Star Winds

Chapter SIX

Zhorga’s prediction proved correct and the Wandering Queen journeyed on through calm ether for the remaining distance to Mars. The temperature dropped sharply and the ship grew bitterly cold. He gave permission for braziers to be lit which burned chak, a combustible charcoal-like preparation which gave off heat but no stupefying fumes or irritant smoke.

There was ample time to make good the damage done by the space dragon. The midmast had cracked and so was cut down, the sails being redistributed among the remaining spars as best as could be managed. Zhorga reckoned he still had sail power enough. Mars was smaller than Earth and so had less gravity to contend with—it was only the shock wave that worried him.

The target planet became first a glowing ruby, then a red disk which Zhorga studied through his spyglass, and at last a full-blown world floating ahead of them, in its own way as fascinating a sight as Earth. At closer range its fiery redness mellowed, and was relieved by other features—the glittering white and blue of the half-frozen polar seas, the clouds of various types: white for water vapor, orange (like dyed cotton wool) for atmospheric dust, and gray for the sooty by-products of the air fires which showed up against the general background as blotches of a deeper, maroon red. Zhorga explained that these burning areas had been ignited in ancient times to release warmth and breathable air onto the planet, for once it had been uninhabitable.

The hazy dark triangle of Syrtis Major was easy to find, but he searched it in vain for any sign of Kars, its major city. At length, however, the planet became like a vast wall and it was time to act. He ordered all crewmen lashed in their places, and all sail taken in, so that the galleon coasted in free fall.

Then he waited for the telltale signs. Eventually they came, chiefly a rocking to and fro of the vessel as the first ripples of the shock wave lapped against the furled silk.

Deeper into the wave he would harness these retroactive ripples, using them to slow the ship down and make it safe for her to enter the atmosphere.

He unfurled one small sail: the aft topgallant. For a second or two it flapped, then filled with the retroactive eddy as though trapping a fall of water and bellied toward the deck, which in response tilted sternward.

The red wall which was Mars swung, tilted vertiginously, and vanished beneath the hull as the topgallant turned the ship through a hundred and eighty degrees like a weathercock turning in the wind. She was now falling Marsward bottom first, and for the first time in months the sun shone directly on the deck—a sun shrunk to half size, giving off a wan, clear light.

Zhorga ordered more sails cautiously unfurled. The shock wave snatched at them, buffeting and shaking the galleon with terrifying force. Agonized, he wondered if the tackles could take the treatment. Already the deceleration was bearing him down toward the deck. But soon the whole sail canopy had been unfurled and the galleon was on full brake.

Gasping, crushed by the thunderous deceleration, those on board lay stretched out on deck. The timbers groaned and protested, and the ordeal went on and on and on, seemingly without end.

It was, in fact, impossible to gauge its length, for no one stayed conscious. Zhorga was not sure how many times he blacked out, how many times he dimly recovered his senses to find the ship shaking and shuddering all around him. He only knew that, in the end, he became aware of a series of decided bumps, as if the vessel were bouncing down a flight of steps. This, he decided later, betokened the ship’s passage through the shock wave’s inner isoclines, for suddenly everything became marvelously calm. The deceleration slackened and became merely mild. The sails no longer vibrated or rucked wildly.

The ship was through the shock wave’s leading fracture zone. Here the wave manifested as an easy swell, making it an easy matter to control the ship’s rate of descent. Zhorga, trying to bring life back into his aching limbs, grinned with triumph. Far from being the most dangerous maneuver he had attempted, the deceleration had proved in many respects to be the easiest He had made it!

The ship swooped over Mars, moving southward away from the dead center of the shock wave. Shortly she encountered the beginnings of the normal circum-planetary flow, the sort of ether movement Zhorga understood best. He ordered the crew to dismantle the sail canopy and prepare for aerial flight.

Masts, booms and yards shifted jerkily into position. Zhorga was so intent on the operation that he was not the first to spot the object that came hurtling round the curve of the planet, and which expanded rapidly from a tiny wedge into a long elegant shape. When it was pointed out to him, all he could do was stare.

It was a ship, orbiting in free fall below the violence of the shock wave, all sail taken in. But what a ship! She was, he judged, nearly a quarter mile in length, and at first she seemed so strange, her appearance so unexpected, that he was confused.

Abruptly she put out a sail, an oddly-shaped sheet of silk, and with incredible skill altered course to go flashing by the Wandering Queen at close quarters. Now her immensity was overpowering and her length seemingly endless. Her burnished wood shone in the sun, and her decks seemed jeweled, bedecked with satins and velvets. Colors glowed along her hull, which was decorated with unfamiliar designs. At her stern a stiff pennant bearing a black emblem added to her outlandish appearance.

Her design owed nothing to seagoing or airgoing influences. Her tiered decks would have made aerodynamic nonsense. This was a ship built for space alone. What was more, her masts and booms were so unbelievably long—longer even than the ship herself—that the vast expanses of silk they could presumably carry would have attained speeds too great even for interplanetary travel.

Such enormous speeds were useful in only one area: travel from star to star. This was an interstellar ship.

Zhorga was stunned. He had heard of these interstellar leviathans, of course, but never in his life had he expected to see one. What could be her business on Mars?

In a fragment of time she had dwindled into the distance—but as she did so she seemed to eject a smaller part of herself, which sprouted brilliant blue ether silk and advanced toward the Wandering Queen again, swiftly catching up with the galleon and pacing her a short distance away.

The daughter craft reminded Zhorga of a dragonfly. Its sails resembled a dragonfly’s double wings, being extended on flexible rods which could be warped, curved and twisted by means of control lines. The hull was long and black, except for two transparent domes within which figures could be seen peering across at the Earth ship. Like a dragonfly, too, it could hover and dart, displaying perfect control. Zhorga realized that he faced a sailing technique beyond his wildest dreams.

Zhorga tore his gaze away from the sight. The task of adjusting spars and rigging still had to be completed. Stalking across the deck, he attracted the attention of Clabert, and managed to get the work back under way.

The new activity seemed to displease those aboard the dragonfly. The craft spat out a glimmering flare which stitched a magnesium-bright necklace across the bows of the Wandering Queen, which by now had almost adopted the attitude of aerial flight. In the forward dome, the watching figures gesticulated across at the galleon, pointing upward and astern.

Zhorga easily guessed their meaning. They wanted him to accompany the dragonfly to a rendezvous with the mother ship. But how could he? He did not have that kind of maneuverability. Could they not see he was practically helpless to go against the ether current, Mars’s version of the slipstream?

He signaled Clabert to continue and soon all was in readiness to enter the atmosphere. A second glowing missile crossed the stem of the ship. Zhorga realized glumly that he had no choice but to hope that the captain of the dragonfly would be content to follow the Wandering Queen down, and would forebear from doing her any damage.

But he had reckoned without the impetuosity of certain of his crew, who had received lessons galore from their master on rashness. Unseen by Zhorga, Bruge, Small and Patchman levered one of the bombards out of its storage pit, loaded, primed and fired it, all in the space of a minute.

The ball missed the dragonfly proper, but tore a rent in one of the silken wings. Aghast, Zhorga yelled futilely in his helmet, but the dragonfly’s response came almost immediately. Its third glowing shot hit the Wandering Queen amidships and exploded with a dazzling blare of light.

Zhorga distinctly heard a soft WHUMPH through the brass of his headpiece. Momentarily he was blinded. Then his vision cleared to see that a number of side strakes were smashed, and a section of deck lay propped against the rail, having come adrift from its beams.

On the foredeck, the fighting spirit was unabated. By now both bombards had been manhandled onto their firing platforms. They were fired as fast as they could be reloaded, all balls going wide. In return, the dragonfly sent yet another fire-dart which fell among the rigging and devastated the spars, scattering fragments of wood, rope and silk in all directions.

And then a rapid whisper of air against the sides of the hull signaled the end of the battle. The ship was entering the atmosphere.

Mars’s air was in a sense artificial, being produced by the air fires (though these had burned for centuries and could not be put out). The continuous addition of phlogistonic gases from the burning areas was offset by a boiling off, or evaporation, of air from the top of the atmosphere, which consequently met space abruptly, not gradually as did Earth’s. Almost, the atmosphere had a surface of its own, and the Wandering Queen was now plunging into that surface.

It had been Zhorga’s intention to skim the atmosphere, dropping into it as he got the feel of the local ether currents. Now it was too late. With so many sails gone, or in tatters, control was lost, and there was little that he could do to take effective command anyway.

The susurration intensified. Density, Zhorga knew, would increase rapidly. The desperadoes at the bombards gave up the fight and scrambled to return to their posts as the galleon swayed under the impact of rushing air, scudding along as if driven by a storm.

The sound of the atmosphere became a buffeting roar. Down and down fluttered the Wandering Queen, spiraling and corkscrewing with the aerodynamics of a sycamore seed. It was only her inherent airworthiness that gave her any chance at all—that and the efforts of groups and individuals who stubbornly hurled themselves onto capstans and windlasses, using their instincts amid the chaos to try to bring the ship some measure of stability. When she was only two or three miles from the ground some windsail was released; temporarily it brought the ship out of her spin, sending her lurching crabwise in a stiff breeze. For a minute Zhorga thought a controlled landing might be possible after all, but the damage among the spars was too great. The ship skidded around the Martian sky. She dipped, and entered into a steep, curved descent.

The crash, when it came, was a prolonged, titanic thunder. Timbers, masts, spars and sails shattered, splintered, tore. Zhorga, like everyone else who was not actually killed, was knocked cold.

In the restricted view through his faceplate, Rachad saw that he lay on gritty soil. His head ached abominably—not just from the knock he had received from the inside of his brass helmet, but also because his backpack was nearly extinguished and the air inside his suit was foul.

He struggled to sit up, anxiously feeling himself for broken bones, and discovering none, applied himself to unscrewing his helmet. At last the headpiece came off; thankfully he drew in a lungful of cold, thin air with a slightly burnt odor, not at all strange to him after the acrid chemical air he had been breathing.

Unsteadily he came to his feet.

So here he was standing on Mars, he thought shakily. The pull of the planet seemed oddly burdening after so much time in space. Evidently he had been thrown from the Wandering Queen on impact, for he was still attached to his lifeline, which led to the wreckage of the ship. For a while he stared at this wreckage. The crash had almost completely crushed the galleon, scattering timbers over the surrounding ground. A few remaining spars leaned crazily, trailing sail.

Bodies lay unmoving. Casks and demijohns from the cracked-open hold spilled their contents onto the sand. It seemed to Rachad’s numbed mind, as he gazed at the scene, that he was the sole survivor.

He turned to survey the landscape. The ship appeared to have come down in a semi-desert region. He saw a rock-strewn plain, the sandy ground ranging in color from reddish-brown to orange and dotted here and there with stunted shrubs. Beyond the horizon there jutted up a range of hills and scaurs.

The sky was mauve, shading from grayish-pink to purple. Near the mid-heaven was the wan, half-size sun, casting a gentle, undecided light, and if one looked, one could make out glimmering stars.

Altogether it was a world sufficiently novel in appearance to hold considerable charm, albeit an alien charm, but Rachad was unable to take pleasure in the sight. He unhooked his safety line and wondered unhappily where he might be. Certainly nowhere near the city of Kars, and probably not even in the region known as Syrtis Major.

Behind him he heard the sound of falling timber. Captain Zhorga, unhelmeted like himself, was emerging from the wreck. Rachad hurried to meet him, but Zhorga ignored him and immediately bent to unscrew the helmet of the first body he came to.

With a start Rachad realized that he had been negligent. He was not the sole survivor, and his inaction might be condemning others to suffocation. He hurried to copy Zhorga, who grunted with pleasure to see him.

“I might have known you would come through all right,” he congratulated sourly.

“A pity about your ship, Captain.”

Zhorga sighed, and spared a glance for his ruined merchantman. She, at least, would never take to the air again. But he judged there was enough timber and silk to build some sort of flying raft to explore the surrounding countryside, and perhaps to ferry his men and goods to the nearest town. Thoughts of that, however, would have to wait. His first duty was to his dead and injured.

There was more movement from within the wreck. Clabert and Patchman appeared. Zhorga went over and talked with them.

Rachad pulled off a helmet. The man inside was Boogle and he was dead, his neck broken.

More men were stirring, climbing to their feet groaning and looking about them with awe. Rachad straightened, and then he heard a familiar noise—a whistling noise, the interference effect of a ship sailing too close to the ground.

Something long and dark went hurtling by overhead. It was the dragonfly, sails outstretched, its pointed tail trailing like a sting. It executed a neat turn, swooped, and put down with poise and precision on the gravelly soil.

Between them Zhorga and Rachad had by now checked all the bodies that still lay motionless on this side of the ship, and had found three who breathed and three who did not. Rachad retreated toward Zhorga, as did most others who were able to walk. The air captain glowered at the alien craft as a ramp dropped from the side of the dragonfly. A party of about eight to ten men, marching with springy step, emerged and advanced in a squad.

All but the leader, who carried a holstered pistol, bore long-barreled guns with bell-shaped muzzles. And they wore spacesuits—elegant garments, slim as cat-suits, made of some silky, deep purple material, the backpacks molded into them and making only slight humps, an armorial device—a rampant star beast—stitched on each man’s breast. The helms were likewise close-fitting, the faceplates a single curved piece of tinted glass.

The squad halted. The leader stepped forward, and with a flick of his wrist slid back his apparently flexible faceplate.

The face that stared at Zhorga with steady blue eyes was of a man about thirty. A confident, military sort of face, sporting a neat brush moustache. “Why did you ignore my instructions?” the officer inquired incisively, in a guttural but fluid accent unfamiliar to Zhorga. “Why did you open fire on me?”

Zhorga spluttered his indignation before answering. “Ignore?” he said in a strangled voice. “How in hell could I—”

He took a hold on himself. “What do you mean by shooting down a peaceful merchantman?” he said angrily. He spread his arm to indicate the scene of destruction. “Just take a look at what you’ve done! Do you know who we are? We are Earthmen! We’ve just completed the crossing from Earth—the first to do so for two generations. And the first thing that happens when we finally make it is that we get smashed up by you!”

“From Earth?” the officer echoed. He looked suspiciously at Zhorga, and seemed puzzled. “The sunward planet? I would hardly have thought your vessel fit for such a journey. I was sure you were Martians, trying some stupid attack on the Bucentaur.”

He sauntered past Zhorga, suddenly noticing the bottles, chests and bales that were scattered over the ground. He kicked at a cask. He raised his eyebrows.

“Trade goods,” he remarked on a note of surprise.

Zhorga was silent The officer returned to him. “Well, I suppose anything is possible. At any rate, we’ll soon get the truth out of you. I’m taking you all up to the Bucentaur. Baron Matello’s ship,” he added, seeing Zhorga’s frown.

Bruge, his temple discolored and swollen by a massive bruise, moved closer to Zhorga. “Tell these murderers to get lost, Captain. All we want is to be left to go about our business.”

The officer bristled. Zhorga, nervously aware of the bell-muzzled weapons he faced, coughed ostentatiously. “I have many dead and badly hurt,” he complained.

“All the more reason to cooperate with me,” the officer said briskly. “On the Bucentaur your injured will be attended by the baron’s excellent physicians.” Suddenly he became impatient. “Come now, Captain—you are hundreds of miles from any settlement. Just what do you think you are going to do? Mars is not a hospitable place, I assure you.”

Zhorga, in fact, was attracted by the prospect of seeing the fabulous starship at close quarters. “What about my trade goods?” he demanded.

The officer laughed. “We are not in the shipping business, Captain. The baron will decide what will become of you. Now—”

Zhorga hurriedly deliberated, then nodded, trying to give the proceedings an air of negotiation. “We’ll come with you,” he said.

The star officer regarded himself as a gentleman. Without argument he allowed time to bury the dead, which was done in shallow graves, heaped over with the crumbly Martian soil.

Litters for the badly injured were improvised from bits of planking. Of more than forty who had set out with Zhorga from Olam, twenty-six men limped or were carried into the hold of the dragonfly. On entering the craft, Zhorga realized that it was actually an armed lighter for ferrying men or goods between the starship and the ground, for the hold was more roomy than he would have guessed from outside. He peered up a ladder that led to the foremost of the two transparent domes, and was surprised to see that the coxswain was seated, and worked an elaborate arrangement of wheels, levers and pedals.

Could one man alone really fly a craft of this size, he wondered? Where would he find the strength to warp all the sails and hold them against the ether?

A star soldier nudged him along. Captors and captured alike hunkered down with backs braced against the walls, gripping handholds set into the floor while the injured were strapped down to similar holds. Almost before they had settled themselves the ramp was closed and the floor lifted under them, subjecting them to the ear-piercing shriek of the ether (though it was somewhat less shrill, Zhorga noticed, than it would have been on Earth) before they shot aloft and streaked spaceward.

Why, this vessel was practically crewless, Zhorga told himself; How was it done? Presumably with the help of very ingenious mechanical devices, he deduced. Reduction gears and multiple pulleys, ratchets, escapements and slip-levers. The running rigging was probably controlled by mechanisms as complicated as the inside of a clock.

After a while the rush of air against the hull ceased. They were in space. Perhaps half an hour later there was a series of thuds and shocks that told Zhorga the lighter was docking.

They were aboard the Bucentaur.