Land and Overland - Omnibus (73 page)

Toller nodded, gazing at Zavotle in affection. "So you think the flight is possible?"

"I'd say it might be done. Farland is many millions of miles away, and it is moving—we mustn't forget that it moves—but with plenty of the green and purple at our disposal we could overtake it."

"How many millions of miles are we talking about?"

Zavotle sighed. "I wish that
somebody
had brought science texts from Land, Toller—we have lost most of our store of knowledge, and nobody has had time to start rebuilding it. I have to go by memory, but I believe that Farland is twelve million miles from us at the nearest approach, and forty-two million when it's at the opposite side of the sun. Naturally, we would have to wait for it to come near."

"Twelve million," Toller breathed. "How can we think of flying a distance like that?"

"We can't! Remember that Farland moves. The ship would have to travel at an angle to meet it, so we have to think about flying perhaps eighteen million miles, perhaps twenty million, perhaps more."

"But the speeds! Is it possible?"

"This is no time to be faint-hearted." Zavotle took a pencil and a scrap of paper from his pouch and began to scribble figures. "Let us say that, because of our human frailties, the outward journey must be completed in not more than … um … a hundred days. That obliges us to cover perhaps 180,000 miles each day, which gives us a speed of … a mere 7,500 miles an hour."

"Now I
know
you are toying with me," Toller said. "If you considered the journey impossible you should have said so at the outset."

Zavotle raised both hands, palms outward, in a placatory gesture. "Calm yourself, old friend—I am not being frivolous. You have to remember that it is the retarding of the air, which increases according to the square of the speed, which holds our airships to a snail's pace and even limits the performance of your beloved jet fighters. But on the voyage to Farland the ship would be travelling in almost a vacuum, and would also be away from Overland's gravity, so it would be possible for it to build up quite an astonishing speed.

"Interestingly, though, air resistance could also
aid
the interplanetary traveller. If it weren't for the necessity of returning we could plunge the ship into Farland's atmosphere, jump clear of it when the speed had been reduced to an acceptable level, and descend to the surface by parachute.

"Yes, it's the necessity of coming back which forms the main stumbling block. That is the nub of the problem."

"What can be done?"

Zavotle sipped his wine. "It seems to me that we need … that we need a ship which can divide itself into two separate parts."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely! I visualise a command station as the basic vessel. Let's call it a voidship … no, a
spaceship
… to distinguish the type from an ordinary skyship. Something the size of a command station is necessary to accommodate the large stores of power crystals and all other supplies needed for the voyage. That ship, the spaceship, would fly from the weightless zone to Farland—but it could never make a landing. It would have to be halted just outside the radius of Farland's gravity, and it would have to hang there, stationary, until it was time for the return journey to Overland."

"This is like having wedges driven into one's brain," Toller complained, struggling to assimilate the shockingly new ideas. "Do you see the spaceship dispatching something like a lifeboat to the planetary surface?"

"Lifeboat? That's the general idea, but it would have to be a fully fledged skyship, complete with a balloon and its own power unit."

"But how could it be carried?"

"That's what I was getting at when I said the spaceship would have to be able to divide itself into two parts. Say the spaceship is made up of four or five cylindrical sections, just as a command station is now—the entire front section would have to be detached and converted back into a skyship for the descent. There would have to be an extra partition, and a sealable door, and…" Zavotle shuddered with pleasurable excitement and half-rose from his seat. "I need proper drawing materials, Toller—my mind is on fire."

"I'll have them brought for you," Toller said, motioning for Zavotle to sit down again, "but first tell me more about this dividing of the spaceship. Could it be done in the void? Would there not be a great risk of losing all the ship's air?"

"It would certainly be safer to do it within Farland's atmosphere, and easier as well—that's something I need to ponder over. It may be, if we are lucky, that the atmosphere is so deep that it extends beyond the radius of Farland's gravity, in which case the operation would be relatively straightforward. The spaceship would simply be hanging there in the high air. We could detach the skyship, inflate the balloon and connect the acceleration struts—all in a fairly routine manner. It is something which should be practised in our own weightless zone before the expedition starts.

"On the other hand, if the spaceship has to wait
outside
the atmosphere, the best course might be for it to descend briefly to a level where the air is breathable, and only then cast the skyship section adrift. The skyship would of course be falling while its balloon was being inflated, but—as we know from experience—the fall would be so gradual that there would be ample time to do all that was necessary. There is much to think about…"

"Including air," Toller said. "I presume the plan would be to use firesalt?"

"Yes. We know it puts life back into dead air, but we don't know how much would be needed to keep a man alive during a long voyage. Experiments will have to be done—because the quantity of salt we'll have to transport could be the principal factor in deciding the size of the crew."

Zavotle paused and gave Toller a wistful look. "It's a pity Lain isn't with us—we have need of him."

"I'll fetch the drawing materials." As Toller was leaving the room his memory conjured up a vivid image of his brother, the gifted mathematician who had been killed by a ptertha on the eve of the Migration. Lain had possessed an impressive ability to unveil nature's hidden machinations and predict their outcome, and yet even he had been seriously in error concerning some of the scientific discoveries made on the first flight from Land to the weightless zone. The mental image of him was a reminder of just how presumptuous and reckless was the plan to fly through millions of miles of space to a totally unknown world.

A man could very easily die attempting a journey like that,
Toller told himself, and almost smiled as he took the thought one step further.
But nobody would ever be able to say it had been a commonplace death…

"I'm trying to decide what irks me most about this Farland business," King Chakkell said, gazing unhappily at Toller and Zavotle. "I don't know if it's the fact that I'm being manipulated … or if it's the sheer lack of subtlety with which the manipulation is being conducted."

Toller put on an expression of concern. "Majesty, it dismays me to hear that I'm suspected of having an ulterior motive. My sole ambition is to plant the flag of…"

"Enough, Maraquine! I'm not a simpleton." Chakkell smoothed a strand of hair across his gleaming brown scalp. "You prate about planting flags as though they were capable of taking root unaided and producing some manner of desirable crop. What yield would I get from Farland? A meagre one, I'd say."

"The harvest of history," Toller said, already beginning to plan the Farland project in detail. Chakkell's display of peevishness was a sure indication that he was about to give his consent for the construction and provisioning of the spaceship. In spite of his show of doubt and indifference, the King had been seduced by the idea of laying claim to the outer planet.

Chakkell snorted. "The harvest of history will not be gathered in unless the ship successfully completes both legs of the voyage. I am by no means convinced that it will be able to do so."

"The ship will be designed to cope with any exigency, Majesty," Toller said. "I have no desire to commit suicide."

"Haven't you? There are times when I wonder about you, Maraquine." Chakkell stood up and paced around the small room. It was the same apartment in which he had consulted Toller about the aerial defence of Overland immediately after his reprieve. The circular table and six chairs took up most of the floor space, leaving the King a narrow margin through which to guide his paunchy figure. On reaching the chair in which he had been seated, Chakkell leaned on the back of it and frowned at Toller.

"And what about the money?" he said. "You never trouble yourself with such mundane concerns, do you?"

"One ship, Majesty—and a crew of not more than six."

"The size of the actual crew is a flea-bite, and well you know it. This scheme of yours is bound to cost me a fortune in development and in keeping support stations operational in the weightless zone."

"But if it opens the way to a new world…"

"Don't start playing the same tune all over again, Maraquine," Chakkell interrupted. "I'm going to let you proceed with your wild enterprise—I suppose you are entitled to some indulgence on account of your services during the war—but I make one provision, and that is that Zavotle does not accompany you. I cannot afford to lose his services."

"I regret to say this, Majesty," Zavotle put in before Toller could speak, "but you will shortly be deprived of my services come what may, expedition or no expedition."

Chakkell narrowed his eyes at Zavotle and scrutinised him as though suspecting deviousness. "Zavotle," he finally said, "are you going to die?"

"Yes, Majesty."

Chakkell looked embarrassed rather than concerned. "I would have had it otherwise."

"Thank you, Majesty."

"I must attend to other matters now," Chakkell said brusquely, moving towards the door, "but, under the circumstances, I will not object to your going to Farland."

"I'm most grateful, Majesty."

Chakkell paused in the doorway and gave Toller a look of peculiar intensity. "The game has almost run its course, eh, Maraquine?" He moved away into the corridor before Toller could frame a reply, and a quietness descended on the room.

"I'll tell you something, liven," Toller said in a low voice. "We have made the King afraid. Did you notice how he twisted everything around so that it appears he is granting us a favour by permitting the expedition to go ahead? But the real reason is that he
wants
his standard to fly on Farland. A guaranteed place in history is a poor kind of immortality, but all kings seem to crave it—and we remind Chakkell of just how futile such ambitions are."

"You speak strangely, Toller," Zavotle said, his gaze hunting over Toller's face. "I won't return from Farland—but surely you will."

"Put your mind at ease, old friend," Toller replied, smiling. "I'll return from Farland, or die in the attempt."

Toller had not been certain that his son would agree to meet him, and it was with a profound sense of gladness that he saw a lone rider appear on the skyline on the road that led south to Heevern. He had chosen the meeting place partly because the nearness of a gold-veined spire of rock and a pool made it easy to specify, but also because it was on the northern side of the final ridge on the way to his house. Had he ridden an extra mile to the crest. Toller would have been able to view his former home in the distance. The knowledge that Gesalla was within the familiar walls would have caused him fresh pain, but that was not the reason he had held back. It was simply that he had taken a vow to separate the courses of their lives for ever, and in a way which was important to him, although he could not rationally justify it, going within sight of the house would have been a breach of his word.

He dismounted from his bluehorn and left the beast to graze while he watched the other rider approach. As before, he was able to identify Cassyll from afar by the distinctive creamy colour of his mount's forelegs. Cassyll rode towards him at moderate speed and reined his bluehorn to a halt at a distance of about ten paces. He remained in the saddle, studying Toller with pensive grey eyes.

"It would be better if you got down," Toller said mildly. "It would make it easier for us to talk."

"Have we anything to talk about?"

"If we haven't there was little point in your riding out here to meet me." Toller gave his son a wry smile. "Come on—neither your honour nor your principles will be compromised if we talk face-to-face."

Cassyll shrugged and swung himself down from his bluehorn, a movement he accomplished with athletic grace. With his oval face and pronounced widow's peak of glossy black, he owed much of his appearance to his mother, but Toller observed a sinewy strength in his spare figure.

"You look well," Toller said.

Cassyll glanced down at himself and his clothing—rough-spun shirt and trews which would not have looked out of place on a common labourer. "I do my share of work at the foundry and factories, and some of it is heavy."

"I know." Toller was heartened by the civility of Cassyll's response and decided to go straight to the points he had to make. "Cassyll, the Farland expedition leaves in a few days from now. I have faith in liven Zavotle's designs and calculations, but only a fool would refuse to acknowledge that many unknown dangers lie ahead of us. I may not return from the voyage, and it would ease my mind greatly if we settled some matters concerning the future for you and your mother."

Cassyll showed no emotion. "You will return, as always."

"I intend to, but nevertheless I want you to give me your word on certain matters before we part this day. One of them is to do with the fact that the King has confirmed my title as being hereditary—and I want you to accept it if I am declared dead."

"I don't want the title," Cassyll said. "I have no interest in such vanities."

Toller nodded. "I know that, and I respect you for it, but the title represents power as well as privilege—power you can use to safeguard your mother's position in the world, power you can put to good use in worthwhile endeavours. I don't need to remind you how important it is for metals to replace brakka wood in our society—so vow to me you will not reject the title."