“You?” he scoffed. “A ragged, beardless gutter urchin?” Now he came out from behind his counter, begging the customer’s pardon, and stomped up to where Arabella stood trembling. He was a big man, and though his hands were very white and delicate, the forearms exposed by his rolled-up cuffs were thick with muscle.
The shopkeeper grabbed her roughly by the collar and twisted. Choking out a squawk, she heard and felt fabric tear. “You are nothing more than Hodge’s creature,” he growled in her ear, “sent to humiliate me before my clientele. You will return to him, you will give him back whatever he has paid you, and you will tell him not to try this sort of stunt again or he’ll get from me himself what I give to you now!” Then he cuffed her hard across the ear and shoved her through the door, sending her sprawling across the cobbles and into the path of a passing gentleman, who cried out and gave her a good kick. Pain exploded in her midsection, joining the pain in her bruised ear and abraded hands.
Eyes blinded with tears, she dragged herself around the corner and lay gasping against a wrought-iron fence, trying to recover her wits. But a few moments later she heard the shop door open and a loud voice calling, “Where has that boy gone? That ragged boy?” A man standing in the street immediately pointed in her direction.
She had no idea why the man who had just thrown her out of his shop might now be seeking her, but she had no wish to find out, nor to endure any further abuse or humiliation at his hands.
She ran.
5
THE MOON AND SIXPENCE
Arabella ducked and weaved frantically between irate passersby in an attempt to evade the man, but no matter how many woolen-clad elbows she jostled or fine shoes she trod upon, his shouting and footsteps continued to dog her heels.
After several frantic minutes—the thudding boots now nearer, now farther, but never completely eluded—she dodged into an alley, pressing herself against the wall.
Her pursuer passed the alley mouth, his rapid footsteps pounding past and vanishing around the corner.
Panting, exhausted, she slid down the rough bricks to the alley floor. The man had been diligent in pursuing her; she could not rest long.
And then, pasted to the wall across from her, she saw a recruiting poster.
GOD save the KING.
To all Loyal British Subjects,
Our beloved SOVEREIGN, seeing his Majesty’s AIRLANES
threatened by FRENCH PRIVATEERS both rapacious and bold, has caused to be built and commissioned
THE AERIAL CLIPPER
ATHENA
of Sixteen Guns
a fine and exceptionally fast Ship
Which now lies ready for MARS
lacking only a few good Hands
CAPTAIN
SIR HIRAM WALTER
who was not killed at Ceres as some have reported
Commands her.
The following BOUNTIES will be given by his MAJESTY, in Addition to Two Months Advance.
To Able Airmen … Five Pounds.
To Ordinary Airmen … Two pounds Ten Shillings.
To Landsmen … Thirty Shillings.
REPAIR,
All who have good Hearts, who love their KING and COUNTRY, to Lieut. J. F. CONNOR
at his Rendezvous, at THE MOON AND SIXPENCE
MAKE HASTE!
G. BONDHAM, Printer, Carrow-Street
As she read the poster, Arabella recalled the old airman’s words: the Earl of Kent was no clipper. But here was a clipper, Mars-bound, a “fine and exceptionally fast ship,” and not only was she calling for volunteers, but offering a bounty as well!
Even a landsman—into which class Arabella assumed she herself fell, owing to want of experience—would receive a bounty of thirty shillings, thus providing a solution to her financial problems … as well as passage to Mars!
The game was not yet lost. She might be able to do better than send a letter … she might be able to beat Simon to Mars herself!
“Excuse me, sir!” she called to a passerby, a tall gentleman with a shockingly long knitted scarf. “Do you know where I might find The Moon and Sixpence?”
*
The Moon and Sixpence, located in a narrow side way only a few streets distant from the poster, was a dark and low-ceilinged public house of a type Arabella had never before entered. Raucous conversation rattled the beams, rough tankards clattered against the tables, and a stink of sour ale pervaded the atmosphere.
Hesitantly Arabella stepped down into the space from the stairwell, blinking from the light outside. Here, at least, her ragged and unwashed clothing would be no impediment.
A serving-girl, carrying three brimming mugs in one hand and showing an indecent amount of bosom, came swaying past. “Excuse me?” Arabella said to her.
“Aye? What’s yours?”
“I am looking for Lieutenant J. F. Connor. Of the Athena.”
The serving-girl looked her up and down. “The Air Service won’t take you before sixteen.”
“I am seventeen years of age, miss.” That much, at least, was the truth.
Suddenly the serving-girl reached out and drew a finger down Arabella’s smooth and beardless cheek, then laughed aloud. “Aye, and I’m a Martian.”