by Ron Miller
“Why? Aren’t the parachutes working?”
“They’re working, but I suspect that there may not be enough of them. It’s hard to tell, but I think that only two of the three big parachutes opened.”
“Let’s open one of the nose ports and see.” And, so saying, she pulled herself up from her couch. She felt as massive as Thud and had to let a moment’s dizziness pass away. There was no ready way to open the upper ports while under the influence of gravity and she had to climb the central column and brace her feet on the instrument consoles that projected from the incurving wall.
“Can you see how many parachutes deployed?” asked the professor, as soon as the princess had got one of the heavy covers withdrawn.
“You’re right, there’s only two parachutes!” she replied, clambering back to the deck. “What are we to do now? How high are we?”
“We’ve dropped another two miles. There’s only one thing to do. Once we have descended to a safe altitude, we’ll have to abandon ship.”
“What? How? You don’t mean jump out?”
“What else? There are emergency parachutes on board for just such a contigency as this.”
“I’m not going to jump out of this thing!”
“The alternative is to be inside of it when it crashes into the ground at a speed considerably greater than that of an express locomotive. You’d hit like a meteor.”
“But what if these parachutes don’t work, either?”
“They’re absolutely foolproof. I’ll guarantee that.”
“But . . . ”
“There’s no other choice! This machine must be a mangled mass of metal in a matter of minutes!” he replied, achieving a septuple alliteration in his anxiety.
The personal parachutes were stored under removable panels in the decking. They proved to be heavy canvas bags that strapped onto their backs like rucksacks. Bronwyn looked at them glumly. She was little reassured by Wittenoom’s assurances of their foolproofness, hadn’t he been equally certain that the capsule ‘chutes were going to work faultlessly? While she struggled into the harness, the professor rechecked his instruments.
“We’ve got to wait until we’ve fallen to a safe altitude before we can jump out . . . ”
“I’d say that the safest altitude for jumping out of that door would be about ten feet,” the princess grumbled.
“ . . . We can’t be too high or we might suffocate. A mile or two should do it.”
A mile or two! she repeated to herself, swallowing hard.
“We’ll have to act quickly,” he continued. “Even though the denser air has slowed us down significantly, we’ll still be travelling so fast that we’ll drop that final distance in a matter of seconds.”
At an altitude of just under five miles, the professor and the princess struggled to open the big, circular door in the side of the cabin. The greater external air pressure blew the heavy disk inward, knocking Wittenoom against the far wall. Had he not been cushioned by the parachute, he might have been seriously injured. And then where would I be? Bronwyn wondered. He was only dazed, much to Bronwyn’s relief and he returned to the open door where a howling blast of icy wind sucked past their faces.
“We’re at three miles!” he shouted over the wailing wind. “Jump out now! Count to twenty slowly and then pull on this cord! See here? The red one! You don’t want to open your parachute too soon or you’ll stay too long at an altitude at which you won’t be able to breathe! Understand?”
“Altogether too well, thank you very much! It’s freezing out there!”
“Don’t worry about that! You’ll drop into warmer strata long before any harm will come to you! There should be nothing to it! It’s very simple and perfectly safe!”
“How do you know this? How many times have you done it?”
“What difference does that make? It’s all been meticulously worked out mathematically!”
With that comment, and to Bronwyn’s almost infinite horror, he stepped through the open hatch. He was instantly sucked away like a leaf in a hurricane.
Holding onto the heavy stanchions that flanked the manhole, Bronwyn peered through the opening. The air was bitterly cold and stung her face as though it were being sandpapered. She wished that she had something warmer to put on and for a moment considered donning one of the vacuum suits, and then decided that it would take far too long. As she hesitated in the open hatchway, her auburn hair whipping above her head like the flame of a torch, one of the overstrained parachute cables parted with an explosive crack, the cabin lurched suddenly and pitched her into the void.
For a brief moment, she almost enjoyed the sensation of falling through the air, since it felt so similar to that of freefall in space (it was, of course, the very same phenomenon). However, the serenity she had enjoyed while cruising through the ether was spoiled by the rush of cold air that plucked at her clothing, making its loose folds snap and crackle like a flag in a gale, and abraded her face and hands like broken glass. She had almost forgotten to begin counting and, hoping it wasn’t too late, began ticking off the seconds as calmly as she could. The professor was correct about the lack of air pressure at this altitude, there was not nearly enough to force sufficient oxygen into her bloodstream and she began gasping for breath, seriously affecting the accuracy of her count. What if she passed out before she could pull the release cord?
She reached twenty after what seemed to be twenty minutes, took hold of the looped cord in both hands and pulled as hard as she could. There was a kind of fluttering explosion somewhere behind her, something like a gust of wind catching a luffing sail. She had a momentary glimpse of a vast white canopy unfurling above her when she was suddenly jerked so hard she thought that her arms were being torn from their sockets. She bounced up and down for three or four lazy rebounds, then checked with her tongue to see if she had left any teeth behind.
She was suspended at the apex of an inverted cone of several dozen long lines. The far ends of these were attached to the circumference of a huge, translucent dome. She was penduluming gently to and fro and, after a moment or two, began to feel a sense of relief and even curiousity. She looked down and between her feet saw a broken surface of bright clouds that made her feel as though she were drifting toward a landscape of down pillows. I only wish, she thought ruefully. Then, glimpsed in misty gaps between them, she saw what lay beneath the clouds. Her hands clenched the shroudlines convulsively and she gasped in a painful lungful of the still-cold air: it was the open sea.
She twisted and turned ungracefully, searching for a sign of the professor, but the air above the rapidly approaching deck of clouds was as clear as a vacuum and entirely unadorned by a second parachute. She forgot her own plight just long enough to admit a worried thought about what could have happened to the man. Had his parachute failed to open? Had he plummeted to earth like one of the abominable meteorites that had originally drawn them into this adventure? It would have been nice to be able to name a crater after him, so it was sad that he was landing in an ocean.
Bronwyn turned her thoughts back to her own predicament, just as she entered the clouds. They were chilly and clammy, exactly like being in a fog, naturally enough. She passed through them quickly, emerging into the blue shadows beneath. Curtains of bright virgulae shimmered around her, making the grey-green water below piebald with bright reticulation. From this height the sea looked smooth and flat, like a bed of slate on which someone had scribbled lines with pale yellow chalk. As the parachute slowly rotated, she peered around, straining her eyes. At first she could see no sign of land at all. In every direction the misty, distant horizon merged into the almost colorless sky. Her heart felt leaden before she noticed that there was a tall column of cloud far to her left and that beneath this was a deep, irregular shadow that could only be an island. For all the good it does me. From this altitude the horizon must be at least sixty or seventy miles away. The island itself therefore couldn’t be much nearer than thirty or forty miles.
She
tried to discern the shape or form of the land beneath the cloud. As she did, there suddenly shot from the top of the cloud, for the briefest second, a narrow, vertical beam of not-quite-light. Wisps of vapor torn from the cloud curled in intertwined helices around the glimmering shaft, then it was gone. She blinked and squeezed her eyes shut and reopened them, doubt that she had actually seen anything at all already arguing against the memory of the strange apparition.
As she dropped ever lower, she could see that the surface of the water was nowhere as flat and calm as it had looked from three thousand feet. It was rippled, choppy and blustery-looking. Stray gusts of wind were catching the canopy of her parachute, first lifting her a hundred feet or more, then dropping her like a rock. She felt like the Indian club in a juggling act.
It occured to her that the professor had never told her how to get out of the parachute harness quickly; she realized with dismay that once she was in the water, being attached to several hundred square yards of silk might become a dangerous if not fatal liability.
There was a strong breeze near the surface; there were whitecaps and she could feel the spray while still a hundred feet above. From such a low altitude, what had seemed like ripples in a coffee cup now looked mountainous; every ragged, white-taloned crest looked like a clawed hand reaching up to seize her. The wind was carrying her obliquely, prolonging her landing. A wave struck her feet, creamy spume splattering her from head to toe. The next one soaked her to her knees and she could feel the resistance begin to drag the parachute down. As she hit the following crest a sudden lull half-collapsed the canopy and she fell into the water. The wind gusted again almost immediately and she was dragged through the waves by the reinflated parachute. She fumbled with the harness fastenings, but they eluded her panicky fingers. She could neither see nor breathe as the water broke over her as though she were a speeding motor boat. Finally a contrary gust blew the billowing parachute back and over her, where it hovered for a moment like an enormous jellyfish. Bronwyn used the few seconds’ respite to unfasten a few of her buckles when a wave caught the ballooning silk and the canopy collapsed like a soap bubble. It fell over her as though the metaphorical jellyfish had just discovered a free lunch. It enfolded her, engulfed her, wrapped its lazy, clammy shroud around her and bore her down into the darksome and fishy depths.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PIRATES
The steam sloop Amber Princess had been at sea for several days before the stowaways were discovered, and how amazed was the crew to find three practically naked women among the salt pork and ship’s biscuits! A spontaneous three rousing cheers were raised for the unexpected and unprecedented thoughtfulness of the captain before the discoverers came to their senses. Of a crew numbering altogether fifteen or so scarcely a third had been involved in the Great Find and it took them only a moment to figure that three women shared between only six men was an unbelievably generous allotment. It took only a moment longer for them to realize that this particular trio of women was more than enough for the entire crew and then some, perhaps. This disappointing revelation began when the first sailor to overcome his initial astonished paralysis lunged for Gravelinghe with a kind of semiarticulate whimper and, without being aware of any sort of transition, found himself, with a pair of broken arms as swollen as mortadellas, inextricably mixed with a pile of shattered lumber. The next sailor in line immediately disregarded the big woman (who was not even breathing hard: she had snapped the first man’s bones with much the same disinterest and lack of effort that most people attach to the disposal of a toothpick) as an object for his attention and, of the two remaining, decided that tiny Thursby would be the more prudent choice. Her size, however, merely put her in a better position to take advantage of the natural vulnerability of the male and she had then merely to step away from the disabled and retching man to allow Gravelinghe the working room to snap his arms like a pair of broomhandles and toss him atop his moaning predecessor. The remaining four men, being no fools, realized that if they wanted these women, which they still very much did, sailors being what they are, they would have to cow them more efficiently than they had so far managed; hoisting up their belts, picking up whatever bludgeons that were at hand, they advanced en deliberate masse.
When, not more than five minutes later, the trio of women emerged onto the open deck, no one was more stupified than the sailors there, to say nothing of their officers. They had all seen six men descend a companionway and a few minutes later reappear as three beautiful women. The trio had taken the few moments necessary to dress themselves somewhat more appropriately for their début, at least as best they could with the materials at hand, though in Gravelinghe’s case her apparent contempt for clothing made her implacably indifferent to any supposed difficulty. Rykkla had easily found that one of the unconscious men was close enough to her size that his blouse and trousers fit her moderately well, though she cringed a little at putting the cloth against her body, even if it seemed clean enough; she was certain that it had been, and still was, home to more than just a human being. She was taller than the sailor and the too-short sleeves only reached halfway down her forearms and since the shirt could not quite be buttoned she settled for tying the shirttails at her waist; the wide-bottomed trousers, which were cut short in any case, came to just below her knees, leaving her calves and feet bare. Diminutive Thursby had merely to don one of the sailor’s blouses, belting it at her waist to make a servicable shift. Gravelinghe, unfortunately, had fewer options for cladding her towering figure. Though she clearly prefered remaining nude she had ultimately surrendered to her companions’ urging and settled, with a shrug of her broad shoulders, for a large bandana tied diaper--like over her loins, a perfunctory solution that was absolutely more decorative than functional. Each of the three carried makeshift weapons: an iron pipe, a barrelstave and the one long, broad-bladed knife they had found among the sailors.
The silence on the deck lasted for several long seconds; there were only the muttering sounds of the ship as it cut through the choppy, grey-green water and the hum of the wind in the shrouds. For all of the darkness of the sea, the sky was bright and nearly cloudless.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” demanded someone loudly.
“Shtowawaysh, shir!” came a slurred voice from behind the women, issued from one of the sailors the women had overpowered, who had only just then managed to stagger to the hatchway, and who had spoken through a nearly toothless mouth. “They’re piratsh, shir! They’ve jusht murdered all my matesh!”
The officer, a tall, black-clad figure, strode to the poop railing, to face the newcomers. He held a massive pistol in an unwavering hand. “What is all this? Put those weapons down! Put them down immediately!”
“What’ll we do wif them, shir?” continued the injured sailor as the women relunctantly complied with the order. “Piratsh oughta be hung, shir. All reshpectsh, shir.”
“What’s the matter with you? How can they be pirates, idiot? We’re pirates!”
“But . . . ”
“I’ll take the three of you below and see what this is all about. But first, I want to see what damage you’ve managed to accomplish. Here, you, “ the man in black gestured to two or three of his men “, have the third mate issue you men revolvers. Keep them on these, ah, these ladies. If they so much as blink too often to suit you, shoot them.”
Once these instructions had been implemented, the man in black descended from the poop, crossed the deck and, without giving the women another glance, went down into the hold. He was gone for only a few minutes before reemerging scowling as blackly as his costume. “Moron,” he said to the battered sailor. Then, to one of the other men: “Get the surgeon down there to take care of the men that these poor helpless lasses have somehow managed to demolish. All right, then: who the bloody hell are you?”
Rykkla took a tentative step forward and said, “My name is Rykkla, this is Thursby and this is Gravelinghe. We’ve just escaped from the Baudad Alcatote’s harem [
a speculative and even anticipatory murmuring and lip-smacking among the men] where we had been held against our wills. Wherever you’re heading, we’re willing to go there too and work to pay our way.”
“I would have scoffed at that last statement under any other circumstances, but your, ah, recent demonstration speaks eloquently for your strength if not your ability. The big one certainly looks more likely than most of my men. You look eager, intelligent and strong enough, and I suppose the little one could pass for a cabin boy. Can you cook?” he asked Thursby. “We’e in bad need of a good cook; you can have no idea. Besides,” he added, turning to Rykkla, “I remember you, Rykkla Woxen.”
“Come again?” was all she could say, so startled was she at hearing her full name.
“My name is Basseliniden and I’m captain of this ship.”
“Basseliniden? Basseliniden! What are you doing here?”
“It’s my ship, what do you think that I’m doing here? But better I should ask that question of you.”
“It’s a long story, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there’s no need for you to tell it standing there in the crossfire. You can put those down, boys, I know this lady [disappointed muttering]. Here, you,” he called to the battered men who had just been carried up from the hold, “These are very fine ladies who were in distress and came to find comfort and succor aboard the Amber Princess and what kind of welcome and aid did you offer them? Why, you acted like ungentlemanly swine! I believe that you owe them an apology!”
“An apology?” protested one of the men. “An apology? Cap’n, the big’un’s busted me leg!”
“And me arms!” added one of the others.
“Me arms and me leg!”
“Muh teef!”
“To say nothin’ of me head!”
“Yes, an apology!” insisted the captain. “Look at yourselves! Whining and puling because three helpless, defenseless ladies were reduced to violence to defend their honor! Shame on you all! Shame! Mudhole! Why don’t you do the manly thing and beg this lady’s pardon?”
