I suppose that I should have led the way, but the Corporal assured me that he had lived at Wyndham's Landing as a boy and knew the path like the back of his hand. We let him go ahead, his six men, swords drawn and ready, at his heels. We followed them down the open hillside, brushing by the fern fronds, the waving, gossamer filaments of the moss. Claire cried out as we disturbed a colony of firebirds; we were dazzled by their brilliance as they exploded into the night like some superb firework, the clatter of their horny wings deafening. And she drew and cocked her pistol when we became aware that something large and stealthy was making faintly rustling progress to one side of the path, matching its speed with ours.
"It's only a builder crab," I told her. "They're not pretty to look at, but they're harmless."
"A builder crab?" she asked. "What does it want?"
"Anything we might drop. It'll pick it up, scuttle off with it and, at leisure, incorporate it in the sort of shell, or house, that it makes to cover the soft hinder parts of its body. It'll use pebbles, and firebird scales, and bones—anything—but it's come to learn that human beings are liable to drop bright things, and it loves bright things . . . Watch!"
I fished in my pocket, found a shining, gold dollar piece. I dropped it. Claire and I went on a few paces, turned to watch. We saw the crab emerge cautiously from the fern, looking for all the world like a chess castle walking on thin, many jointed legs. The teetering tower looked black in the wan luminescence, but there were little gleaming reflectors in it that threw back the light of the lantern I carried. Fragments of glass, they must have been, scraps of bright metal. As we watched, a long, cautious tentacle reached out to the gold piece, lifted it. With incredible speed for so ungainly a creature the crab vanished back into the fern.
"The crab catchers use mirrors for bait," I said.
"Crab catchers? Do people eat those things?"
"They do. I do myself—a dish of stewed crab washed down with a cold planter's punch is a meal fit for a king."
"I'll take your word for it," she said.
The Corporal and the Militiamen were well down the hillside by now, and we were alone.
"I hope," I said, "that I'll have the chance, some day, to introduce you to our more outlandish, as you would think them, delicacies . . ."
"I rather hope that you will," she replied.
The Corporal and his men were now no more than dark blurs against the pale radiance of the snow fern, their lanterns no more than bobbing, yellow sparks.
"Our escort," she said, and laughed softly. "Our chaperons."
"Claire," I said, finding trouble in enunciating even the simple monosyllable. "Claire . . ."
"Clement," she said.
She came into my arms as though she belonged there, had always belonged there, and we kissed.
Somebody was coughing discreetly.
"Sir," said the Corporal, "sir! Madam! You should go ahead, I think. They will have sentries posted. They will know you. They will think that my men and I are another raiding party from Albany . . ."
"So you did look back," said Claire, "at last."
"We are your escort, Madam," he said stiffly. "We will cover your rear."
"Decent of you," I said. Claire started to giggle.
"Come on, my dear," she said, taking my hand in hers. "We've jobs to do, both of us. Somebody seems to have started something and somebody, meaning us, will have to see it finished."
Below us the lights were dim, and growing dimmer, a thin mist was creeping up from the water and, even where we stood, there were the beginnings of a damp chill in the air, presaging fog. Already—and we were no more than a couple of miles distant from the wharf—all that could be seen of Memphis Belle was a vague formlessness picked out by the yellow glow of pressure lanterns. The outlines of the spaceships were softened and they looked like the towers of some legendary castle, some fairy palace built of light itself, rather than massive constructions of metal, machinery crammed, that could bridge the gulf between the worlds.
Ahead of us we saw the first sentries, heard their challenge.
I pulled Claire to me again—let the Corporal and his men think what they pleased—and together, hand in hand, we advanced to be recognized.
We were taken by the sentry to the Show Boat where, we were told, military headquarters had been set up. The big auditorium was a strange sight to one who had seen it in the old days with its benches crammed with people and Adelie and her Gospel Singers on the stage. The benches were gone—small tables and flimsy seeming chairs having taken their places. The old pressure lamps were gone, replaced by the hard, bright electric lights. At the back of the stage was hanging a huge map of Beulah Land, showing the river from its source in the Polar Alps right down to New Orleans. Here and there bright little flags, singly and in clusters, were stuck into the map. At the tables were seated the uniformed women from the spaceships—some working writing machines, some tending apparatus at whose use I could do no more than guess. I could have asked Claire, but we were given no time, were hustled up the companion-way to the Saint's private quarters.
There were five people seated around the table there—Adelie, the Commandantes Willis and Pearson, Colonel Lafayette and Captain Munro. They had been arguing, and bitterly at that. They were very definitely not loving one another when we were shown in; the atmosphere was thick with hostility and distrust. Munro was looking like an Old Testament prophet about to call down the wrath of Jehovah upon the unbelievers; Commandante Willis looked like a houseproud housewife whose children have let loose a mud puppy in the best parlor, and
Adelie's features displayed a viciousness far from saintly. Lafayette and Commandante Pearson sitting together, were trying to convey by their expressions and bearing that they were the only two reasonable people present.
There was a bit of bickering over our delay, with the blame shifted about equally between the Lock Master and the fact that the helicopters had broken down. We were finally invited to pull up chairs.
"I think, ladies," said Colonel Lafayette, "that it would be advisable to put Miss King and Mr. Whitley into the picture. Miss King is third in command of your expedition, Commandante, and Mr. Whitley will wish to report back to his Captain. You will understand, Whitley, that our radio messages to Richmond Queen haven't, for security reasons, told you much."
"All we knew, sir, was that fighting had broken out. As you know, we've been in some fighting ourselves."
The Colonel pushed the box of cheroots on the table toward me, while the matter was debated between Adelie and the Commandante, waited until I made my choice, and then selected one for himself. He cleared his throat when it was agreed that we should be told, and started in.
What it all added up to was that there was an explosive situation here, which might go off at any moment, and no one knew who actually started the shooting. Lafayette's men resented being called Holy Joes by the Marines; they had rushed to the rescue of a Communications Lieutenant, a Miss Rose Statten, who was being attacked by a drunken Marine; and a third Marine took a dim view of the fact that this same Rosie had transferred her attentions to one of Lafayette's sergeants.
Miss Dale and the Colonel had been in conference when the din brought them up to the deck of the Memphis Belle. By then, a first-class fight was going on in and around Lafayette's camp. He and Adelie ran ashore, meeting Captain Armstrong who threatened to open fire on the camp and transport if the Colonel's men were not called off. The bugler could not be found; Lafayette managed to locate a bugle, and rend a recognizable version of the Still.
His men were disciplined; they froze at once. The Marines were beginning to pay some attention to their Captain when one of the horses that had broken loose came charging straight at the group and knocked Armstrong flying. That meant that Lafayette's men had stopped fighting, while at least half the Marines had not heard their captain's orders. They retreated toward the spaceships, intending to use the vanes for cover while they got in some archery practice.
Commandante Willis, called by her duty officer, saw a mob of Marines apparently charging straight for her ships. She opened fire at once. The Marines started falling like ninepins, and the Duke of Albany got into action. A few moments later, a rocket from the ship hit one of the spaceships. The helicopters went for the Duke of Albany.
"There was a sort of lull in the action then. Duke of Albany ceased fire, as did the automatic guns mounted on and around the spaceships. We watched the last Marines scramble aboard the warship and the futile charge, minutes too late, of my Mounted
Archers. We heard the signal bells and the threshing of Duke of Albany's paddles as she backed out into the river—and we heard the helicopter's guns hammering away at her, and knew why her cannon and rockets were silent. Suddenly there was an explosion —a sheet of flame and a great cloud of smoke and steam. When it cleared we were surprised to see that Duke of Albany was still afloat. One funnel was gone, and the other was leaning over at a crazy angle, and she was afire aft. But she was making way still, her paddles were still turning, and she was steering. She limped down river, still burning, with a heavy list to starboard. That was the last we saw of her as she rounded the bend. I expected at least one farewell salvo—but the explosion must have cleared her after deck of cannon and projectors.
"She wasn't the only one limping. The helicopter caught some of the force of the explosion and was too badly damaged to continue the action. It just made the beach, then flopped like a balloon bird with an arrow through its gasbag . . ."
"So that's why we're short of helicopters," said Claire.
"And that's why I don't have the speedy victory through air power that I was promised," said Adelie.
CHAPTER NINE
They asked us to tell our story then. They had already had the bare bones of it, from Claire's radio reports, but there was much to be amplified. The Colonel and the two Commandantes listened with grave attention to all that we could tell them of the Duke's airships.
"We have to face it, Colonel Lafayette," said Commandante Willis, "until we can get a helicopter working Albany has command of the air. Oh, we're safe enough here—I've had my technicians modify the ground approach radar from Eve Curie, and it'll give us ample warning of any aerial attack. Besides, the airships'd never dare get inside the range of my guns. But against troops or ships—it'll be massacre. You'd better get word around as soon as you can about the burning arrow technique ..."
There was a rap on the door. It opened, and a junior officer came in. She saluted smartly, handed the Commandante a sheet of paper. She read what was on it, her face expressionless. She passed the sheet to Adelie. She said to Claire, "I sent Miss Fitzgerald and Miss Liddell to New Orleans some time ago, while we still had the helicopters at our disposal. They have a transceiver with them. They report daily."
"New Orleans has been attacked," said Adelie in a dull voice. "A fleet of ten airships. Steel darts. Bombs. Numerous civilian casualties. The waterfront ablaze."
Lafayette nodded. "Albany has command of the air."
"Can't you do something?" flared Adelie to the two Commandantes. "Make us guns, can't you? Make us airships!"
"Your Holiness!" expostulated Munro. "Guns? Airships? Better to lose the war with God than win with the Devil's aid!"
"I'm a professional soldier, Captain," said Lafayette, "and I'll use whatever arms I can lay my hands on, no matter who supplies 'em. Commandante Willis, could you give us guns and the training to use them?"
"No," she said. "The weapons we have are barely sufficient for the protection of ourselves and our ships."
"Your ships . . ." murmured Adelie slowly. "Surely they could give us mastery of the air."
"No, dear. A spaceship is not an airship. Of course, there's the Jeanne d'Arc technique . . ." She turned to Commandante Pearson. "I was with Commandante
Lyon—Junior Pilot I was—that time on the Moon . . ."
"No, Carrie," said Wilma Pearson, "I wouldn't allow it."
"Wouldn't you, dearie?" Her voice became acid. "I must remind you, Miss Pearson, that I am in command of this expedition."
"I support Commandante Pearson," said Claire. Her face was white. "I support Commandante Pearson and I am sure that most of the officers will be with us."
"You're talking in riddles," cried Adelie. "What is this Jeanne d'Arc technique?"
"I forbid you to answer," snapped the Commandante.
"Pray to your God that you never find out, Miss Dale," said Commandante Pearson.
"So we're to take it, ladies," said the Colonel, "that you have a secret weapon up your sleeves, something so horrible that there is a reluctance to use it. But it will be used if the circumstances justify it . . ."
"Yes," said Commandante Willis, glaring at the others.
"Meanwhile, Your Holiness, have we anything up our sleeves?"
"We have," said Adelie, "as you know, Colonel. If all has gone well, even though Albany has command of the air, we have command of the river."
"Not guns," said Captain Munro, "not rockets . . . The Bishop would never sanction . . ."
"As you say, Captain, the Bishop would never sanction guns or rockets. Even so . . ."
"You're talking in riddles now," said Commandante Willis.
"Are we?" asked Adelie sweetly. "We were preparing for this war long before you outsiders came blundering in, and we're not entirely helpless. And I assure you, Captain Munro, there's no need for you to look shocked. We are the custodians of the law, and we keep the law ..."
The door opened, and one of the white robed Gospel Singers came in, bowing to her superior, handing her the tiny cylinder of a pigeon post message. Carefully Adelie drew the flimsy paper from its container, unrolled it, spread it on the table. Behind her, Colonel Lafayette read the message over her shoulder.
"No, Commandante," said Adelie, "we're not entirely helpless. Sword of the Lord, Fiery Cross and Dark Angel have passed Point Macdonald."
We, Claire and I, were told to leave then. We were, both of us, more than a little hurt. Claire, after all, was second-in-command of Eve Curie, if not of the expedition, and I was representing Captain Beynon of Richmond Queen.
Together we walked to the gangway.
"Of course," said Claire, "I'm in the doghouse with Carrie. She never has liked me. But I was right in opposing the use of the Jeanne d'Arc technique, and so was Commandante Pearson."
"What is it?" I asked.
She said, "I'm sorry. I can't tell you. Any more than you can tell me what those ships are with the funny names. Your girlfriend was very bucked when she got the news about them."
"I can't tell you," I said, "because I don't know. I used to be able to say that I knew the name of every ship on the river—but those are new ones to me."
We walked down the brow to the wharf. Claire returned the salute of the sentry on duty. We paused there for a few seconds.
"Goodnight," I said. "It's been nice knowing you."
"Where are you going to now? Not back to Richmond Queen}"
"No. Somebody will find me a bunk aboard Memphis Belle for the night."
She said, "The way things are boiling up, it may be some time before we see each other again—if we ever do. What about coming aboard Eve Curie? I'll be able to find you a drink."
"Not tea," I protested.
"No. Not tea." She laughed.
"But . . . Your Commandante . . ."
"Damn the Commandante and her No Fraternization rule! I've been treated like a small girl tonight, and . . ."
"Even so, I'd hate to see you get into trouble."
"Aren't we all in trouble, every last one of us, right now?"
I looked at Claire, at this stranger from a strange world. But was she a stranger? She was very close as we walked together, but with not even our hands touching, from the river to the spaceships, to the shining silver tower that was Eve Curie.
Repairs were in progress. Scaffolding clung to the long, slim sleekness of the big ship; intense blue arcs sputtered an
d flared, sputtered and died. There was the noise of hammering.
The cradle was on the ground at the foot of the long ladder up to the airlock. Claire stepped into the flimsy contraption, motioned me to follow. The spacewoman on duty flashed her torch upwards, the wire above us tightened and, smoothly, we began to rise.
The airlock guard raised her eyebrows as I followed Claire into the ship. Claire answered her salute, then ignored her, led the way through alleyways and up ladders. At last we reached her cabin. It was small—far smaller than mine aboard Richmond Queen—but a miracle of compactness. There was a narrow bunk, and a well-padded settee conforming to the curvature of the shell. A door led into a tiny bathroom.
I sat on the settee and watched her as she took a bottle and two glasses from a locker under the bunk. She filled the small tumblers, handed me one. She asked, a little bitterly, "What toast shall we drink? To a glorious victory? To Imperial Earth? To Beulah Land? Or what?"
"To us," I said, somehow knowing that it was the right answer.
To us . . .
And that was the start of it. The loneliness that each of us had been feeling was gone now.
And then we were sipping fresh drinks and smoking cigarettes and she was looking at me, squinting her eyes a little against the smoke.
She said, with an assumed toughness, "You're attractive. They don't make 'em like that back on Earth any more. The last real men we had—well, they bought theirs in the Jeanne d'Arc affair . . ."
I dragged at my cigarette. The smoke was dry, unsatisfying. I said, "I think that I love you, Claire. But it's rather hopeless . . ."
"Why?" she demanded. "Oh, I come from a different world, I know. And you would never fit into that world. But I could fit into yours. I can adapt. I could cook and sew and mend for you. I could . . ."
"And you'd hate it after a while," I told her. "Where you come from, you're one of the Lord's Anointed, riding high and proud over the common herd. And you're the second-in-command of a star-ship, with forces obedient to the lightest touch of your fingers that I could never hope to begin to understand . . ."
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