Star Winds

Chapter FIVE

For all Zhorga’s assurances, the voyage of the Wandering Queen continued to be fraught with difficulty. The continuous beating of the sun on the ship’s bottom caused her interior to become stiflingly hot, but what was worse, softened the caulking, making it bubble and leak. The crewmen were obliged to spend much of their time making good these breaches, and some became so terrified of asphyxiation that they tried to sleep in their space-suits, only to be forcibly dragged from them for the sake of conserving the powdered air.

Zhorga became concerned at the damage the heat was doing to the costly essences and expensive wines included in his cargo—damage which, he now saw with hindsight, could have been prevented if a reflective screen had been fitted under the hull. But annoying though this was, there were more serious worries. For one thing, chasing Mars across the sky was proving not nearly so simple as he had imagined. His first attempt, guided by orrery and astrolabe, to make a course change by bracing a few sails had ended in the ship swinging wildly off-center, forcing him to issue a hasty countermand. The rules of aerial flight, he was discovering ruefully, were not all good for space.

But gradually he was getting the hang of it. The sun receded and the ship cooled, and life aboard her settled into a routine. Fear faded in most into a mulish resentment, even to growing pride. And there were always a few to whom every moment was a glorious adventure…

Blue silk billowed and strained all around Rachad. Occasionally the sails rippled as they met some tiny irregularity in the ether flow and the ship trembled ever so slightly. Mostly, however, everything was rock-steady. It required an effort of the imagination to realize that the ship was moving at all.

Having finished his daily task of checking tacks and pulleys, he was making his way along a yardarm. Below him, the maindeck was deserted. Overhead he could see Mars, glowing like a red warning lamp, and to one side, as if below the level of the deck, was an equally brilliant blue-white star he knew was Earth.

Suddenly something seemed to flash past him, so close as to make his heart jump. A meteor, he decided apprehensively—the one accident a spacefarer could do nothing to avoid. Making sure his safety line was clear, he stepped off the foot-rope, let go the yard, and floated gently down until hitting the deck. Then he unhooked his line, coiled it neatly and clipped it in place near the deck lockers.

It happened again. A flash, a fleeting impression of something hurtling aslant the deck, this time narrowly missing the midmast.

A swarm, he thought with fright. A third object approached, more slowly, visible as a pale white ball which thudded into the deck, splintered the planking, and rolled before coming to rest against the airshed.

Rachad saw Clabert and two others working forward. They seemed to have noticed nothing, the sound of the impact being conducted poorly, perhaps, through their lead-soled boots and mingling with the thuds and thumps one heard when busy in a spacesuit. It occurred to him to warn them, but instead he turned to peer in the direction from which the meteors were coming, and thought to detect a whole swarm of tiny glints, distinguishable from the starry background by their motion.

He hurried to the white ball and picked it up. It was about the size of a large melon, very regular in shape, and not at all what he would have expected a meteor to be. Judging by the ease with which he was able to move it, he judged it to have the density of wood rather than stone, and its pale rind-like surface made him think of a hard-shelled fruit. One side seemed partly decomposed and was friable under the pressure of his hands.

Very odd, Rachad thought. He decided to give the object closer inspection. He tucked it under his arm, passed through the airshed, and made his way to the mess deck.

He now messed with the rest of the crew, having been unceremoniously booted out of the sternhouse by Zhorga once the men seemed more settled. Few of them were friendly toward him, however, and he met only hostile glances as he walked in, set down the ball on his bunk, and unscrewed his helmet.

The stench of the crew quarters invaded his nostrils, but within seconds he ceased to notice the familiar thick odor. He unfastened the suit’s toggles and pulled apart the self-sealing inner lining, ducking his head through the brass ring and pulling the suit down over his shoulders. He withdrew his arms from the sleeves and picked up the ball with his bare hands. It was as cold as ice—colder. It seemed to suck the heat from him. He dropped it back on the bunk, his fingers numb.

Then he became aware of Boogle standing over him. The sailor spoke in a hoarse whisper. “What you got there, boy?”

“It dropped on the deck,” Rachad said, blowing on his aching fingers.

“So that was it… we heard the thump…” For once Boogle’s bulging eyes were fixed in concentration as he leaned closer to the pallidly shining ball. Then, with a hysterical shriek, he staggered back.

“Oh God! Look at this, mates!” he called out breathlessly. “He’s copped a space dragon’s egg!”

Rachad blinked, and gave a nervous laugh. “Nonsense!” he declared. “Space dragons don’t exist. This is a piece of rock, that’s all, that probably drifted in from the Girdle of Demeter.”

He fell silent, uncomfortably aware of the crowd that rapidly surrounded him in answer to Boogle’s cries. He caught a whiff of superstitious panic.

Boogle pointed with a trembling finger. “Don’t you recognize it, any of you?” he hooted. “A space dragon’s egg, that’s what it is!”

“It’s a dragon’s egg, all right,” another voice said hotly. “I saw one in Indie, once—de-animated.”

“Well this one won’t be!” Boogle snapped back excitedly. “Our little Captain’s pet has brought a dragon into the ship, that’s what he’s done! And we’re all done for!”

“Get rid of it!”

Boogle’s last words had ended on a wail, and echoing wails answered them. The panic mounted. Men went for spacesuits. Some so much forgot themselves as to dash for the companionway unprotected.

“All right!” Rachad yelled in exasperation. “I’ll get rid of it!”

He picked up the ball, intending for some reason to transfer it to the table before suiting up and taking it back topside. The ball was no longer cold; in fact it seemed improperly warm, and in the next moment or two a network of fine cracks appeared on its surface, which then broke open. A gray tentacle, ending in a pincer which clicked audibly, emerged and waved in the air.

With an involuntary cry of horror Rachad dropped the space egg. Around him were screams and a general rush.

“Don’t be fools!” he shouted, nonplussed. “A thing that size can’t hurt you.”

But he was proved wrong for the second time. The monster remained small only for as long as it took it to emerge from the egg. It seemingly had no central body. It was a matted mass of tentacles, of lumps and nodes. Each tentacle was either pronged, pincered or bladed, and many of them were also barbed and suckered.

Defying any laws of matter Rachad could envisage, it swelled and grew, the tentacles thickening, growing stronger, lashing about them and seizing the legs of the table, which it shook in an impressive show of strength.

And it continued to grow, with lightning speed. Later Rachad remembered little of the next few minutes. In fact, he was among the first to be suited and to go clattering along the short corridor to the companionway. Others attempted to pull their suits on as they ran, while some had left their helmets behind and, too afraid to go back for them, cowered in the corridor together with those lacking suits at all, unable to go either way.

Rachad, however, joined the press at the airshed (which was so hastily operated that both doors were momentarily levered open at the same time, only to be slammed shut again, fail-safe fashion, by the internal air pressure). The crew streamed out onto the deck, some climbing the ratlines, others huddling together behind whatever cover they could find.

Taking himself to the port rail, Rachad looked out again. The white flecks were more easily seen now. They were closer. And even as he looked, one burst into life!

At first it was only a burgeoning patch, writhing and slowly expanding. But then it seemed to explode into a fiery smoke which billowed and spread and roiled, towering over the Wandering Queen, until finally it took on definite shape and became solid.

And now it stood revealed as a giant version of the tentacled creature on the mess-deck—a monster huge enough to crush the ship to matchwood!

It seemed aware of the passing galleon, for it came onward, propelling itself by some means unknown, blotting out space and becoming even more vast as it approached, its tentacles jerking this way and that in a frantic dance as it reached for its prey.

Rachad was stupefied. The monster, he guessed, was three or four times the size of the ship, and any one of its pincers could have snipped a mast easily. In color it was predominantly gray, but the skin had an oily sheen which seemed to glow with hundreds of transient hues.

While Rachad was frozen at the rail, his shipmates clung to one another or else fell to their knees, sobbing uncontrollably inside their suits. In no time at all the space monster was upon them, expanding about them, the stars glimmering through its reticulated body. Its tentacles reached out to embrace the ship—

Then there was a flash, a flare, an explosion of light. The galleon rocked, tipped, began to spin.

And it was over. The ship restabilized, her attitude corrected at once by the ether’s constant action. Of the space monster, Rachad’s dazzled eyes could see nothing.

He passed a hand over his faceplate, forgetting for a moment that he could not rub his eyes. How could such a huge beast disappear so completely? How, indeed, could it grow so incredibly swiftly in the first place?

He blinked hard, and when his vision cleared and he looked about him, he discovered, at least, what had caused the explosion.

The space monster had been demolished by a single shot from one of the bombards. Bosun Clabert stood on the foredeck, his hand resting on the weapon, which somehow he had lifted onto its firing platform. His other hand held a lighted taper, of the kind that would burn even in the void.

Even he must have been surprised by the result of his action. Rachad turned away, staring into space. The distant milky glints, he noticed, were still there, sweeping slowly by.

After a while of apprehensive waiting those on deck began to wonder why the ship had not yet been burst asunder by the monster left swelling down below. There was conferring with Captain Zhorga under the air balloon. He decided instantly to investigate.

Since most were loath to join the expedition between-decks, Rachad found it easy to attach himself to the party. Zhorga and Clabert went first, ready with pistols. The others carried sabers, alert to chop at tentacles.

There was no need. The monster had grown to the size of a pony, and then died. Its tentacles were scattered forlornly about the mess-deck, and were already beginning to corrode and shrivel, looking like dead wood.

As they removed their helmets they were met by a new smell that had added itself to the usual stench: a smell of rottenness, sweet and corrupt. Rachad prodded the creature with his blade. The flesh of it flaked away, like ancient paper.

“These beasts must be without substance,” Zhorga mumbled. “Blown up, merely, like paper balloons. But for what reason?”

Clumsily Rachad knelt and tore away a piece of tentacle. Even while he held it, he saw that it was crumbling, fading. Soon the whole creature would be nothing but dust.

“Homunculi,” he mused. “I should have thought of it before.”

He straightened. “Yes, that has to be it. The creatures are solid enough, Captain—for the brief time they live, that is. But they are not natural. They are, in fact, alchemical weapons left over from ancient wars.”

Bruge grimaced in perplexity. “Alchemical?”

Rachad nodded. “In ancient times it was known how to generate synthetic beings, such as small, manlike beings known as homunculi. Also bizarre beasts which were used in battle.”

“It makes sense,” Zhorga rumbled. “Space warfare was rife at one time, that’s well known. Strewing these eggs in the path of an enemy ship would be a good tactic. Presumably they lie dormant until a ship comes near and triggers them off, then they burst into life and attack in the manner we’ve witnessed.”

Rachad nodded gravely, pleased with his knowledge. Some of the semi-legendary lore he had heard from Gebeth was useful after all.

Bruge seemed doubtful. “Small threat if they are so easily disposed of,” he said.

“After all this time they must be almost exhausted of life force,” Rachad answered. “Long ago they would have been more formidable—though even then, creatures that grew at such an unnatural rate can’t have lived for more than a brief time. The type of matter they are made of is a product of alchemy, compounding fresh mass out of itself but quickly collapsing again.”

A grunt came from Patchman. “It’s lucky this one hadn’t the strength to reach its full size,” he observed, indicating the beast on the deck, “or we wouldn’t be talking together now.”

At this remark Zhorga nodded, and looked sternly at Rachad. “It’s a rule of space travel, young man, never to take anything onto the ship until you know with absolute certainty what it is.”

Rachad, his conceit damaged, hung his head, as far as he was able in his suit. He coughed.

“I don’t want to spread alarm,” he said, “but I spotted hundreds of space eggs floating not far from us. Even if they came close enough, though, I doubt if scarcely any of them would have the power to germinate.”

Despite his reassurances there were mutterings. The fear so recently banished reappeared. Zhorga turned to his followers.

“I’ll take a look at this myself. The six of us may have to arrange a special watch by the bombards for a while. But not a word of what you’ve just heard to anyone else, understand? The slobs we have crewing for us fall to pieces at the first hint of trouble.”

They nodded. And without another word the six began to chop up the disintegrating monster, ready to be carried above and cast over the side.

When his watch ended Clabert reported to Zhorga’s cabin. He found the Captain poring over the chart table, having just prepared a new heliocentric horoscope. Near to hand was Gebeth’s orrery, meticulously brought up to date.

As Clabert entered he lay down the pair of dividers with which he had been checking distances. “And what mood are the men in now?” he asked wryly.

“They do what they’re told,” Clabert told him in a low voice. “But then they don’t have much choice. There’s nothing they can do—it’s too late for them to think of turning back now.” He paused. “Patchman and Small have taken the second watch forward. The others are below.”

“Still pretty scared, eh?”

“Yes, in spite of having it proved that space monsters aren’t anything supernatural.”

Zhorga chuckled without humor. “And all cursing their captain, as usual!” Crew dissatisfaction rarely bothered him. He knew from experience that he could simply browbeat most men into obedience, and that was his method.

“They’d be more frightened still if they knew what I know,” he said somberly. “Come and take a look at this.”

His stubby finger pointed to a mark he had made on the chart. “Here’s where we are, halfway between the orbits of Earth and Mars. Here’s Mars… and you’ll see how close our path will shortly take us to the trailer here.”

Clabert drew in his breath. Every planet generated a type of vortex known as a trailer, which it dragged along with it some millions of miles downsun.

Directly behind a planet, the ether flow tended to be relatively smooth. Nevertheless there were latent tensions which eventually broke out in a series of flurries and rapids, culminating in the large and dangerous etheric whirlpool.

“I thought we were going to miss that by a good margin,” he grumbled.

“So we were—but my calculations are off, of course, due to early discrepancies. We could still change course to give it a wide berth—but then we’d risk never catching up with Mars.” Zhorga rattled his fingers nervously on the table. “No, we shall have to run the flurry, I’m afraid. Bit of a nuisance. Still, there’s no evident danger. Just means we’ll pass too damn close to the vortex for comfort, that’s all.”

Both men were silent for a while. Both knew all too well what being caught in an ether vortex meant. There was no way out of it, except by discarding all silk, which meant being left adrift without sail power. Toward the center the forces were so intense that ether silk was broken up, first to shreds, and then to dust. The eye of the vortex then carried that dust along with it forever. If the Wandering Queen should ever be fated to arrive there, she would probably find a good many old wrecks waiting for her company.

“This is for your information only,” Zhorga rumbled. “So you’ll know what to expect. We’ll have trouble on our hands if the others get to hear of it. They’ll want to change course.”

“What about Bruge and his clique? Shouldn’t they know?”

Zhorga shook his head. “The fewer the better. Keep your mouth shut.”

Gloomily he rose and clomped in his lead footweights to the rear of the cabin, where he peered out of the slanted casements. It was strange, he thought. Space seemed so changeless and impassive. It gave no hint of the invisible, raging power that was propelling his little ship onward, either to riches or destruction.

“Well look—it’s the fine young lad who wanted to feed us to the dragon!”

Ignoring Boogle’s taunt, Rachad divested himself of his suit, put out the powder in his backpack, and climbed onto his bunk. Others who were seated round the long table looked up with sullen interest as Boogle followed him, grimacing into his face.

“Hope you enjoyed your star-gazing,” he hissed. “Maybe I’ll come up after you next time and make it permanent. All it needs is a knife to cut your line, and one good shove!”

“Shut up, and go away,” Rachad said wearily. Ever since the fight a few days ago with the space monster—still referred to by many as a dragon—some of the crew, led by Boogle, had begun to use him as a whipping boy to give vent to their fear and frustration, diverting to him the resentment they felt against Zhorga. Rachad did not think any real harm would befall him, but he was thinking of asking Zhorga to let him sleep in the sternhouse again.

“Leave him alone, Boogle, or you’ll answer to me,” Small called from the other end of the mess.

Boogle scowled down the table, then spoke to Rachad out of the corner of his mouth. “They say it was through talking to you the Captain got so set on this enterprise, alchemist. You put a spell on him, like as not. Well, I’ve lost good friends for it, and I’ll get you sooner or later. Here—Mars—I’ll find a way.”

“Boogle!” Small bellowed.

Reluctantly Boogle moved away, and Rachad lay back on his bunk, appalled by the man’s hatred.

He closed his eyes and shortly dozed off. He was not sure how much later it was that he woke up feeling that the bunk was shivering under him.

He sat up. The bunk was shivering. On the table, plates and utensils clattered and vibrated.

Then the whole ship began to sway. Side to side, up and down, as if she were caught in a wavering current, while at the same time she leaped forward, accelerating sharply.

He swung off his bunk, but his knees almost buckled under him with the unaccustomed weight, so harsh was the acceleration. There came a violent lurch. Utensils and other loose objects fell and rattled.

The lamps flickered. Rachad’s stomach contracted. He could hear the ends of the ship’s beams jiggling against one another, groaning and squealing, and he could imagine what that would do to the caulking—though the special pitch had a rubbery consistency that allowed for a certain amount of free play. He gripped a stanchion, and in common with everyone else present, looked about him in a questioning, wondering way.

Suddenly a trap door banged open at the farther end of the mess deck. Through it struggled Captain Zhorga, coming up from the hold where he had been inspecting the cargo. His face was livid, and even while he was only halfway through the trap door his gravelly voice smote through the room.

“Get on deck and take in the sail, every one of you! We’ve hit the rapids!”

At first there was no reaction, as if his words had no meaning. The men watched dumbly while he staggered to his feet and strode toward them, reaching for his space-suit.

“Don’t you understand?” he roared in fury. “It’s too soon! We’re headed for the trailer!”

This they did comprehend. There were gasps and throaty wails; then a strange silence, broken only by sobs and grunts of effort, as the men began to struggle into their suits. Zhorga, lashing up his toggles, approached Rachad.

“You too, boy. This is a real emergency.”

In a daze, Rachad began to pull on his canvas garment. “What happened?” he asked in a hushed tone. “We were supposed to miss it by a million miles!”

Zhorga pulled a face. “Gebeth’s chart gives the wrong damned position, I suppose!” he grated, telling the truth as far as he understood it, but neglecting to mention how fine he had tried to cut his course. “Get moving or we’re all finished.”

He rammed on his helmet, screwed it tight, and thrust a taper in Rachad’s hand. Rachad performed the service of lighting his backpack and the Captain lumbered off, the first to head for the airshed.

The crew poured onto the deck and scurried for the capstans. Zhorga was desperately hoping that, by clewing up all sail as quickly as possible, the rapids would lessen their hold on the vessel and her deadweight momentum would be enough to carry her past the vortex—through the rim of the vortex, even—without being dragged into it.

The gigantic degree of luck this would require, however, was not with him. The billowing, elaborate canopy had, indeed, begun to break up, and the star clouds were shining through the gaps, but most sails were still fullspread when the entire ship keeled over about twenty degrees.

The transition came so quickly that scarcely anyone or anything on board was disturbed. But everyone knew what it meant. It was like taking a curve at high speed, but with the deck tilting, compensating for the change in direction, so that the only physical effect was a sudden swing to one side coupled with a momentary increase in weight.

The Wandering Queen had been seized by the vortex. Mechanically the crew continued to work the windlasses, fighting the dawning realization that they were doomed. And bleakly Zhorga stared ahead of him, fancying he saw the stars move as the ship swept along on her new, inwardly spiraling path (though the turns of the spiral were so huge that the impression must have been in his imagination) and wondering what he could possibly do now.

Eventually as many as there was room for gathered under the air balloon, where it was possible to talk. The rest looked on from outside, hands pressed enviously against the transparent sheeting. For once Zhorga’s face was white as he stood facing his crew, helmet under one arm, his back to the cabin door. Many were openly weeping. Others raged impotently, shaking their fists at him but not daring to come closer.

Endpress’s face was distorted. “A fine testimony to your leadership, Captain!”

“Follow me, he said,” another blurted between ragged sobs, “I’ll see you through, I’ll take you all the way to Mars, he said, and instead we’re all going to die in the trailer…”

“We should have killed you in Olam!”

Finally Zhorga became impatient with the imprecations. “SHUT UP!” he roared. Then, in a lower tone: “I’ll get you out of this.”

Endpress’s response was a hysterical laugh. “How? No ship ever got out of the trailer!”

“I need a dozen good men,” Zhorga said. He glanced around him, peering into space. It seemed as if he were searching for something. He cleared his throat. “The rest of you can get below, where if’s safer, and wait. Five men I have already—Bruge, Patchman, Zataka, Small, and the bosun. Seven more. It will be dangerous work and I can’t even promise that you’ll live through it—but you’ll have a chance of saving the ship.”

“Bluff!” someone jeered. “It’s just bluff!”

Zhorga waited no longer. He waded into the crowd, struck the last speaker in the mouth with his canvas-covered fist, and then began grabbing and shoving, selecting the most stalwart and pushing them to one side where they were watched over by the flintlock-wielding Clabert.

There was surprisingly little resistance. They all knew from the look in Clabert’s eyes that he was ready to shoot down any one of them like a dog. “This should do it,” Zhorga gasped, panting. “The rest—get below decks and hang on for all you’re worth.”

“Captain! Take me too!” Rachad pushed his way forward, but Zhorga merely waved him back. “Sorry lad, no amateurs. Get below.”

Rachad turned away crestfallen. Zhorga entered his cabin and returned with his folding telescope. While the dismissed men made their way, silent and suspicious, to the mess deck, he put the spyglass to his eye and swept space to port, searching out something he had glimpsed a few minutes earlier.

There it was: a cloud of milky-white points, moving slowly against the starry background. He muttered to himself, his brow ridged in concentration, then turned to his skeleton crew.

They stared back at him, their faces displaying a frightened gauntness. He spoke to them in a gruff, mumbling voice, stumbling over his words.

“This is the end, you’re thinking, and maybe you’re right. But don’t give up yet. There’s still a chance for us, and we’re going to take it.”

He swallowed. “So now we’ll do a spot of real space sailing. You’ll work on the side windlasses, fore and aft, in groups of three. All you have to do is watch for my signals, and obey them, no matter what happens. Those of you I trust are armed, and if you see anyone desert his post or ignore a command, cut him down without delay.”

“You can depend on it,” Bruge rumbled.

“One more thing—use double safety lines. If things go right we’ll be tossed about a bit. And whatever happens, stick to where you are.”

One of the pressed men spoke up nervously. “Just what is going to happen, Captain?”

“You’ll see.”

Zhorga climbed to the quarterdeck from where he would direct the operation, and watched as the twelve, willing or not, went to their posts and readied themselves. His desperate gambit was about to begin.

In the swirling world of the vortex, maneuvering a sail-ship was not the type of proposition it would have been anywhere else. For practical purposes, in fact, it was virtually impossible. At present the ship swept on smoothly; the vortex was a well-ordered system and its in-turning stream scrupulously obeyed the pattern of forces that had given rise to it. But should she seek to escape the voracious whirlpool she would find the effort futile, and similarly, should she for some reason turn to head deeper into it she would soon encounter the sliding ridges, ripples and minor eddies that the progressive turns of the spiral produced as they surged against one another at different rates of travel. These turbulences would turn the ship back onto her former course: thus she was doomed to run the gamut, to spiral round and round, ever faster, on an ever-narrowing circuit, to destruction.

Within these strictly defined limits, however, there was room for a degree of mobility. At present the sails were lashed to their yards, even the minute area they presented being enough to keep the ship implacably in the power of the vortex. Zhorga gave the signal to unfurl a small mast on the starboard side, and as this was done the ship swung round and moved at a portward angle to the current.

Four stunsails were sufficient to steer the galleon. The Wandering Queen swayed, tossed in the tumultuous stream, as Zhorga guided her toward the swarm. The glints brightened; for all his tension, he breathed a sigh of relief. The eggs were within range!

Half an hour later he suddenly found himself surrounded by the egg swarm. The eggs drifted and hurtled by, some bouncing off the hull and deck. He replaced his helmet in case one should rupture the air balloon, and continued to peer anxiously to see if any of them would react to the ship’s presence.

Not all were absolutely sterile. Some burst into abortive life, sprouting insignificant creatures that lashed about themselves feebly before expiring. Then, when Zhorga had almost given up hope, there came what he had been waiting for.

Instinctively he threw his arm before his face. A writhing patch of nebulosity had blossomed into existence. In little more than a minute it had expanded and solidified into a full-grown monster—and, like its earlier brother, this monster moved toward the ship, sensing her, reaching toward the only mode of life it knew: to attack and destroy.

And Zhorga unhesitatingly gave the order for his men to steer the galleon straight for the heart of the lashing beast!

Even the best of them recoiled with horror when it was realized what was required of them. But only one broke and ran, loping with ten-foot strides back along the shed toward the airshed. Zhorga saw Clabert raise his pistol. A puff of smoke from the flintlock followed. The runner’s body jerked suddenly, and rammed against the airshed, then to go rolling across the deck and lie motionless.

Now the others hurried to obey Zhorga’s order, though whether they understood the purpose behind it was questionable. The ship turned toward the monster, which as it neared seemed to fill the sky. Zhorga clung to the lashed-down wheel to steady himself as the ship gathered speed. For hideous moments the frantic tentacles seemed to enclose her—but they were made to reach out for a fleeing prey, not to snatch at something coming in close. Miraculously, it seemed, she had slipped swiftly between them—and then she crashed into the web-like body!

The concussion was less shattering than Zhorga had feared. The monster yielded and vibrated. The Wandering Queen was like a great cumbersome insect caught in that web, and the beast seemed not to know that it could, if it chose, use its massive tentacles to pluck her out.

Yet the monster continued to charge on its former course, and though the galleon was not broken by the impact her change in momentum was bone-cracking. For all his strength, Zhorga was torn from the wheel and found himself flung hard against the thick covering of the air balloon, which mercifully held. For a while he was confused, and afterward deduced that he must temporarily have lost consciousness. He only knew that eventually he recovered his wits to find himself resting lightly on the deck, but with practically no discernible weight.

The monster was gone. It had disintegrated, its brief, truncated life had collapsed. But, as Zhorga took note of the almost imperceptible level of acceleration, and observed that the galleon had already swung lazily round so that her decks again lay beneath Mars, he knew that the space beast had served his purpose.

The basis of his suicidal strategy had been his reasoning that the creature was not composed of ether silk and so was unaffected by the vortex. It was simple chance, he had decided, that had sent the eggs drifting through this region. He had speculated that the monster’s dread strength might just be enough to tear the Wandering Queen free of the ensnaring current before she was drawn too deeply into its coils.

He had not seriously expected the plan to work. He had expected the galleon to be torn to pieces, bringing himself and his crew a quick death, instead of a lingering one in the eye of the whirlpool, full of misery and—what was worse from his point of view—recrimination.

He relaxed, feeling peaceful, basking in his triumph. The rest of the voyage, he told himself, would be relatively plain sailing. Until Mars was reached anyway.

He wondered if the brave men on the main deck had all survived, or if more had been added to the death toll so far.

A wry thought occurred to him.

They would be dying, he admitted sourly, in the cause of trade.