“The capacity of our envelopes is five hundred and twenty thousand cubic feet. With a full load of cargo, coal, and crew, they must be filled with clean hot air at an average temperature of at least ninety-three degrees in order to achieve ascent from Mars. Subject to some modification based on current conditions.”
In Arabella’s mind’s eye, the empty stretch of map between Aadim’s wooden hands became populated with the fences, crops, and buildings of Woodthrush Woods. Behind the manor house, line after line of khoresh-trees marched off toward the horizon. Here lay the Martians’ homes, here the kitchen garden, and here the drying-sheds.
She looked up from the map into the captain’s eyes. “Our plantation, located near the mines of Thokesh, has substantial stocks of coal, and the coal burners in the drying-sheds could perhaps be adapted to provide the necessary hot air for Diana’s ascent.” Freshly harvested khoresh-wood was too heavy with moisture to be used in shipbuilding; progressive plantation owners such as Arabella’s father had in recent years begun using coal-fired drying-sheds to accelerate the necessary seasoning process.
“Assuming your family plantation has not been overrun by the natives.”
Arabella’s eyes stung with tears at the suggestion, but she firmed her jaw and refused them. “That is a risk we would have to take anywhere. But if we land here”—she tapped the site on the map—“we will, at least, find sufficient coal and an owner willing to sell it for a reasonable price.”
She could not, she realized, absolutely guarantee any such thing. But she knew well that Michael could deny his beloved sister nothing.
If he still lived.
Arabella held her breath, filled with fear and doubt, as she watched the captain consider her suggestion. Plainly he was torn—a deep furrow had appeared between his eyes, and his whole demeanor showed how difficult was the decision he faced. Finally his gaze, which had been directed inward, returned to Arabella. “I must … perform some calculations,” he said. “Please leave us alone.”
“Of course, sir.” She nodded and let herself out.
As the hatch closed behind her, she heard the whir and click of Aadim’s gears and the captain’s low, muttered voice.
*
Some hours later, another knock came at Arabella’s cabin door. This time it was the captain himself. “I have consulted with Aadim and my officers,” he said, “and have determined that a landing at your family plantation offers the best hope of success. If you would, please work with Aadim to plot out a course for a landing there. Once that is done, I would appreciate it if you would consult with Mr. Stross upon the specifics of your drying-sheds and coal-stores.” He fixed her with an expression of profound seriousness. “If some method cannot be arranged to fill the envelopes, Diana may well find herself a permanent fixture of your plantation.”
“I understand, sir.”
*
Calculating the sailing order for a planetary landing was a task Arabella had never performed before, and in order to do so she found herself leafing through thick manuals kept stowed behind the stores of aerial charts. As she read, hammering and curses sounded from without the hull as the carpenter and his mates fitted Diana with sand-legs for her landing on the open plain behind the manor house, while the majority of the crew worked to haul out and erect the envelopes.
Landing at Mars, she learned, was usually performed by a local pilot, sent up from Fort Augusta by balloon. As difficult as navigation through the vast empty spaces of the interplanetary atmosphere might be, the last few miles—drifting slowly downward under cooling envelopes while being blown across the face of the planet by fickle surface breezes—were even more so, and the pilot’s unique knowledge of local conditions was invaluable. But with the port closed, as the captain had explained, they could not depend upon the availability of this assistance.
“I do not know if I am capable of this,” she admitted to Aadim in a whisper. Manuals and charts lay open all about the cabin, with detailed maps of the Fort Augusta area unfolded on Aadim’s desk. She moved his wooden finger, which ticked and thrummed slightly with the motions of his clockworks, from Diana’s point of entry to Mars’s planetary atmosphere to the location of Woodthrush Woods. “It is such a short distance,” she said, “but if we get it wrong, by even a few miles, we will be stranded, and perhaps in the middle of a native rebellion.”