"Yes," Captain Guy said. "I saw it, too. While the welfare of this vessel and that of everyone aboard her is my responsibility, Mr. Ellison has requested that I discuss matters of great moment with you. In other words, sir, what is your opinion as to the best course of action we should take?"
"Lord!" I said. "It's a guessing game!"
"Then give me your guess," he insisted.
"Very well," I replied. "Whether the Earth be truly hollow or whether something else be the cause of our precipitate rush, I believe we're likely to go smash when we get there. So I feel we should start veering off immediately, as a delaying action." I groped in the pocket of the trousers I had discarded, found a Spanish coin, tossed it. "Heads," I announced. "Let's go east."
Captain Guy smiled bleakly.
"As good a way to choose as any, I suppose," he acknowledged. "Very well—"
There came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping on the distant wall. It resembled the effect I often produced when attempting mesmerism. Ligeia was on her feet immediately.
"Excuse me," she said, and she was gone out the door.
"What might that be about?" the captain asked.
I glanced at Peters, who nodded.
"I take it you know all about Monsieur Valdemar now?" I said.
"Concerning his extra-normal abilities? Yes. Ligeia explained the situation to me, once the—cat was out of the bag, so to speak."
His face suddenly brightened. He half-rose from his chair.
"Of course!" he said, and I nodded.
Moments later, Ligeia returned.
"Bear full to the southwest at six bells tomorrow morn," she stated.
"Certainly," the captain said.
"Indeed," I noted.
They gave me another brandy, and then I went to sleep.
* * *
We continued to see a good deal of ice on our new course, but the weather had grown even more clement. I did catch sight of one of the great black bears but even more interesting—the following day—was a glimpse of a canoe filled with black-skinned, ebony-toothed folk. We shot past them, however.
And another day came and went.
Then Ligeia emerged from Valdemar's cabin, catching me on the companionway as I was returning to my stateroom from a stroll about the deck.
"Soon," she announced.
"Soon what?"
She gestured Indian-style with her chin, back up the stair. Turning, I reascended, and she followed me.
She took me aft then and indicated the north-northwest.
"It will come from that direction," she said. "Watch for it, will you?"
"What? What will come?" I asked.
"I forget your word for it," she said, and she turned and was gone.
So I jammed my hands into my pockets, leaned against the rail and watched. Nothing happened for a long while. I found myself almost hypnotized by the bright flashes on the rushing water.
"Damn it Perry!"
"'Ey, Eddie! Whatcher up to?"
Peters had come up soundlessly behind me, Grip perched upon his shoulder.
"Nothing much," I said. "Just watching for it in the sky, to the north-northwest."
"Watchin' fer what?"
"Ah— Well, she didn't exactly say."
"Really," he said, turning his head in that direction. "Somethin' sort of like a big fool's cap, upside-down, with a basket hangin' under it?"
"What?"
I turned and stared. I squinted. I shaded my eyes. I saw nothing.
"You speak hypothetically, of course," I said, after a few moments.
"Dunno what that means, Eddie. But yer know I don't talk fancy."
"You don't really see something like that up there, do you?"
"Now why ud I make up somethin' that stupid, Eddie. 'Course it's there."
I kept looking. The best I could make out was a tiny speck against the blue—either a distant bird or a trick my eyes were playing.
"There's a black band goes 'round it, with somethin' like a silver buckle on it, too."
"You actually see the thing?"
"Sure. She's there, Eddie."
I began to recall stories about the remarkable vision of the Indians of the Plains.
"You say it, you see it," I said. "What else is there?"
He continued to stare.
"Looks to be a man in the basket," he finally announced.
I continued gazing in that direction myself. The speck had grown larger.
"Bear shit," Grip commented, as we passed an ice floe where one of the scarlet-fanged brutes was relieving itself.
"'At's a good Gripper," said Peters, rummaging in his pocket for a cracker and passing it to him. "Quick learner."
"Yo," said the raven.
It grew larger still, though it was several minutes more before it became distinguishable to me as possessing the shape Peters had attributed to it.
"'At dead man sure knows his business," Peters observed.
"Got to give him that," I agreed.
And the thing came on and on, and I recalled articles I'd read about balloons, remembering the basket beneath the gasbag to be called a gondola. Nearer still, and I saw that this one did indeed possess a human inhabitant. The device was obviously headed right toward us, and it was descending. I began to grow concerned that it might upset or rupture itself amid such masts and sails as we still possessed. I heard a hissing sound as it drew nigh. Then it drifted past us and settled gently into a mild sea off our starboard bow.
Peters and I had a boat over the side in record time and lines to him and his balloon in less than a minute after we hit the water. The man spoke some English and some French, poorly, explaining that he was one Hans Pfall, of Rotterdam, at which Peters allowed that he himself spoke "gutter Dutch" having done some errands for Mr. Ellison in the Kingdom of the Netherlands and it might be faster if he tried interpreting for him, if all parties were willing to make allowances.
All parties were, and the man explained that he had been airborne since leaving Rotterdam several weeks ago. He claimed to have been borne away from Europe by high altitude winds of terrific velocity.
Captain Guy, Ligeia, and the crew were on the deck, and the balloon still being partially inflated and its owner madly anxious that it should not be lost, the captain gave orders to deflate the huge gasbag slowly and carefully, and to see that it was hoisted with extreme caution onto the deck—along with the gondola, which contained some mysterious equipment.
Once on deck, at the vigilant direction of its pilot, the bag was dried, folded, and eventually stowed away belowdecks, along with the huge wicker basket and other gear.
We all had some doubts concerning Mr. Pfall's fantastic story. Still, the fellow must have come some impressive distance across the ocean.
Our voyage continued, almost helplesly, ever farther and farther south. Days went by, and the occasional small islands, the drifting ice, even the water we observed were increasingly strange.
We bumped gently into a drifting floe, and from the part that overhung our decks briefly we broke off chunks for drinking water. Melted in a pot, this fresh water displayed an amazing stratification. At first we were afraid to taste it because of this. It was layered and possessed of every conceivable shade of purple. We allowed it to settle thoroughly within a white basin. It formed a series of distinct veins therein, and we discovered that upon passing the blade of a knife downward through them the water closed over it immediately, and on withdrawing it all trace of the knife's passage was instantly obliterated. If, however, the blade was passed between two veins a perfect separation occurred and did not immediately repair itself.
Peters laughed, cupped a handful and swallowed it, while we were discussing its visual characteristics.
He announced it to be a "good, cold swig." In that nothing untoward occurred with him several others of us tasted it and were so gratified. Peters then explained that it had "smelled" all right, water-sniffing being a thing he'd learned in childhood, on the Pla
ins.
Meanwhile, the current bearing us along grew stronger and stronger, until we were completely helpless in its grip.
Two days later we awoke to what I first took to be a snowfall, but a visit topside showed it to be a fall of volcanic ash that was graying our deck. We had come into the vicinity of the legendary Mt. Yaanek, bursting with gray cabbage-leaf clouds, lightnings tunneling among them, an occasional show of a bright heart beating at its center. Its distant grumbles came like thunder. The skies were ashen and sober as we went by.
I had avoided visiting Valdemar for some time, perhaps he somehow served to remind me of the night of the Red Death at Prospero's abbey. However, it appeared obvious to me that we must rapidly be nearing the Symmes' Hole, and since I did not know what to do next it seemed that a little unearthly advice might be in order. The temperature had grown milder, the ocean almost hot, and all traces of ice and snow had vanished. All these things considered, I'd a feeling it was probably time to act.
Ligeia seemed still to be asleep, but since I possessed a duplicate key to Valdemar's cabin I simply let myself in, bringing a lighted oil lamp.
I made the necessary passes, and again the noisy disturbances began, his casket itself being levitated briefly. At this, Valdemar sat up and reached forward, opening the lower half of his crate as well. Not stopping at that, he swung his legs up and out, rising, and then lowering himself, so that he sat perched at the edge like some cadaverous scarecrow.
"Oh, Eddie!" he said. "Again? You bathe me in even more life than last time, child of the Earth!"
"Sorry," I said. "It's something of an emergency, though. I believe we're nearing the South Polar Symmes' Hole."
"Nor are you incorrect!" he agreed. "What a glorious way to go! I misjudged you. Thank you for bringing me around to witness our final passing. It is about the only thing I might regard with something resembling pleasure."
"Uh— Sorry to disappoint you," I said, "but I'm looking for a way to escape it."
"No!" He rose and tottered. "I refuse to help you elude such a fine and honorable death!"
"I hate to pull rank," I said, "but I've the power to compel you in this."
I began the preliminaries to the administration of even more mesmeric energy.
"Stop! You could not be so heartless!"
He tottered toward me, arms extended before him.
"You will tell me what you know in this," I said, "or I will animate you even further."
"Ask me anything else," he replied. "The secrets of the ages are open books to me. What would you care to have? Sophocles' missing dramas? The proof for Fermat's Last Theorem? The precise archaeological location of Troy? The—"
"You're stalling," I said. "Why— I see. We're that close, are we?"
His arms fell.
"Yes, we are," he said.
"But we've still a chance to make it, haven't we? It's going to be close—so close that minutes could actually make a difference, one way or another."
"You're smarter than I gave you credit for, Perry."
"I don't want your flattery, just some facts. The balloon must be the only way out. How long does it take to inflate?
"Approximately two hours," he answered.
"How long till we plunge into the Hole?"
"Perhaps three hours."
"How many people can it carry?"
"Four."
"That will never do. There are twelve of us."
"It will do," he replied, showing all of his teeth.
"I do not understand."
"Shall I explain?"
"I'm sure you'd like to. I'm also sure there isn't time. Good-bye."
I turned and rushed for the door.
"Eddie! Wait!"
I halted at the strange note of urgency I had never heard in his speech before.
"What?" I asked.
"Go armed."
"Why?"
"I've nothing against you personally. Just get your saber and wear it."
"All right," I said. "Thanks."
And I was out the door and running.
* * *
I came out of my quarters buckling the thing into place when I heard the cries from above, and a clash of metal on metal. Rather than heading for the cargo area where the balloon was stowed I climbed the companionway, to see what was doing.
As my head and shoulders came out of the companionway, a crewman who had apparently been guarding it thrust a staff at me. I fell back, drew my blade and cut at it, knocking it aside. He raised it again and I executed a simple chest cut, feeling it shear through ribs. He screamed. I surveyed the situation clearly then.
Captain Guy, Peters, and Hans Pfall were all aft, trapped upon the poop deck by the crewmen, who'd apparently decided the time was right for their mutiny. I noticed a stack of supplies beside one of the boats, a splash of red on the deck nearby. Captain Guy had blood on his shirtfront, also, and he leaned against the railing as if partly stunned. I suspected he had caught the crew in the act of abandoning ship, and the mutiny had commenced at that point.
Peters held a belaying pin in either hand. Pfall held a saber similar to my own. The five remaining crewmen looked back at the one I had just cut down. My presence at their rear seemed to influence their decision to attack forward. Uttering a cry, they rushed the three men.
Peters threw one of his clubs at the foremost, who had attacked the captain, knife in hand. It struck the man on the head, and he fell. Another was rushing toward Peters himself, saber upraised. In the meantime, Pfall had raised his blade into a guard position and was staring wide-eyed at his attacker, a burly fellow with a stiletto in one hand and a club in the other.
I shouted a hopefully distracting cry as I mounted the final stairs and headed in their direction, brandishing my blade. For the first time, as I did this, I became aware of a low, thundering sound, like a buried storm, coming from somewhere far forward of our vessel. It was more than a persistent note, for it also constituted a physically felt vibration which one detected down to the roots of one's teeth. To my horror, I understood its nature. I shouted again, and the rearmost man turned to face me. He was a tall, lean, wall-eyed individual who brandished a spiked club quite capable of snapping my blade if the nails with which he'd studded it connected properly.
I saw Peters avoid the swordsman's cut, stepping inside to parry with his club against his attacker's wrist.
Then he drove his massive right fist forward and upward. It was lost to sight of me then, blocked by his assailant's body. But suddenly the man was raised above the deck, bending double while lofted, blood spewing from his mouth. To my other hand, I saw Pfall fall back, blood upon his shoulder.
Then I had no attention for anyone's problems but my own, and I halted as my attacker's club was swung at me like a bat. I dropped my guard and retreated rather than risk my steel against such a juggernaut. He swung again, cross-body, and I retreated again, studying the way he moved, looking for an opening.
I heard Hans Pfall scream—a heavily accented outcry—and his blade rattled to the deck.
A flight of birds crossed over us from out of the northwest, crying E-teke-lili! as they passed.
My attacker raised his club over his right shoulder, and with both hands swung it in a diagonal cut past my chest. He laughed as I retreated again, and cried out. "You come to somethin', you gotta stop! No more runnin'! I get you then!" and I could only nod politely and smile, for I had noted that his recovery from a downward stroke was noticeably slower than from one which moved in a horizontal plane.
I heard Captain Guy's new attacker—to whom Peters had turned his attention on dispatching his own man—commence screaming, as Peters had caught his wrist, jerked him forward and torn his ear off with his teeth. While this was happening, the man Peters had knocked down with his thrown club began rising.
"E-teke— E-teke— Shit!" cried Grip, swooping by and defecating on Peters' attacker.
In the meantime, the Eidolon jumped, as if we had actually been lifted b
odily from the waves—and I could not but be reminded of my strange experiences while aboard the ghostly Discovery—and when the Eidolon came down, our speed seemed to have increased. I half-expected green fire to dance along my blade.
Suddenly, it did. Had my thought summoned it? Did I possess some strange connection in this place even stronger than memory—with things I had touched in the past?
The tall crewman's eyes widened as the baleful gleam walked my weapon's edge. Yet he drew back his club over his left shoulder, and he swung it again. Again, I retreated. But not as before. Recalling an expensive lesson from a fancy-legged French fencing master who had once passed through town, I retreated but a single step with my left foot, drew back my right in an enormous hurry, brought my saber up, out, around and over, transforming it then into a point-weapon as I executed a stop-thrust which tore into the man's upper arm before he could recover from his missed swing. Immediately, I withdrew the point and executed a second thrust, to my assailant's throat. He took it properly.
I looked up then to see Peters throwing his unearred opponent against the one who had just risen. The man whose chest he had smashed lay sprawled, leaking blood through his ears and nose as well as his mouth. I glanced back, a precaution. The man whose chest I had cut open still lay beside the companionway. He was not breathing.
Three of the six, then, were down, two were attacking Peters, and the final one was just withdrawing his stiletto from a point somewhere below Hans Pfall's left ribcage. He turned his attention now to Peters, who had crouched and extended both his hands toward the two men he had dealt with before who now faced him again. Smiling, the burly man moved to assist them, swinging his club almost jauntily in his left hand, knife in his right, low and near to his hip. As he passed the still form of Captain Guy I heard a pistol's sharp report. The club slipped from his fingers and he dropped to one knee, left hand moving to clutch somewhere at his midsection.
Above the eternal growl of the Symmes' Hole I heard the man say, "I thought you was dead!" Then he dropped to his other knee and I could see past him to where Captain Guy still lay, back propped against a bollard, a derringer in his right hand, a small smile upon his lips.
The Black Throne Page 19
