The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  They followed her, all except First Officer Flier, who was apparently to exercise his duty and privilege of giving the “Ship Up” command from the promenade deck.

  Angela murmured to her husband, “I saw Miz Ming in a pink chiffon sari until she mentioned she was a petty officer. Then she shimmered into Navy blue with those little logos—chevrons, do they call them?”

  “Yes, if I recognize what you have in mind. Actually, she is wearing peach-colored polysil,” Corwin murmured back. “Though it’s a suit rather than a sari. Assuming, of course, that I am in reality mode.”

  “I never understood that the hosts and hostesses were officers, too.”

  “I don’t believe that they are, on conveyances carrying more passengers and therefore requiring more stewards. No doubt Miz Ming is an officer in order to give her a measure of authority over us rather loosely-packed civilians in case of emergency.”

  “Oh, you don’t think there will be any emergency, do you?”

  “There has been none involving air melons so far this century. We shall be cruising lower than any plane, so our chief danger would seem to be the unlikely event of two heavier-than-air craft colliding directly above us to shower their fiery debris down upon our sheath.”

  Angela giggled. “And since we aren’t filled with flammable gas, even if the sheath burns away we’ll just settle slowly down to earth. Or ocean.”

  “‘Ah,’” he quoted the Venerable Edgar’s story once more, “‘the balloon has collapsed, and we shall have a tumble into the sea.’”

  “Pundit, do you suppose they’ve a lifeboat just large enough for two, that we can reserve in the unlikely event of emergency?”

  Laughing low at this speciously romantic image, they fell to the rear and were last to reach the lounge. It was decorated in shades of cream and azure, and most of their fellow passengers had already settled on lightly uphostered couches or molded plastiform chairs. The obersturmbannfuehrerin stood framed by a starboard window, Valkyrie sitting at the alert beside her, looking much like a stained-glass ascetic and mascot gone opaque.

  The honeymooners found places together on a couch commanding a good view through the larboard windowall. Now the only person still standing, besides Dr. Junge, was Miz Ming, who waited at the doorway fore, rearranging her handful of tickets.

  “Are you all comfortable?” said the stewardess. “Good. Welcome to the main passenger lounge and dining room of the NTC Cygnus. Forward, through this passage, are the galley, radio shack, navigation room, and bridge. You may arrange to visit them on appointment, beginning this afternoon, as long as the weather is clear. Our flight steward, M. Andrew Stewart, who chose his final name for your mnemonic convenience, will be boarding at New Acropolis with the M.’s Olympian.”

  Thus casually did she confirm the rumor—so open a secret that one was justified in suspecting it of having been planted by NTC to further ticket sales—that it was indeed Jove and Juno Olympian who were to join them. As was to be expected, the flutter raised by the straightforward announcement put to shame that earlier buzz caused in the promenade deck by the mere mention of the Olympians’ residential town. Even before their actual persons were present, their fellow travelers seemed to be rendering them the homage of applause.

  Even by fancy-class standards, M.’s Jove and Juno Olympian were fabulously rich, the inheritors of fortunes that had already been fabled before the Great Tax Cut Rebellion, when such fortunes were comparatively difficult to acquire. The popular lore of two generations whispered that the Olympians’ family names, if bandied about, would explain their wealth to the world. Angela squeezed her husband’s hand and whispered in his ear, excitement causing her forgetfully to split an infinitive, “So it is true! Just think! To actually meet them in person!”

  “Actually to meet,” he whispered back, trying to sound as though echoing rather than correcting. He found himself only sufficiently immune to the general excitement to observe, without rancor, how nobody questioned the Olympians’ right to monopolize for a lengthy interval the services of the airship’s steward. Not even the obersturmbannfuehrerin, who, although alone of all the passengers seemingly unmoved, stood making no other comment than the amused twitch at the corners of her lips.

  After a suitable pause, Miz Ming resumed, “For your additional comfort and safety, we also have a flight doctor aboard, as well as an experienced waiter. Don’t let the latter’s youthfulness deceive you. You’ll be meeting them later. For now, let me present you all to one another. Clockwise—”

  “Fraulein Stewardess,” said Dr. Junge. “Permit me to make one suggestion. I ask for and I require very few concessions, but as a convenience, I would prefer to hear each of us name ourselves in person.”

  The hostess bowed as if to recover from momentary confusion. “Of course, Major von Cruewell. You will pardon me, I hope. You make it very difficult to remember. Will you please begin?”

  Clicking her heels, the obersturmbannfuehrerin began, first stating her name in full, with all titles, then adding that she would answer equally to “Dr. Junge,” “Major,” and “Grafin von Cruewell,” and ending by introducing her dog, who stood and gave one eager yap at the word Valkyrie. “She knows her name, you see,” said her mistress. “If you wish to speak of her and not alert her, call her my little Leibstandarte—that is, ‘Bodyguard.’”

  Corwin indulged private doubts about Obersturmbannfuehrerin von Cruewell and her little Leibstandarte as traveling companions, even discounting her inquisitorial aspect. Angela, however, seemed amused, even impressed. Self-introductions proceeded around the lounge. The glinting of Dr. Junge’s dark spectacles as she turned her head in the direction of each new speaker enhanced Corwin’s optical illusion of her as a figure in opaque stained glass.

  “Gillikin,” said the purple-vested man. “Oziah Prendergast Gillikin the Third, ‘Ozzie’ for short. I live in the wonderful Land of Oz, and to me this airship is one whizbang of an Ozoplane.”

  “Mother Frances Jackson, secular priest,” said the madre. “Catholic, also qualified by reciprocal dispensation to minister to the spiritual needs of Episcopalians and Anglicans, and certified by the World League of Churches to give limited counseling and ministration to all liberal Abrahamists to the extent of their own needs and wishes.”

  Corwin thought he detected a very slight sniff, as of mild contempt, emanating from the red-haired man with the silver medallion. If any of the others heard it, they pretended not to; and the turn passed to the tall dark woman who had yawned when the sunrise was at its height.

  She remarked, “I am Vasilisa Petrovka. My father’s name is Tallchief. I dance.”

  It was understatement. Her name produced a sensation not much behind that previously given to the Olypians. Angela gripped Corwin’s arm and whispered in awe, “The Firebird! Yes, of course! I recognize her now!”

  More of them would, no doubt, have recognized her sooner, if the screenshows included more close-ups of her face, instead of concentrating on her graceful, usually costumed form.

  M. Petrovka’s companion, the young woman with hair tinted green, unclosed her eyes, unfolded her arms with a gesture reminiscent of flower petals parting, and spoke in the rich, lilting accent of the educated Jamaican. “Ariella Rampal Celeste. Vegeton. They call me sometimes ‘The Musician of the Spheres.’ It will be my happiness to play for you on our journey through the skies.” No doubt her accent caused more than half the fanciers present to see her skin as midnight coffee.

  Now it was the newlyweds’ turn. Like all the passengers so far except Mother Frances, they gave their family as well as first and final names, Angela because she always did and Corwin because it was the prevailing fashion. This seemed, on the whole, a remarkably open group, promising informal atmosphere and the rapid cessation of emming.

  “Ah, yes, the new Mr. and Mrs.,” said the obersturmbannfuehrerin as they finished. “Whom I have met alre
ady last night, most pleasantly.”

  “Angela,” said the bride. “Just call me Angela, everybody.”

  Corwin said nothing. He felt that it might be advisable to remain on a more formal basis, with Obersturmbannfuehrerin von Cruewell if with no one else.

  “Winterset Windsong,” said the red-haired man in black with silver medallion, who was the last passenger present. “Ecumenical Pagan, priest of Isis, son of the Great Mother, helpmeet of all my fellow travelers on the Way. The family name I have from my mother on the earthly plane, this time around, is Lone-Eagle.”

  “You should be especially honored to meet two of your deities when they come aboard at New Acropolis, M. Windsong,” said the madre, who had appeared less impressed than anyone else except Dr. Junge by the announcement of who was going to join their party.

  “Mother Jackson,” the Pagan priest replied with a mocking bow, “when the M.’s Olympian join us, I shall give them all due respect. But I am a reality perceiver, presumably like yourself, and my Deity is already with us.”

  “So is ours, M. Windsong, so is ours,” said Mother Jackson, hand resting, in the time-hallowed automatic gesture of those who wore them, on the large silver cross at her bosom.

  But M. Windsong had turned to the window, eyes closed and face tilted to the penetrating rays of the risen sun. Instead of speaking again, he inhaled loudly and deeply.

  Angela looked from the madre to the priest, thence to the sky, which was still lightly pearled with clouds, and thence again to the ground. “Oh, look!” she cried, tugging at Corwin. “We’ve taken off! We’re airborne!”

  “Yes, M.,’s, we are rising,” said their hostess Miz Ming, a smile audible in her voice. “But now and always—unless otherwise advised—you are free to move about.”

  There was a general press to the windows. None of the passengers had heard Officer Flier’s distant “Ship up” command, and all had been told how zeppelins took off so smoothly that seat belts were needless and the actual moment of leaving ground usually imperceptible; but it seemed that none of them had quite believed in the reality of this latter phenomenon. Apparently all were first-time riders. No, perhaps not all. Hearing a sigh, Corwin glanced around and saw that the Musician of the Spheres had refrained from joining the press.

  The Firebird had joined Corwin and Angela at the larboard windowall. Mother Jackson and M. Gillikin were at the starboard; but even they stood some distance from Dr. Junge, who still faced inward, legs braced a little astride and lips twisting in a faint smile.

  As Corwin was about to turn back to the windowall on his side, M. Gillikin shouted, “Look there! Bet that’s our missing passenger!”

  Chapter 3

  “It is really a very fine amusement to ascend the rope-ladder ...”

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “Mellonta Tauta.”

  They all surged to starboard. Even through the foam-cushioned carpet, Corwin sensed a faint, perhaps delusionary thrumming in the space-alloy floor. Yet so immense was the air-sac structure above them, so tiny the gondola in comparison and so negligible their collective body weight to the total mass, that the stampede caused no perceptible swaying of the great airship.

  “There she is!” cried Angela, along with most of the others.

  A figure waving what appeared to be a meterstick came at a run from the far edge of the field toward a ragged line of groundworkers. She was still too far distant for the watchers aboard the airship to read anything in particular except her haste.

  “Don’t worry, M.’s, calm yourselves,” Miz Ming was repeating. “We aren’t too high yet, we can easily bring her aboard.”

  “But we keep going higher, Miz!” M. Gillikin protested.

  “First Officer Flier will give all the necessary orders. He and Captain Denne are in constant wristphone communication—”

  “But we are still going up,” said the Pagan priest. “I can feel it, too.”

  “Let me congratulate you on possessing excellent senses, M. Windsong,” said the obersturmbannfuehrerin. When the rest had rushed starboard, she had somehow moved out of their way, and now sat in the middle of the lounge, her dog on one side of her and the Musician of the Spheres, unmoved by the general contagion, on the other.

  The running figure passed through the line of groundworkers, bringing some of them along with her, also waving their arms and shouting. The lounge windows being partially open to the fresh April air allowed those in the gondola to hear their cries quite distinctly.

  “We do still seem to be going up,” said Mother Jackson. “Miz Ming, had you better go check—”

  “I’m sure that M. Flier has everything well under control,” their hostess repeated. But she went—not, Corwin observed, aft to the promenade deck, but forward to the bridge.

  “I think he does not want to bring that one aboard,” the Firebird commented.

  “But why on earth shouldn’t he?” said Angela. “There, it’s slowing now, isn’t it?”

  The obersturmbannfuehrerin said in a calm but commanding tone, “Describe what is happening. Clearly, concisely, and, if you please, one at a time.”

  Several voices began, but M. Gillikin’s was first and the others dropped out. “She’s just about reached us,” he burbled. “She’s standing on the big swirl in the Yellow Brick Road, looking up at us and waving her umbrella like crazy—”

  “The ship has veered with the breeze,” Corwin cut in. “She is out of sight beneath us.” He politely refrained from adding that the Yellow Brick Road with its swirl existed only in M. Gillikin’s personal perception.

  “But not out of memory,” Dr. Junge went on. “Describe her.”

  “She wears forest green trousers and tunic of mustard-colored, satiny stuff,” said Corwin. “Above these garments, her crimson cloak flows with the motion of her agile though stocky frame, and over the cloak streams her long dark hair, unbound save for a single blue fillet across the crown of her head. The ship veers again and she is once more within our view. Her sword blade flashes in the sunlight—”

  “Sword or umbrella?” snapped Dr. Junge. “Let me hear it from a realizer.”

  “Sword,” said the Pagan priest. “He’s described her very accurately.”

  “So,” said the obersturmbannfuehrerin. “In full costume. Interesting.”

  “Shortish, I’d say,” M. Windsong went on. “Hard to be sure from this angle. A bit square in girth, but very pretty face, as far as I can see it.”

  “No doubt you’re a connoisseur, M. Windsong,” said the madre.

  “No, Madre mia,” he replied, “but there is a two percent fancier in me that sees everyone as good looking. Even you.”

  “Oh, look!” Angela exclaimed. “They’re finally lowering the ladder! There’s its shadow—can’t you see it?”

  Corwin recognized her plea for reassurance that it was not a mere product of her own optimistic perception. “Yes,” he replied, “I see its shadow quite distinctly. And our belated passenger watches the actual ladder. Now she leaps—she is out of sight below us again—”

  “There!” shouted M. Gillikin. “She’s on the ladder—I felt the Ozoplane jounce!”

  “Congratulations,” the obersturmbannfuehrerin said dryly. “I felt nothing.”

  Some slight jounce there must have been, whether actually perceptible or not in the main gondola, for within moments their hostess returned from the navigational regions to assure them that the belated passenger was safely aboard. Shortly thereafter M. Flier ushered in the late arrival herself, who appeared flushed, exuberant, and very slightly hunchbacked.

  “Belladonna the Ribald,” she announced with a bow to the assembled company. Then, sweeping back her crimson cloak to display the sword, now sheathed, that had appeared an umbrella to M. Gillikin and, at first glance, a meterstick to Corwin, she added: “And trusty friend, Widowmaker.”

  “Ugh!” Angel
a said playfully. “A real sword? Not sharpened, I hope?”

  M. the Ribald drew it partway, wiggling it to show off the sheen before thrusting it back snug in its tooled-leather scabbard. “Sharp, long, and true, my lady, but never unsheathed against comrades.”

  The obersturmbannfuehrerin said, “Weapons are not permitted aboard.”

  “Whoever tries to part me and Widowmaker,” replied M. the Ribald, “is neither my comrade nor my friend.”

  Dr. Junge pointed out, “I was not permitted to keep my pistol. I do not for that reason consider everyone else who rides with me in this zeppelin to be an enemy.”

  “You cannot carry your gun for fear of explosions,” said the Firebird.

  The obersturmbannfuehrerin snorted. “That is an empty tradition, M. Petrovka. The Cygnus flies on helium. Will you guarantee that this newcomer is not a spy who intends to slit the air sacs while we sleep above the ocean?”

  “And drown myself along with everyone else?” M. the Ribald retorted. “Thou silly orc’s-breath!”

  Someone gasped. The obersturmbannfuehrerin never turned her head, but the dog looked at the new arrival as though staring on behalf of her mistress. The madre started to speak, but Miz Ming cut in first: “I think this is a case we must refer to the captain. M. Flier, if you could take over the helm for her?”

  Through it all, Corwin noticed, the Musician of the Spheres had sat unmoved beside Dr. Junge, palms resting open on her small lap, eyelids blinking seldom and slowly.

  * * * *

  Having set the debate in motion, Ilna found that it kept itself stirred very nicely. Mother Jackson agreed that for safety the sword should be taken away from Fraulein Belladonna, while Winterset Windsong maintained that she should be permitted to keep it on her person as a costume accessory. The priest might want only to differ with the madre, or he might in fact sympathize with the world of Belladonna the Ribald, despite the ninety-eight percent reality perceiver he claimed to be.