immediately pulled back on the stick, bringing Peregrine's nose sharply up to take advantage of the sudden increase in lift. Something in the craft creaked. Scotten forced himself not to think about it.
His course had changed so abruptly that his attackers had lost their range, but he knew they'd soon regain it if he made any mistakes in the next few seconds.
It had to be done by feel. He hadn't had more than a glimpse of the wind-blown trees. The trick was to judge the diameter of the arc along which they were being blown, thereby estimating the "splash" area of the airfall column. Airfalls were typically little more than a kilometer across and lasted from five to fifteen minutes. There was no telling how long this one had been active.
Scotten coaxed every possible centimeter of altitude out of the glider in the few moments he had before arriving at the center of the airfall into the shear of a powerful downdraft. Anticipating that moment, he pushed back on the stick. Peregrine stalled in its climb. As it heeled over, on the edge of control, the change in wind direction came without warning.
Scotten hadn't gained much height. If he didn't have enough, he would be blown down into the forest.
As he passed out of the central downdraft, his glider was swept by a vigorous tailwind. Robbed of lift, it began to fall. Instantly he put his flaps up.
Peregrine's descent became more controlled. Five hundred meters, four hundred... three hundred. Picking up speed, it swooped low over the treetops as Scotten gripped the stick and willed himself up into the grey clouds of the strengthening storm.
The gunshots died away in the distance as he found himself a weak vortex associated with the airfall and began to climb over the top of it. One final report startled him. It was, he realized after a moment, a thunderclap.
Assisted by the winds of the storm behind him, he gathered more speed as he headed for the coast where the Windchime was moored.
Shortly he spotted the ocean far ahead and began looking for the Windchime. It wasn't at the agreed-upon spot. Had Dwartenzio been driven off by Farquntrian warships?
Closer in, there was still no sign of the dirigible. Scotten scanned the ground for wreckage but saw nothing. He caught a weak updraft coming off a ridge near the forest bordering the beach and took the glider up. Leveling out, he examined the horizon.
Due west, so far that he would never have seen it had he remained at a lower altitude, he saw a dot in the sky.
"By my blood, Dwarty, what are you doing out there?" Scotten muttered. As he watched, the dot vanished.
Scotten cursed set out after the dirigible.
Aeronauts hated flying gliders over open water. There were virtually no updrafts you could count on. If he had to ditch, Peregrine would float long enough for Scotten to swim free, assuming he rode it all the way down instead of bailing out. He was a strong swimmer and experienced enough in the water to be able to stay afloat indefinitely. But the film would be lost, and he'd have a long walk back home.
What could have happened to Dwartenzio and Pankiw? Scotten scowled at the thought of her ties to Farquntry and her sympathetic remarks about Rislo Cantato. Had she seized control of the airship in an attempt to ruin the mission? His scowl deepened.
The dot reappeared on the horizon. Thrusting his anger aside, Scotten concentrated on feeling the currents around the glider. Two things were clear: the dirigible was running before the wind, apparently without the assistance of the engines—and the dark line of clouds behind him indicated that that wind would remain steady for some time as the storm near the atom plant grew stronger.
But Peregrine was losing altitude despite the tailwind. The downdrafts produced by the cool ocean water would eventually force Scotten to bail out.
Time crawled. The distance between the two aircraft narrowed. Scotten was by now feeling the effects of nervous exhaustion. He had had little sleep for the past two days and had not eaten since early morning. For most of the past week he had been breathing through a respirator and was getting heartily sick of it. He hadn't bathed since the day before. And somehow in the excitement of preparing for a second glider flight he had neglected to take time to go to the bathroom.
His mood grew fouler as he considered his options. If he bailed out close enough to the Windchime and at sufficient altitude, he could probably fly his sailchute down onto the dirigible's deck. But the camera would be lost as it sank with the glider.
He was close enough to the Windchime now to see that its engines were indeed not engaged. He hadn't thought they were; otherwise he wouldn't have been able to catch up. The darkening sky flickered around him. Not far astern the storm had broken.
That decided him. Sailchuting through a storm would be even more dangerous than being in a glider or a dirigible. His only alternative was a controlled crash-landing on the deck of the Windchime. Lysandra might see him, but he had no choice.
He had no idea what he'd do after that. Depends if I live through it, he thought grimly.
Scotten tensed as the glider closed on the dirigible. His instincts yelled at him, insisting he was too close for safety. The gasbag loomed below like a little asteroid. Intermittent flashes of distant lightning etched momentary details of webbed rigging against the taut linen bag.
Complicated air currents rushing over the gasbag buffeted the glider. Scotten fought grimly to keep his craft level in the turbulence. He inched the flaps down and the glider slipped into the relative calm of the dirigible's wake, drawn along now instead of fighting the backwash.
He had scant seconds in which to attempt a landing on the Windchime's deck before he lost headway and fell into the chaotic patterns further back in the wake. The launch frame was only meters away. Without thinking he tapped the Peregrine's flaps up, gaining perhaps a meter of altitude over the frame. Then he slapped them down. Peregrine slid forward into the beginning of a dive, catching the launch frame amidships.
The glider's nose tilted sickeningly toward the deck, then back as the wind caught at the wings. Scotten cursed and threw himself forward as far as he could. The glider quivered, on the brink of being swept off the frame. Scotten cursed again and stabbed a finger at his instrument panel. Peregrine's cowling popped off. He yanked off his safety harness and stood up in his seat.
Several things happened in the next three seconds. The canopy crashed against the dirigible's stern railing and tumbled away. Scotten caught a glimpse of the canopy as it vanished into the darkness along with pieces of the rail. Scotten, more terrified than he ever had been in his life, reached up and grabbed a portion of the rigging as the glider overbalanced to one side. His leg caught on the canopy lip and for just an instant the weight of the glider pulled at him. He felt the joint of his left shoulder separate and screamed in pain. The Peregrine slipped free and fell to the deck with a splintering smash. Scotten, his shoulder dislocated, somehow managed to hold on.
Scarcely aware that he was doing so, he thrust his arms and legs into the ropes. His respirator was torn away. That was bad. He gulped hungrily at the thin air while his vision blurred and his ears rang. It was, he understood, the end of his life.
A strange, luminous mist flooded over him. In the midst of it, something wonderful approached from a spaceless direction for which he had no name. Instinctively he knew it meant him no harm. Accompanying this formless Being, part of its living fabric, were the sounds of tinkling bells, the scent of incense, and sparkling, starry lights. He knew he was not dreaming: here, at the meeting of worlds, he was being allowed a glimpse of what lay beyond. The vastness of it opened out all around him, gloriously, and his heart sang.
Travia was there, somewhere. He felt her.
She waits, agreed the Being, not in words, but in flashes of light and musical notes. The choice is yours.
Moments later he came to, and the hallucination fell away from him. The fainting spell had evened out his panicked breathing. He fought against the impulse to whoop for breath.
The rigging had kept him from being blown overboard, but his shoulder jolted him with agony as he struggled to extricate himself. Gasping, he paused for rest. Red shapes rolled across his field of vision, and with them a distant tinkle of bells. The glider, he saw as he looked down at the deck several meters below, quivered on the point of being swept away.
As far as Scotten could tell, the underside of the fuselage hadn't been badly damaged. The film might still be salvageable, if he could get the camera out before the glider was snatched by the wind.
Suddenly the hatch leading down to the crew quarters banged open. Dwartenzio's head slowly came into view. Scotten squinted against a sudden red film across his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. The low air pressure had ruptured the fragile blood vessels in his nose and ears. Soon he'd begin bleeding from his eyes as well.
By the time Scotten regained his sight, Dwartenzio stood on the deck facing him, holding a gun.
He must’ve managed to overpower Lysandra when she tried to attack him, Scotten thought. Took the weapon away from her! Didn’t know he had it in him!
Dwartenzio's eyes over his oxygen mask mirrored astonishment and dismay as he approached Scotten. Red drops flicked past Scotten's eyes.
"I wish you hadn't managed to catch me," Dwartenzio shouted over the wail of wind.
"Wha—what?" Scotten croaked, tasting blood in his mouth.
"I can't let you take those pictures back to the Council," Dwartenzio said.
Things clicked into place for Scotten. "You?" He could manage only the one word.
Dwartenzio nodded thoughtfully. "I’ll tell them you died a hero's death fighting off a Farquntrian airship," he said. "You and Sandra." He sighed. "I thought she might turn, but she didn’t. Ah, well." He gestured with the gun and grinned almost sheepishly.
Scotten’s head swam, but he forced himself to think rationally. Dwartenzio's eyes were puffy, he saw. Doubtless Dwart thought he'd been safe enough just letting the Windchime run before the wind, away from the gathering storm while he grabbed some of the sleep he'd lost helping fly the dirigible.
Dwartenzio, an inexperienced flyer, hadn't known that the dirigible would make its best time running at a 45-degree angle across the wind. That way the gasbag wouldn't have its own air resistance to overcome. With Lysandra gone, there’d be no one to correct Dwartenzio’s misconception—which had allowed the Peregrine to catch up.
Dwartenzio was speaking again. "Our failure will persuade Rauch and the Council that photoreconnaissance isn't feasible. Nothing Gormlen can say or do will convince him to send out another mission like this. We'll gain some time until --"
He paused.
"Well, until we don’t have to worry about Majanatia any longer. I really am sorry, Piet." Dwartenzio walked to within a few paces of Scotten's perch in the rigging. His face was paler than Scotten could recall ever having seen it before.
"I must admit, I never thought you'd actually succeed," Dwartenzio said. He stood directly below Scotten now. "That’s the only reason I came along on this trip: to make sure. I was tempted to strand you while you were on that first flight, but I needed to see if the idea would work. When the lens iced up I figured you were finished. Then you conjured up the battery trick." He shook his head in admiration. "Always the clever one, Piet."
Scotten glanced toward the smashed railing. Wind whistled through the jagged breaks. There was nothing he could do to defend himself. "Shoot me?"
Dwartenzio bit his lips. "I'm good with a gun, Piet," he said. "Believe it or not. You won't feel anything. I can promise you Sandra didn’t. I shot her in the head while she was sleeping, after we’d—well."
His gaze followed Scotten's toward the broken railing. He took a few steps towards it, as if fascinated with the storm-filled abyss beyond. Soon rain would begin sluicing over the dirigible's decks.
"Why?" Scotten croaked out.
"Well, I certainly don’t need any witnesses—oh, you mean why I’ve gone to the Farquntrian side." Dwartenzio scratched his jaw thoughtfully. "Pretty simple, really. Rislo Cantato is commanding the most advanced technology on this poor little planet. He’s far beyond us, Piet. What he’s pulled out of his copy of the Archives would amaze you. Plus he’s good at, shall we say, ‘encouraging’ those under him to do their best work. He’ll get us into space! The moons! And I can be a part of it. He needs me, Piet. He needs good administrators like me. He’s said so."
Dwartenzio, Scotten saw, was so carried away with himself that he had neglected to fasten his safety tether. One misstep would send Dwartenzio into eternity.
Then Scotten had an idea. There was no time to ponder it—all he could do was to act. He twisted his limbs into the rigging again and pulled his sailchute's ripcord.
Taken by the wind, the 'chute burst out toward the stern in a red and white cloud. It enveloped Dwartenzio and forced him back toward the smashed railing.
The shock as the 'chute's lines snapped taut against his harness, tearing a cry of pain from Scotten as his shoulder popped back into place. He tugged the release and the 'chute came free. Dwartenzio, enveloped and blinded, clawed at it, firing blindly in panic.
Scotten let go of the rigging and dropped the two meters to the deck. Crablike he scuttled under the billowing 'chute and tackled Dwartenzio's legs, bringing him down. Dwartenzio cursed, trying to club Scotten with the pistol. Scotten struggled to his knees and backhanded Dwartenzio fiercely twice, knocking his respirator away. He grasped the wrist of Dwartenzio's gun hand and slammed it down on the deck—and again. But Dwartenzio wouldn’t let go. He wrested loose from Scotten’s grip and smashed the gun across his face.
Scotten’s vision faded in and out. He saw Dwartenzio above him, bringing the gun to bear—and then a sudden, terrible thing, dripping blood, loomed up behind Dwartenzio and slammed a hard map casing into his head. Dwartenzio collapsed across Scotten’s body.
The horror pushed Dwartenzio’s senseless form aside with her foot.
Lysandra Pankiw would never be beautiful again. The bullet had taken her left eye.
She helped Scotten to his feet.
"Wasn’t—wasn’t so good with a gun as he thought," Scotten murmured. They bound Dwartenzio. He came to during the process, and gaped at the bloody wreckage of his lover’s face.
"You’ve got to understand! The Farquntrians—they told me they’d kill me if I didn’t do what they wanted!" Dwartenzio blubbered.
Scotten regarded him stonily. "Well, maybe there’s things worse than death."
"Let’s shove the bastard overboard," Pankiw said in a blurred, agonized voice.
Scotten remembered the hallucination. So extraordinarily vivid—the sparkling being, the hints of endless, radiant life beyond anything anyone suspected.
He understood that it had not been a hallucination. It had been more real than the pain in his lungs, more real even than the torn, empty place in his heart. Travia was there, somewhere—he knew it—waiting lovingly for him.
Why the hell should we send this dark-blooded scum into that?
"No," Scotten said. The moment of rage had passed. He wiped blood from his lips and with his knife cut a section of the chute’s cordage to bind Pankiw’s wounds. "We need him to tell his story to the Council. I’m just an old drunk, they’d never believe me. But you—they’ll believe you, Sandra. Plus that gun of his." He stared down at Dwartenzio. "We’re not even going to ask the Council to execute you for treason and murder, Dwarty. I’ll beg them for your life." He smiled. "I’ll pray for your life."

---

Cascade Mountain Publishing [ http://www.cascadepublishing.com/ ]
Clocktower Fiction [ http://www.clocktowerfiction.com/ ]
Hard Shell Word Factory [ http://www.hardshell.com/ ]
A.L. Sirois personal web site [ http://www.w3pg.com/jazzpolice/ ]

A.L. Sirois cites creative influences as diverse as Firesign Theatre, the Beatles, Pieter Brueghel, Wally Wood and Frank Zappa. An artist as well as a writer, he has done hundreds of illustrations, including drawings for Lullaby Angel, a children's book written by his wife, Paula, and for Penguin Island, a children's book of his own now available from Hard Shell Word Factory. Two of his short stories made the Top 25 in Eternity's Best of the Web '98 contest—more than any other author. The stories, March 11 1936, 5:30 AM and As Bad As It Gets, originally published in Deep Outside, each received Nebula recommendations. His first novel, Blood Relations, is available from Cascade Mountain Publishing. Its sequel, Blind Ambitions, from which Across the Wind was adapted, is available from Clocktower Fiction. His collection, The Beginnings of Forever from Clocktower Fiction, includes the Pushcart Prize-nominated story In the Conservatory, and others that have appeared in Amazing Stories and Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine.

A.L. Sirois lives in Flemington, NJ with his wife Paula, daughter Kira and son Daniel. He works as a technical writer/web developer for Bear Stearns in Whippany. For recreation he plays drums and sings for the rock band Bedbug Eddie, often appearing in local cafes and other venues. Visit his personal web site for more news about upcoming writing and musical projects, as well as sample graphics and animations.