"All the more reason to have our own prediction," Lengina replied. "Highliber Dramoren, do you have faith in your librarians, and in the monks?"
"I would trust them with my life, Overmayor."
"Splendid, then I shall trust them with my reputation. Spread a message across the realm and beyond, say that I shall make a pronouncement on the danger from Mirrorsun in—ah, when will the tests on the fabric be done?"
"In ten days."
"So in ten days you will be able to say if there is a threat,
and in two months you will be able to say what the nature of the threat is?"
"Yes, Overmayor."
The meeting broke up, but Dramoren and Lengina stayed on in the room after the others had gone.
"You realize that this is science against religion, Highliber Dramoren?" said Lengina.
"It is actually engineer against priest, Overmayor. The people supplying our science are monks, after all."
"Whatever. I am in your hands, Highliber," she said with a coy smile. "A daunting prospect, is it not?"
Dramoren spent three frantic seconds searching for a witty yet respectful reply.
"I shall try not to drop you, Overmayor," he managed.
"I have the greatest faith in you, Highliber."
I wo days later the lists for the Dragon Orange Diplomatic Corps cadetships were presented to Highliber Dramoren. He ran his finger down the list. The name Seubel was absent. Two minutes and forty seconds later the Inspector of Cadets was marched out of his office by two Tiger Dragons with a gag between his teeth and his hands shackled behind his back.
The Deputy Inspector of Cadets was a mature, ruthless, and politically canny administrator, and not the sort to cower before even the Highliber. She was, however, cowering as Dramoren stood before her desk. Beside the chief of the Dragon Librarian Service was a strange Dragon Blue; in her eyes was a suggestion of something that lacked sanity and ate live meat.
"The Highliber wishes to speak with you, Frelle," said Velesti in a voice with the bite of a south wind in midwinter. "Please do not make him repeat anything, I am very anxious to begin a private interview with the former Inspector of Cadets."
The Deputy Inspector's bladder failed her, but she nevertheless sat upright and attentive with her hands clasped on her desk as Velesti took a step back.
"Candidate Seubel was to be marked on merit, why did she not pass?" asked Dramoren.
"Highliber, the candidate Seubel scored eighty-one percent in her paper, but the pass mark was raised to eighty-three percent in order to accommodate certain assisted passes from the diplomatic lists."
"Who authorized the mark to be thus raised?"
"The Inspector of Cadets, Highliber."
"What was the unadjusted average mark of the successful candidates, Frelle?"
"Sixty-one percent Highliber."
"Frelle Deputy Inspector, if I said the words 'marked and passed on merit alone' and 'Espionage Police' to you, would you have failed Frelle Rositana Seubel?"
"No, Highliber."
Dramoren turned to Velesti and nodded. Velesti folded her arms. Dramoren turned back to the Deputy Inspector.
"Congratulations on your appointment to the position of Inspector of Cadets, Dragon Silver," declared Dramoren. "What was Frelle Seubel's absolute placement?"
"Third out of ninety, Highliber," responded the new Inspector of Cadets.
"Post all the results on absolute merit."
"There will be protests from the nobility, Highliber."
"Deal with them. If any persist, arrange an interview with my new Inspector of Espionage Constables, here, Frelle Velesti Disore."
The new Inspector of Cadets looked from Dramoren to Velesti, then back to Dramoren.
"Would it not be more humane to just shoot them, Highliber?" she asked.
"It would indeed, Frelle, but I am feeling particularly vindictive today. Favors to the rich, influential, and stupid have become a blight upon the service; it is time for some merit to be flushed through the system."
Precisely thirty hours later, to the very minute, Rositana was in her Libris uniform and orange colors and dancing on a tabletop in the Gaudeamus Tavern, shouting "Bronze Scholarship!" and buying drinks for the entire taproom.
At the very same instant Martyne was far away, shivering with shock and soaked with blood. Fortunately most of the blood was not his.
Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Kangen stepped down from the cart as the monastery gates closed behind him. Waiting for him in front of the ancient stairway leading to the monastic hostelry was a stooped monk in his fifties with his hands clasped before him. The cart was driven off to the stables. The two men faced each other.
"I was told by the Highliber that Brother Nikalan would be meeting me," said Rangen.
"And Brother Nikalan has met you, if you are Fras Rangen Der-ris. Even if you are not Fras Rangen Derris, Brother Nikalan has still met you, but seeing that nobody else would have been told that Brother Nikalan is meeting him, then you must be Fras Rangen."
Rangen lifted his bag from the ground.
"Well, take me to your calculor."
"Uh-uh, we cannot waste the talents of one such as you in a calculor," replied Nikalan, waving a finger. "We must have a tour of the monastery. Leave your bag there, someone will collect it eventually. But first, why are you here? Why is not Highliber Dramoren using your talents?"
"Because of a woman," admitted Rangen sullenly.
"Only one?" asked Nikalan sympathetically.
"I was running an invisible paraline, smuggling numerate refugees away from the reach of Libris. She seduced me, charmed my secrets from me, then sold them to the Espionage Constables. She made over three hundred gold royals from the venture."
"They arrested you?"
"Worse. They intercepted my numerate fugitives by the hundreds. By the time I was caught the Libris Calculor was overflowing with components—people—who were desperate to kill me. Preferably slowly, and as painfully as possible. I was sent here to be out of harm's way."
"You will like it here, a mathematician of your talents. St. Roger's is dedicated to the pursuit of science."
"Good. I have been seriously contemplating holy orders and celibacy anyway, as a new lifestyle."
"You wish to become a monk? Even better. That is the chapel, where the Calculor is housed. The observatory is on that low hill off to the north, and that very strange framework to our left is a machine to predict the end of the world by the application of physics and mathematics to observed phenomena."
"The end of the world?"
"Well, perhaps not the world, but the end of conditions under which we could live."
"Is it something to do with the speeding up of Mirrorsun?"
"My young neophyte, it is everything to do with the speeding up of Mirrorsun."
Behind them, out of sight, two Balesha monks were watching. One of them had been driving Rangen's cart.
"Killed two," reported the carter monk.
"Gentheists?"
"Aye. Everything still on schedule?"
"Aye. Everyone is so grateful for our guard and security services in this endeavor."
"Isn't it nice to be appreciated?"
"That it is."
Lake Taupo, New Zealand
I he wingfield at Lake Taupo was of a higher standard than those at Hawaii and Samoa, even though it had been prepared with less labor. Two thousand years earlier there had been a road running beside the lake, a wide, straight road on firm ground. Sometime in the mid-twenty-first century of the old calendar, there had been a volcanic eruption that had deposited a layer of ash over the road, and this had protected it from erosion by weather and vegetation. Although digging three feet of ash and pumice away from a strip several hundred yards long by ten wide had been depressingly hard and dirty work for Samondel, Alarak, and the first four navvies, at least there was little preparation work needed on the surface. Since Samondel had left, a lot more o
f the road had been exposed and crude shelters of poles and brush thatch were even being built.
The limiting factor was fuel. The new super-regal Albatross had enormous range, but it was the only wing of its kind yet in service. Oilseed, barley, and other compression spirit crops had been planted in the rich, volcanic soil but they were months from producing anything, even had processing equipment been on hand. By February the Albatross was making a trip every four days, however, and compression spirit barrels were piling up in the shelters. Serjon decided that it was time for the Seaflower to fly due west.
It had been three weeks since Samondel and her navigator had flown west in the Swallow, and it was no real surprise that they had not returned. They had achieved miracles by establishing wingfields on three islands, but none of these had been inhabited. The question of most concern to those on Lake Taupo was not the fact of the Swallow having gone down but where and in what circumstances. Serjon's flight plan was a lot more ambitious than Samondel's, yet it left a lot less to chance. As the light of early morning began to color the sky, lake, and wingfield, Serjon, Bronlar, the wingcaptain of Albatross, and the adjunct discussed procedures.
"First the Albatross ascends and circles, then the Seaflower as-
cends and both turn west-," said Serjon. "Albatross will then drop a tube line to the Seaflower, and top up the tanks."
"I cannot understand why the wing's tanks were built to take more compression spirit than it could get off the ground," said the wingcaptain.
"Normally it can, Sair Wingcaptain," replied Serjon, "but the Seaflower will also be carrying Semme Bronlar and provisions for two days. Even as little extra weight as that makes a difference.
"When the Seaflower is gone, the Albatross will return here. The Seaflower will proceed to the edge of the Australican continent, where it will overfly the southeast region at extreme height until the major cities are found. I will then parachute down to a suitable rendezvous point and Bronlar will return here. In fourteen days she will return to the rendezvous point, and if I signal with a mirror that it is safe she will descend. If not, she will survey the Australican farms for one with horses and we shall proceed with Project Tornado."
"It strikes me that we should have gone to Project Tornado in the first place, rather than risking the lives of an airlord and navigator first," said the wingcaptain.
"That was considered, but it was thought that diplomacy should be given a chance first," explained Serjon. "Besides, we would have the results of two overflights to plan from by then, which could make the difference between success and failure."
"Serjon has the basics of the Australican tongue, and a small pouch of old-civilization gold coins, crucifixes, and chains, such as might be dug up by chance in ruins," said Bronlar. "As you can see, he is dressed in leather trousers and tunic under his flight jacket, such as a wilderness trapper might wear. He will also attempt to learn Airlord Samondel's fate, and if it seems safe will try to establish diplomatic contacts. Otherwise, Project Tornado will proceed."
The Albatross was lightly loaded, and it ascended from the wing-field without difficulty. By contrast, the much smaller Seaflower needed the entire length of the strip to struggle into the air, and Serjon dropped his disposable wheels while less than a foot off the
ground. Bronlar wound in the ski as they slowly rose into the brightening sky, then the Seaflower banked to take up a heading due west and rendezvous with the Albatross. The tube was already trailing for them as Serjon approached and matched speeds.
"Seaflower is already near its limit," Bronlar pointed out. "Two hundred pounds of extra compression spirit may be enough to drop us out of the sky."
"With the wheels gone and the ski wound in we have saved a little weight and drag. Prepare to open the nose hatch and grapple the tube."
Twenty minutes later the Seaflower detached the tube and the Albatross began to bank around for its return to Lake Taupo wingfield. They were still over land, and the ocean was not even in sight. Bronlar studied the chart, then took out a folder from her flight jacket.
"We need a fifteen-degree correction to the south when we reach the coast," she said.
At the west coast Serjon adjusted their course accordingly, then began to remove his leather tunic. It was very cramped in the Sea-flower's cockpit, and they had been over water for thirty minutes before Serjon was wearing his quilted shirt, embroidered flight jacket, rhea leather trousers, and down-lined parade boots.
"Bundle up that rubbish and dump it through the hatch," he said as he strapped in again. "Every ounce of weight saved is airtime that you might need."
"Even the gold?"
"Especially the gold. I have Yarronese money in my flight jacket."
With the disguise gone, Serjon checked the heading, airspeed, wind vector, and solar elevation, then did an audit on the compression spirit, engine temperature, oil pressure, and trim balance.
"Eleven hours in calm air, fourteen in the current headwind, with a five-hour margin. From what I have seen of the current weather patterns flowing over Lake Taupo, I would say you could return with a third of the compression spirit unused."
Bronlar patted his shoulder, then stretched out along the narrow access shaft through the center of the Seaflower. It was padded with
cotton quilting and she had two blankets, but it was still hard, cold, and noisy. Once Serjon was gone there would be a long, lonely, and exhausting trip back to Lake Taupo, and possibly even a night descent. The only sleep she would be getting would be on the westward leg, so even though she was not at all drowsy she closed her eyes and tried to blank her mind.
Launceston, Tasmania Island
Derjon and Bronlar had been over land for thirty-five minutes when they saw fires burning fifteen thousand feet below. Through her binoculars Bronlar could see that they were in virgin wilderness, and were in a series of regular patterns.
"Fires for clearing farmland," she said above the sound of the engines. "And I can see cultivated fields to the north."
"There should be a small capital nearby," said Serjon, unbuckling his straps. "Time to hand over."
Changing places in the confines of the sailwing's tiny cockpit was not much easier than changing clothes, but they had practiced it before. By the time Bronlar was at the controls the haze of a small city was visible, as were the softened angular patterns of overgrown ruins belonging to a much earlier and larger city.
"That is our target, you can tell from the river," said Serjon.
"Any signs of Avianese gunwings?" asked Bronlar, reaching forward and arming the two reaction guns.
"This is not Bartolica. There has not been a clear air duel in these skies for two thousand years, and besides, only the Avianese have wings of any sort here. Because we are flying, we shall be assumed to be aviads. See those mountains to the west? Drop to about two thousand feet over them, then return to the capital and circle once."
"Have you chosen a rendezvous point?"
"Sketching it now."
As they came back over the capital, Serjon could see nothing as
he crouched behind the flyer's seat. When Bronlar slid the hatch back he began to clamber in beside her.
"I'll always love you!" shouted Bronlar above the slipstream, reaching across to squeeze his arm.
Serjon took her gloved hand and kissed the leather. "No dramatics, if you please," he shouted back. "I'll be in less danger than you."
The sailwing rocked as he squeezed out of the hatch with his parachute. He turned, blew Bronlar a kiss, then jumped.
Bronlar slid the hatch shut, then banked around sharply. Serjon's parachute was open by the time she caught sight of him, and he was almost down. Too low, that was too low, she thought, yet jump too high and some idiot might decide to shoot at the lingering, tempting target. Serjon came down in a wide field, not far from some handcarts with barrels. Figures were running over to him even before his parachute had collapsed. Bronlar circled, dropping lower. The figures surrounded Serjon, they
appeared to be talking. There were no rapid movements that might indicate a struggle, no puffs of smoke from their primitive flintlocks.
The Seaflower circled, then circled again. Bronlar caught sight of a twinkling light as Serjon signalled with his mirror.
/ NATIVES FRIENDLY / HAVE SEED OIL / RETURN WITH ALBATROSS 3 WEEKS / LOVE YOU /
Suddenly exhilarated, Bronlar dipped her wings, then began to climb as she turned east. This was perfect, absolutely perfect, she thought, but nevertheless she kept scanning the airspace for Avianese gunwings. She had been over the Tasman Sea for five hours before she finally disarmed her reaction guns.
Euroa, the Rochestrian Commonwealth
Dy the 15th of February the material-testing venture at St. Roger's Monastery was already five days behind schedule, and very few of those who were directly involved had slept throughout the previous two days. The lead casket containing the ancient parachute was car-
ried out on a litter borne by four monks and set down beside the strength-testing frame. Prayers were said as the seal was cut open, and a choir sang "Hail, Thou Glorious Light of Reason" as the parachute was lifted out. One end was quickly fastened to the crossbeam of the frame and the other to weight-box, then the jacks were removed from beneath the box. The fabric held the twenty tons of the box without any sign of strain.
Brother Varlian ordered the crane to swing the first stone into the box. The monks of the monitor team reported that no measurable stretch was visible on their gauge. Another ton was added. No strain was recordable. At the tenth ton a slight stretch was measurable, and a cheer went up as this was announced. The weight reached thirty tons, then forty, fifty, sixty, and seventy.
"At this strength a burst will return the band to Earth in a highly elliptical orbit," said Nikalan to Rangen.
"Which gives us Armageddon within a year," replied Rangen.
"Oh, yes, even before Christmas."
The weight crept up further, and the audience and workers watched the tally weight on a large chalkboard. Another chalkboard displayed the critical strengths, and another cheer went up as eighty tons was passed.
"It will escape Earth." Rangen sighed with heartfelt relief.
Eyes of the Calculor Page 33
