We entered the chamber, the boatmen making our lines fast to the floating mooring rings. Astern of us, the gates slowly shut. Then the water beneath us, around us, swirled and eddied and we started to lift. Soon, looking astern from my station in the bows, I could see the white spire of the Monument, the two silver spires that were the spaceships. The gates ahead of us opened, the boatmen cast off the mooring lines. The steady thump thump of our stern wheel resumed, and we steamed slowly into the Teddington Lake, shaping our course between the double line of buoys and beacons.
When I was called off stations I went up to the bridge to keep what remained of my watch. I found Claire King and the other Earthwoman, Leslyn Vincent, in the pilot house with the Old Man. They were interested, eager, exclaiming in wonderment as we passed a Phibian village (the first that we had seen since leaving Albany) running out to the wing of the bridge to talk to the old, gray whiskered native who sat a-top the tallest of the woven huts.
"They're cute!" cried the girl Leslyn. "I wish we could take some back to Earth as pets, Claire!"
"Hardly pets, Miss Vincent," said the Old Man. "These Phibians are intelligent—probably as intelligent as we are. They have their own culture—and take from ours only the things they need ..."
"Such as rope," I said.
"Yes—such as rope. The cordage that they weave for themselves is at least as good as ours—but why should they weave much of it when we're around as a source of hand-outs?"
"They'll have to work for their hand-outs," said Claire King, "when ..."
"When what?" asked Captain Beynon. "When what, Miss King?"
She flushed. "Oh, nothing. Skip it."
The Old Man selected a cheroot from his case, lit it carefully. He said, "We still don't know what you people are doing here. We have still to be convinced that you came across millions of miles of Space for purely altruistic motives. What you said just now, what you said and didn't finish, bears out Captain Armstrong's theory—that you're just the advance guard, that Earth intends to establish a second colony, by force if needs be. Am I right?"
"That is a question that I can't answer, Captain. I carry out my orders—just as you and Mr. Whitley carry out yours. I'm a spacewoman—years on the Lunar Ferry and now—this. I jumped at the chance. I tell you, there was no shortage of volunteers when the two interplanetary expeditions were fitting out."
"Two? Oh, yes—you were sending one to Mars too, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"You're my passengers," said the Old Man. "You're my guests. I intend to treat you as such. But, I warn you, should I discover that either of you is doing anything inimical to the interests of Beulah Land, I shall clap you in irons for the duration of the voyage."
"We shan't," said the girl. "We are here as observers only. But I warn you, Captain, that should you clap us in irons you will have the helicopters about your ears in a matter of hours. You've heard of radio. Your Mate, here, has heard and seen it used. We've brought a transceiver with us—and every six hours we report back to our ships."
"Can they do it, Whitley?" asked the Old Man.
"They can," I said. -
"Oh." He grinned. "All right, then, we know how we stand."
After the show-down (if so it could be called) we found the two Earthwomen pleasant enough company. They soon lost their attitude of superiority, they had been transferred to a tiny world of the governance of which they knew nothing. As day succeeded day—gray days and golden days, calm and storm—I found that I was becoming increasingly friendly with Claire King. We went ashore together in the ports along the way when I could spare time from my duties. Together we climbed Richmond Hill, saw the river, with its toy ships, like a silver ribbon beneath us. Together we wandered through the Sheen Meadows, and I shared her pleasure as she exclaimed over each new wonder (to her) of plant and insect life.
We were at Kingston, below the Second Locks, when Leslyn Vincent caught Claire and me at the gangway just as we were going ashore. "Claire," she said, "come back at once. Something's happened."
"What?"
"They won't tell me. You'd better come."
At their request, I followed the two girls to Claire's
cabin. On the table was the black box, with its callibrated dials, that was their transceiver. Claire picked up the microphone, flipped a switch. "Claire King here. Claire King to Eve Curie. Have you anything for me? Over."
The speaker crackled, then said, "You and Miss Vincent are to return at once to your ships. You are to return at once to Wyndham's Landing. A helicopter is on the way to pick you up. Over."
"Is that you, Irene? What's happened?"
"I can't tell you, Claire. I was told to tell you to return at once, that's all."
A new voice cut in. At first it sounded strange— then I recognized it as Adelie's.
"Miss King! This is Her Holiness Adelie Dale here. I wish to speak with Captain Beynon at once."
"He's ashore, Miss Dale, lunching with the Mayor. Mr. Whitley is here."
"He'll have to do. Clement, this is important. Pass word ashore to the Mayor to raise the Fiery Cross! Get your pigeons out, up river and down river, with the same message. Full mobilization of the Militia. All Albany ships and nationals to be placed under arrest. Sign the messages 'Crusader.' Got that? 'Crusader.' "
Claire passed me the microphone, flipped over the necessary switches. I handled the instrument doubtfully.
"Whitley to Adelie Dale. Fiery Cross. Mobilization. Arrest of Albany ships and nationals. Signed 'Crusader.' What are we to do, Miss Dale? Proceed, or return down river?"
Claire took the instrument back. "Over' she said into it.
"Richmond Queen to remain at Kingston to await further orders. Get cracking on the messages, Clement. Over. Out."
"Message received. Roger. Out," said Claire.
"Something's happened," said the girl Leslyn. "What can it be, Claire?"
"Search me," she said. "What do you think, Clement?"
"War," I said. "The Holy War."
By the time that the Old Man got back, things were more or less under control. A messenger had been sent at once to the Mayor's palace, and the pigeons had been released and were flying north and south with the written messages. From the bridge of Richmond Queen we could see the smoke rising from the center of the town, the main square—proof that the Fiery Cross had been raised and lit. We could hear the bugles calling outside the militia barracks, the singing of hymns outside the meeting house.
"A bad business," said the Old Man. "John was always a good friend to me, even though ..."
"It had to come," I said.
"It had to come, it had to come," he mimicked. "Why, Whitley? Why did it have to come? Because people like you—normal, allegedly sensible people, have been brought up on the absurd idea that all Venus wasn't big enough for both Beulah Land and Albanyl I tell you, Whitley, that it's a damned shame that flying hasn't progressed further—then people
like that smug Mayor would have a chance to learn what it's like in the front line."
"Talking of flying," I said, changing the subject, "that looks like the helicopter."
He lifted his glasses to his eyes, said, "You're right. Pass word to Miss King and Miss Vincent to get ready."
The girls came up to the bridge, stood with us as we watched the swift approach of the aircraft. It was, perhaps, just a quarter mile downstream from the ship when we saw it falter in its flight, saw the flare of intense light from the tips of its whirling vanes. Then it was falling, slowly and erratically, its pilot trying in vain to nurse it to the nearer bank of the river.
"I told them," said Claire. "I told them that the fuel was too rich for this atmosphere."
"Accident boat, Whitley," said Captain Beynon.
I went to the whistle lanyard, blew three long blasts. The boat was sent away in charge of the Second Mate, the crew pulling with a will. We watched through our glasses, saw the pilot helped out of the cabin and into the boat, saw the boat's crew maki
ng a towline fast to the tail structure of the helicopter.
"I suppose that it can be repaired," said the Captain. "My engineers . . ."
"It can be repaired," said Claire, "but not here. You haven't got the alloys for the jet units. If you could have it loaded on deck ..."
"We could. Your derricks are still rigged, aren't they, Whitley?"
"They are, sir."
"Good. And now what's the drill, Miss King?"
"We shall have to contact Eve Curie again. I expect that the Commandante will send the other helicopter to pick us up."
The other helicopter, apparently, could not be spared. Fresh orders came—from Adelie, as well as from the Commandante—to the effect that we were to take the damaged aircraft on board and then return, with all expedition, to Wyndham's Landing. Hasty arrangements were made for the disembarkation of our remaining up river passengers.
There was fighting off Chelsea—an Albany merchantman, drifting helplessly downstream, was beating off the boatloads of Militiamen struggling to board and capture her. As we swept past we could see that her stern wheel was twisted and broken, a heavy baulk of timber having somehow been pushed in between the blades by saboteurs. We ourselves sustained minor damage—a ball from a steam cannon put a ragged hole in our starboard funnel and arrows and crossbow bolts thumped viciously into the none too stout timber of our wheelhouse.
It was in Rousseau's Reach that we were attacked by the airship—a small craft, similar to the one that we had seen at Wyndham's Landing. When we first sighted it we assumed that it was the second helicopter. It lacked an hour of dusk when we picked it up, right ahead and flying low, indistinct in the light mist.
It was Claire who first recognized it for what it was, who said, her voice icy calm, "You'd better make it Action Stations, Captain. That's one of those gasbags out of Albany."
"All hands take cover!" I bawled down from the bridge. "Major! Get those men of yours under cover!"
"My archers!" he shouted back. "We can hit it, I think!"
"Let him try," said the Old Man.
By the time the thing was on us our decks were empty save for the Major and a half dozen of his men. I heard the twang of the released bowstrings, watched the arcing flight of the arrows. I saw what looked like a glittering cloud released from the car of the airship, stood gaping foolishly until a hand—Claire's—pulled me roughly into the shelter of the wheelhouse. We watched tiny, gleaming objects streaking past the open pilot house doors, heard the thuds as they buried themselves in the deck planking. The airship swept ahead of us, rising rapidly, began to turn in a wide, slow arc.
We went out on to the bridge, looked aft. The Major was dead, crumpled on the deck in an ungainly attitude, his blood streaming over the scrubbed deck into the water way. Two of his men were wounded— they were bleeding heavily, but moving. The other men were not to be seen; their bows were lying where they had dropped them.
I ran to the nearest Militiaman, Claire beside me, and knelt beside him. There was a steel dart in his shoulder, another in his right arm. I took him under the arms, Claire took his legs, and we carried him into the texas.
We went back for the second soldier. One of the darts had taken him through the hand, another had pinned his foot to the deck. Claire held him while I tugged and he yelled. We got him free just as the airship was coming back on its second run. We heard the noise of its engine, the creaking of its framework.
Then there was the rapid, deafening chatter of an automatic firearm, and we turned to see Leslyn Vincent standing in the wing of the bridge, supporting a large, heavy pistol against a stanchion.
As we staggered inside the texas, supporting the wounded man, we glanced hastily aloft, saw a second shower of darts released from the flying ship's car, saw something large and black and round following the little, vaned missiles. It struck, just by the girl Leslyn, and she dropped her pistol and stooped to pick it up, to throw it overside. She was not in time. The blast of the exploding black powder shattered the wing of our bridge, smashed in the port side of our pilot house. It threw Claire and the soldier and me to the deck, covered us with a horrid, warm wetness. At first I thought that the blood was ours, was Claire's—and for the first time I hated Albany. But Claire got to her feet and helped me to mine, and together we ran into the wheelhouse, trying not to look at the shattered port wing of the bridge and the smashed body of the other Earthwoman.
The Old Man had the wheel himself; his face was bleeding where flying glass had slashed it. The sailor who had been steering was sitting in a corner of the pilot house, his face ashen, blood gushing from a half severed arm. Astern of us we heard the throb of airborne engines again, and we all cowered. We heard the bomb strike, waited for the explosion. It never came.
Then the other officers were on the bridge, and the Third had taken the wheel. The Old Man went outside, followed by Claire and me. He saw the bomb lying on the deck—just an innocent metal ball. He
walked to it, picked it up, threw it from him. It did not explode as it hit the water. He looked ahead and shook his fist at the airship. It was turning again—we saw the shape of it elongate as it showed its profile, shorten as it came round to the reciprocal course.
The Sergeant of the Militiamen joined us. He saluted the Captain respectfully. "I've heard," he said, "that those things are filled with the same gas, whatever it is, that the balloon birds are filled with . .
"Well?"
"It burns. I've a half dozen men here, all good shots, and I've arrows wrapped round with oily rags. If we light 'em, just before we fire . . ."
"Let him try, Captain," said Claire. "If the airship is hydrogen filled, it'll work."
"On deck, you men!" roared the Sergeant.
"Don't forget your aim-off, Sergeant," said Claire. "Lead the airship, lead it, lead it . . ."
"We've shot at moving targets before, ma'am." , •
"Sorry."
The six bowmen stood motionless, each with his arrow drawn back to his ear. The seventh man stood with a flaring torch.
"Light!" barked the Sergeant.
The flame was passed quickly along the arrow heads, each of which became a little torch itself.
"Don't steer a straight course, Captain," said Claire. "Zig-zag. Spoil this run for them."
"How are my men to aim?" demanded the Sergeant.
"As best they can," said the Old Man.
The airship was close now, trying vainly to bring
itself round to pass over us, to allow its bomb aimer to do his job properly, to counteract the effect of our sudden and violent alterations of course.
"Shoot!" roared the Sergeant.
We followed the smoking flight of the arrows, sighed as we saw that all would miss. All? One did not miss, but it, like the others, was too low, struck the side of the car, quivered there, blazing brightly. We saw an arm reach out from inside the car and a hand —its owner must have been badly burned—tug and worry at the arrow, drop it, still flaring smokily, to the river. We saw, uncomprehending, the sudden cascade and splash of water ballast, watched as the airship rose rapidly, almost vertically, until it became a mere, diminishing dot against the overcast.
"Well, sir, we frightened 'em," said the Sergeant.
"They did more than frighten us," said the Captain, his face old and gray as he stared at the burning wreckage of his bridge, at the bodies of the Major and the Earthwoman.
To me he said, his voice bitter, "I hope they're satisfied."
I wondered what he was pointing at, then saw that his rigidly outstretched finger indicated a burning stanchion which, together with a flaming spar at right angles to it, made a rough Fiery Cross.
"The hose party's on the way," I said foolishly.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was dusk of the fourth day after the attack when we made the Locks above Wyndham's Landing, to find that we could not go through. The gates had been sabotaged. A raiding party from Albany had forced the Lock Master to take them down to the machine room
, to the hydraulic rams.
"Did they use a bomb?" asked the Old Man.
"I don't know what they used. All I know is that there was one helluva big bang down there after we came back up top. The rams are smashed."
"I wonder why they didn't blow the gates," said Claire. "They'd have got both spaceships, and Memphis Belle and the Show Boat into the bargain."
"They'll want to use the Locks again themselves," the Old Man told her. "Even Albany's resources
don't run to repairs or engineering on too large a scale."
"I couldn't stop them," said the Lock Master. "They came in this air thing that looked like the father and mother of all balloon birds, and . . ." We ignored him.
"I must get back to my ship," said Claire anxiously. "I have a lot to report. Talking of reports—I suppose you've informed the various authorities about the raid and the sabotage?"
"Why, no, Miss," said the Lock Master. "Who have I got to send? There's only me and my wife and the boatmen, and . . ."
"Holy Mother!" she swore. "What a world! And what people in it!" She raised her voice and called, "Miss Padgett!"
"Yes, ma'am?" the helicopter pilot answered.
"I'm leaving you here, as Acting Temporary Radio Officer. Keep Captain Beynon informed of any news or orders from Wyndham's Landing. And, first of all, get in touch with the Commandante's H.Q. and pass on word of this sabotage of the Locks. Now."
"Very good, ma'am," said the pilot, saluting.
"You know the way, Whitley," said the Old Man. "You'd better take Miss King down to the Landing. Get hold of the officer in charge of the Militia, tell him that you want a Corporal or somebody and half a dozen men to escort you. You'll want lanterns, too."
"Right away, sir," I said.
By the time we got started it was quite dark, although there was a reflected glare from the Landing, from the bright lights of the spaceships. And the snow fern was as bright as I have ever seen it, gleaming pallidly, breaking into flickering, blue-white brilliance as the nocturnal beasts disturbed it as they hunted or were hunted. Black against it were silhouetted the thick, clublike branches of the jumbo moss, the irregular masses of the spore pods. The air was warm, and heavy with the sharp, green scent of the fern, the musky, almost animal odor of the moss.
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