Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 2



The thirty-plus wagons of the First Birthright expedition had travelled too far.

Their timbers were warped and shredded, little remained of the original paintwork, and breakdowns had become so frequent that progress was rarely as much as ten miles a day. In spite of adequate grazing along the route, the bluehorns which provided the expedition's motive power were slouched and scrawny, weakened by water-borne diseases and parasitical attacks.

Bartan Drumme, pathfinder for the venture, was at the reins of the leading wagon as the train straggled up to the crest of a low ridge. Ahead of him had unfolded a vista of strangely coloured marshland—off-whites and sickly lime greens predominating—which was dotted with drooping, asymmetrical trees and twisted spires of black rock. The sight would have been unappealing to the average traveller, but for one who was supposed to be leading a group of hopefuls to an agricultural paradise it was deeply depressing.

Bartan groaned aloud as he weighed various factors in his mind and concluded that it would take at least five days for the party to reach the horizontal band of blue-green hills which marked the far edge of the swampy basin. Jop Trinchil, who had conceived and organised the expedition, had been growing more and more disillusioned with him of late, and this new misfortune was not going to improve the relationship. Now that Bartan thought of it, he realised he would be lucky if any of the other farmers in the group continued to have dealings with him. As it was, they only spoke to him when necessary, and he had an uneasy feeling that even the loyalty of his betrothed, Sondeweere, was becoming strained by his lack of success.

Deciding it would be best to face the communal anger squarely, he brought his wagon to a halt, applied the brake and leapt down on to the grass. He was a tall, black-haired man in his mid-twenties, slim-built and agile, with a round boyish face. It was that face—smooth, humorous, clever-looking—which had led to some of his previous difficulties with the farmers, most of whom were inclined to distrust men not cast in their own mould. Aware that he already had enough problems to cope with in the next few minutes, Bartan did his utmost to look competent and unruffled while he signalled for the train to halt.

As he had anticipated, there was no need for him to call a meeting—within seconds of glimpsing the dismal terrain ahead, the farmers and their families had quit their wagons and were converging on him. Each of them appeared to be shouting something different, creating a confusion of sound, but Bartan guessed that their scorn was about equally divided between his ability as a pathfinder and this latest in a series of infertile, unworkable tracts of land. Even small children were staring at him with open contempt.

"Well now, Drumme—what fanciful tale have you for us this time?" demanded Jop Trinchil, arms folded across the pudgy billows of his chest. He was grey-haired and plump, but he carried his excess weight with ease and had hands which looked like natural farming implements. In a straight fight it was likely that he would be able to dispose of Bartan without even getting out of breath.

"Tale? Tale?" Bartan, playing for time, chose to sound indignant. "I don't trade in tales."

"No? What was it when you told me you were familiar with this territory?"

"I told you I had flown over the region several times with my father, but that was a long time ago—and there is a limit to what one can see and remember." The final word of the sentence was out before Bartan could check it, and he cursed himself for having given the older man another opportunity to use his favourite so-called witticism.

"I'm surprised you even remember," Trinchil said heavily, glancing about him to solicit laughs, "to point your spout away from yourself when you piss."

And I'm surprised you even remember where your spout is, Bartan thought, keeping the riposte to himself with difficulty as those around him, especially the children, burst into immoderate laughter. Jop Trinchil was Sondeweere's legal guardian, with the power to forbid her to marry, and reacted so badly each time he was bested in a verbal duel that she had made Bartan vow never to score over him again.

"I see no profit in going any farther west," a blond young farmer called Raderan put in. "I vote we turn north."

Another said, "I agree—if the bluehorns last long enough we're going to end up arriving back where we started, but from the other direction."

Bartan shook his head. "If we go north we'll only drive into New Kail, which is already well settled, and you will be obliged to split up and take inferior plots. I thought the whole purpose of the expedition was to claim prime land for yourselves and your families, and to live as a community."

"That was the purpose, but we made the mistake of not hiring a professional guide," Trinchil said. "We made the mistake of hiring you."

The truth contained in the accusation had a greater effect on Bartan than the vehement manner in which it was delivered. Having met and fallen in love with Sondeweere he had been devastated to learn that she was leaving the Ro-Amass vicinity with the expedition, and in his determination to be accepted by Trinchil and the others he had exaggerated his knowledge of this part of the continent. In his ardour he had half-convinced himself that he could recall the broad geographical features of a vast area, but as the wagons had groped their way west the inadequacies of his memory and handful of sketch maps had become more and more apparent.

Now he was reaping the reward for his manipulation of himself and others, and something in Trinchil's manner was making him fear that the reward might contain an element of physical pain. Alarmed, Bartan shaded his eyes from the sun and studied the shimmering marshland again, hoping to pick out some feature which would have a stimulative effect on his memory. Almost at once he noticed a kink in the horizontal line which was the area's far boundary, a kink which might indicate a narrow extension of the marsh in a river-bed. How would that look from the air? A thin white finger pointing west? Was he deceiving himself again or was there just such an image buried in some recess of his mind? And was it linked to an even fainter vision of lush, rolling grasslands traversed by clear streams?

Deciding to take the final gamble, Bartan produced a loud peal of laughter, using all his vocal skills to make it sound totally natural and unforced. Trinchil's silver-stubbled jaw sagged in surprise and the discontented babble from the rest of the group abruptly ceased.

"I see nothing amusing in our situation," Trinchil said. "And even less in yours," he added ominously.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Bartan giggled and knuckled his eyes, the picture of a man fighting to control genuine merriment. "It was cruel of me, but you know I can't resist my little jokes—and I just had to see your face when you thought the whole venture had come to naught. I do apologise, most sincerely."

"Have you lost your reason?" Trinchil said, hands clenching into huge leathery clubs. "Explain yourself at once."

"Gladly." Bartan made a theatrical gesture which took in the whole of the marshy basin. "You will all be delighted to hear that yonder dish of mildewed porridge is the very landmark for which I have been aiming since the outset. At the other side of it, just beyond those hills, you will find an abundance of the finest agricultural land you have ever seen, stretching for league upon league in every direction, as far as the eye can see. My friends, we are almost at journey's end. Soon our days of toil and tribulation will be over, and we will be able to lay claim to the…"

"That's enough of your wind," Trinchil shouted, raising his hands to damp the rising note of excitement among some of the onlookers. "We have suffered this kind of rhetoric from you too many times in the past—why should we believe you this time?"

"I still say we should turn north," Raderan said, stepping forward. "And if we're going to do that it would be best to do it from here rather than waste time circling that swamp on the say-so of a fool."

"Fool is too kindly a word for him," said Raderan's hulking gradewife, Firenda. After a moment's thought she suggested what she considered a more appropriate description, bringing a gasp from several of the other women, and an even more ecstatic howl of laughter from the children.

"It is well that you are protected by your skirts, madam," Bartan protested, privately doubting his ability to stand up to the giantess for more than a few seconds, and to his dismay she immediately began to fumble with the knot of her waistcord.

"If it is only my shift that deters you," she grated, "we can soon…"

"Leave this to me, woman!" Trinchil had drawn himself up to his full height and was conspicuously asserting his authority. "We are all reasonable people here, and it behoves us to settle our disputes through the exercise of reason. You would agree with that, wouldn't you, Mister Drumme?"

"Wholeheartedly," Bartan said, his relief tempered by a suspicion that Trinchil's intentions towards him had not suddenly become charitable. Beyond the circle of people he saw the yellow-haired figure of Sondeweere part the canopy of a wagon and begin to descend to the ground. He guessed she had hung back, knowing he was in fresh trouble and not wishing to increase his discomfiture with her presence. She was wearing a sleeveless green blouse and close-fitting trews of a darker shade. The garments were quite standard for young women in farming communities, but it was evident to Bartan that she wore them with a special flair which distinguished her from all the others, and which signified equally rare qualities of mind. Even with his present difficult situation to occupy his thoughts, he was able to take a keen pleasure in the graceful, languorous movement of her hips as she climbed down the side of the wagon.

"That being the case, Mister Drumme," Trinchil said, moving towards Bartan's wagon, "I think the time has come to rouse your sleeping passenger and make her start paying her way."

This was the moment Bartan had been hoping to avert since the beginning of the expedition. "Ah… It would occasion a lot of hard work."

"Not as much hard work as crossing those hills and perhaps finding a swamp or desert on the other side."

"Yes, but…"

"But what?" Trinchil tugged at the wagon's stained canvas cover. "You have got an airship in here, and you can fly it, can't you? If it transpired that you had turned my niece's head with a pack of lies I would be very angry. More angry than you have ever seen me. More angry than you can even imagine."

Bartan glanced at Sondeweere, who was just reaching the edge of the group, and was taken aback to see that she was gazing at him with an expression which was frankly questioning, not to say doubtful. "Of course, my airship is in there," he said hurriedly. "Well, it's more of an airboat than an airship, but I can assure you that I am an excellent pilot."

"Ship, boat or coracle—we're listening to no more of your excuses." Trinchil began unfastening the cover and other men willingly went forward to help him.

Not daring to object, Bartan watched the operation in a mood of increasing gloom. The airboat was the only object of any value he had inherited from his father, a man whose passion for flying had gradually impoverished and eventually killed him. Its airworthiness was extremely dubious, but Bartan had concealed that fact when presenting the case for his being allowed to join the expedition. An aerial scout could be of great value to the commune, he had argued, and Trinchil had reluctantly assigned wagon-space to the craft. There had been several occasions during the journey when reconnaissance from the air would indeed have been worth the trouble of sending the boat aloft, and each time Bartan had tested his ingenuity to the limit by devising plausible reasons for remaining on the ground. Now, however, it looked as though the day of reckoning had finally arrived.

"See how eagerly they scrabble," he said, taking up a position beside Sondeweere. "It's like a sport to them! Anyone would think they doubted my ability as a pilot."

"That will be soon put to the test." Sondeweere spoke with less warmth than Bartan would have liked. "I only hope you're better as a pilot than as a guide."

"Sondy!"

"Well," she said unrepentantly, "you must admit you've made a fine pig's arse of everything so far."

Bartan gazed down at her in wounded bafflement. Sondweere's face was possibly the most beautiful he had ever seen—with large, wide-spaced blue eyes, perfect nose and well-delineated voluptuous lips—and his every instinct informed him she had an inner loveliness to match. But now and then she would make an utterance which, taken at its face value, indicated that she was quite as coarse as some of the slovens with whom circumstances of birth had forced her to associate. Was this a matter of deliberate policy on her part? Was she, in her own way, warning him that the agricultural life he was about to embrace was not for milksops? His thoughts were abruptly diverted to more practical matters by the sight of a farmer aboard the wagon picking up a green-painted box and preparing to drop it to the ground.

"Careful!" Bartan shouted, darting forward. "You have crystals in there!"

The farmer shrugged, unimpressed, and lowered the box into Bartan's hands.

"Let me have the purple one too," Bartan said. When he had received the second box he tucked one under each arm and carried them to a safe resting place on a flat-topped boulder. The green pikon and purple halvell crystals—both extracted from the soil by the root systems of brakka trees—were not really dangerous unless allowed to mingle inside a sealed container. But they were expensive and difficult to obtain outside the largest communities, and Bartan was very solicitous with the small quantities remaining to him. Accepting that he was now virtually committed to making a flight in spite of the hazards involved, he began to supervise the unpacking and assembly of the airboat.

Although the little gondola was extremely light he had no worries about its strength, and the jet engine—being made of brakka wood—was practically indestructible. Bartan's main concern was with the gasbag. The varnished linen of the envelope had been in doubtful condition when he had packed it, and the long period of stowage in the back of the wagon was likely to have caused further deterioration. He inspected the material and the stitching of the panels and load tapes as the gasbag was being rolled out to its full length on the ground, and what he found added to his misgivings about the proposed flight. The linen had a papery feel to it and there were numerous loose ends of thread wavering on the tapes.

This is madness, Bartan thought. I'm not going to get myself killed for anybody.

He was choosing between the alternatives of facing up to Trinchil and simply refusing to fly, or of surreptitiously disabling the boat by putting a hole in the envelope, when he noticed that a change was coming over the other members of the group. The men were asking questions about the construction and operation of the craft, and were listening to his replies with interest. Even the unruliest children had become more respectful in their manner. It slowly dawned on Bartan that the settlers and their families had never been close to a flying machine before, and a sense of wonder was stirring to life inside them. The boat and its strange mechanisms, seen for the first time, were proof that he really was a flier. Within minutes his status had improved from that of mistrusted novice farmer, a liability to the commune, to that of a man possessing arcane knowledge, rare skills and a godlike ability to walk the clouds. His new eminence was very gratifying—and it was a pity it was destined to be so brief.

"How long would it take to reach the hills with a device like this?" Trinchil said, with no trace of his usual condescension.

"Thirty minutes or so."

Trinchil whistled. "It is truly wondrous. Are you not afraid?"

"Not in the least," Bartan said, regretting that he could no longer delay making his position clear. "You see, I have absolutely no intention of trying to fly this…"

"Bartan!" Sondeweere arrived at his side in a swirling of yellow tresses and put an arm around his waist. "I'm so proud of you."

He did his best to smile. "There's something I ought…"

"I want to whisper." She drew his head down, at the same time applying her body to his in such a way that he felt the warm pressure of her breasts against his ribs and her pubis nuzzling into his thigh. "I'm sorry I was rude to you," she breathed in his ear. "I was worried about us, you see, and Uncle Jop was getting into such a dark mood. I couldn't bear it if anything got in the way of our marriage, but now everything is all right again. Show them all how wonderful you are, Bartan—just for me."

"I…" Bartan's voice faded as he became aware that Trinchil was staring at him with an inquisitive expression.

"You were about to say something." There seemed to be a rekindling of the old animosity in Trinchil's eyes. "Something about not flying."

"Not flying?" Bartan felt Sondeweere's hand slide down his back and come to rest on his buttocks. "No, no, no! I was going to say I'd be in no danger because I have no intention of trying to fly too fast, or of performing any injudicious aerobatics. Aviation is a business with me, you know. Strictly a business."

"I'm glad to hear it," Trinchil said. "I'd be the last man in the world to tell another how to conduct his business, but may I offer you a pertinent piece of advice?"

"Please do," Bartan replied, wondering why he found the older man's grin less than reassuring.

Trinchil clamped an enormous hand on each of Bartan's shoulders and gave him a mock-playful shake. "If, by any chance, you fail to find good land beyond those hills—keep on flying in a straight line and be sure to put as many leagues as you can between the two of us."

The boat was handling well and—had he not been fearful of a sudden and catastrophic failure of the gasbag—the experience of being airborne again might have produced an equivalent lift in Bartan's spirits.

Enigmatic though it had seemed to the farmers, the engine designed and built by his father had only three basic controls. A throttle fed pikon and halvell into a combustion chamber, and the hot miglign gas thus generated was exhausted through an aft-facing jet pipe to propel the boat. The pipe could be swivelled laterally by means of a tiller to give some directional control; and when required another lever diverted gas upwards into the envelope to create and maintain buoyancy. As miglign was lighter than air, even when cool, the assemblage was compact and efficient.

Bartan took the boat to a height of fifty feet and sailed it in a circle around the wagons, partly to please Sondeweere, mainly to check that the extra strain of turning would not be too much for the attachment gussets. Relieved at finding the craft still airworthy for the time being at least, he gave a stately wave to the watching farmers and set a course to the west. It was just past noon, with the sun very close to the zenith, so he was riding in the protective shadow of the gasbag and could view his surroundings with unusual clarity. The marshlands stretched out ahead of him like pastel-tinted snow, in contrast to which the distant hills seemed almost black. Apart from the occasional flash of an extra-bright meteor there was little to be seen in the sky. Its brilliance was overpainting all but the brightest stars, and even the Tree—the most important constellation in the southern heavens—was barely visible to his left.

After a few minutes of uneventful flight Bartan began to cease worrying about his safety. The intermittent sound of his jet was fading quickly in the pervasive stillness, and he had little to do but hold his course, now and then pumping the pneumatic reservoir which force-fed crystals to the engine. He might have been able to enjoy the sortie had it not been for Jop Trinchil's parting words, and once again he found himself regretting that he had never been able to persuade Sondeweere to leave the Birthright group.

He had been only two years old at the time of the Migration and had no real memories of the event, but his father had told him much about it and had given him a good understanding of the historical background. When the ptertha plague had forced King Prad to build an evacuation fleet capable of flying to Overland from the sister world, Land, there had been strong opposition from the Church. The basic tenet of the Alternist religion had been that after death the soul flew to Overland, was reincarnated as a baby, lived out another life and returned to Land in the same way, part of an eternal and immutable process of exchange. The proposal to have a thousand ships physically undertake the voyage to Overland had been an affront to the Lord Prelate of the day, and the riots he led had threatened the whole enterprise, but the Migration had been accomplished despite adverse conditions.

When Overland was found to have no human inhabitants, no counterpart to Land's civilisation, religious conviction had largely ceased to exist among the colonists. The fact that it had not disappeared entirely was, according to Bartan's father, a triumph of stubborn irrationality. All right, we were mistaken, was the argument advanced by the remnants of the devout. But that was only because our minds were too puny to appreciate the grandeur of the plan devised by the Great Permanence. We know that after death the soul migrates to another world, and so inadequate was our vision that we presumed that other world to be Overland. We now realise that the departing soul's actual destination is Farland. The High Path is much longer than we realised, brethren.

Farland was roughly twice as distant from the sun as the Land-Overland pair. It would be many centuries before ships from Overland would be able to undertake that kind of journey, Vlodern Drumme had concluded—passing his natural cynicism to his son—so the high priests had made a good choice. Their jobs were safe for a long time to come…

He had been wrong on that point, as it had transpired. In designing Overland's infant society, King Chakkell—an old enemy of the Church—had made certain it contained no vestiges of a state religion. Satisfied with having abolished the clergy as a profession, the King had occupied himself with other matters, careless of the fact that his edicts had created a vacuum to be filled by a new kind of preacher, of whom Jop Trinchil was a good example.

Trinchil had embraced religion late in life. At the age of forty he had willingly taken part in the interworld migration, with no qualms about desecrating the High Path, and for the most part his life on Overland had been one of unremitting hard work on a smallholding in the Ro-Amass region. On nearing his sixties Trinchil had become disillusioned with the normal pattern of agricultural life and had decided to be a lay preacher. Unlettered, uncouth in word and manner, inclined to violence, he nevertheless had a raw force of personality which he was soon exerting over a small congregation, whose donations handsomely supplemented the rewards of his own physical toil.

Finally, he had conceived the idea of leading a flock of the faithful to a part of Overland where they could practise their religion without interference—especially from busybodies who might report Trinchil's illegal activities to the prefect in Ro-Amass.

It was during the preparations for the Birthright Expedition that Trinchil's and Bartan Drumme's paths had intersected. Bartan had been earning a reasonable, if irregular, income by selling cheap jewelry of his own design and manufacture. Normally his commercial judgment was sound, but for a brief period he had allowed himself to become infatuated with the appearance of the newly discovered soft metals, gold and silver. As a result he had been left with a batch of trinkets he found almost impossible to sell in his normal markets, where there was a conservative preference for traditional materials such as glass, ceramics, soapstone and brakka. Refusing to be discouraged, he had started touring the rural areas around Ro-Amass in search of less discerning customers, and had met Sondeweere Trinchil.

Her yellow hair had bedazzled him more than gold had done, and within minutes he was hopelessly in love and dreaming of taking Sondeweere back to the city as his solewife. She had responded favourably to his overtures, obviously pleased by the prospect of marrying a man whose appearance and manner contrasted so sharply with those of the average young farmer. There had been, however, two major obstacles to Bartan's plans. Sondeweere's desire for novelty stopped short of any interest in changing her way of life—she was adamant that she would never live anywhere but on a farm. Bartan's reaction had been to discover within himself a hitherto dormant passion for agriculture and an ambition to work his own plot of land, but the second problem had been far less amenable to a quick solution.

Jop Trinchil and he had taken an immediate dislike to each other. There had been no need for a conflict of interests, or even for a word to be spoken—the mutual antagonism had sprung into existence, deep-rooted and permanent, on the very instant of their first meeting. Trinchil had decided at once that Bartan would be an abject failure as husband and father; and Bartan had known, without having to be told, that Trinchil's only interest in religion was as a means of lining his pocket.

Bartan had to admit that Trinchil was genuinely fond of his niece, and although he seized every opportunity to complain about Bartan's shortcomings he had not forbidden the marriage. That had been the situation up to the present, but Bartan had a feeling that his future was in the balance, and his state of mind had not been improved by Sondeweere's behaviour at the impromptu meeting. She had acted as though her love was beginning to waver, as though she could turn away from him if he failed to make good his latest promise.

The thought caused Bartan to concentrate his gaze on the irregularity at the far edge of the swampy basin. Now that he was closer and higher he was almost certain that it indeed represented an extension of the marsh into an arroyo, in which case the chances that he actually was recalling an aerial view were somewhat improved. Wishing his memory was more trustworthy, he fed several bursts of hot miglign into the gasbag which swayed above him, and slowly he gained the height he would need for crossing the hills. The spires of rock rearing up from the pale surface shrank to the semblance of black candles.

In a short time the boat was scudding over the marsh's ill-defined boundary and Bartan was able to confirm that a narrow finger of it ran due west for about two miles. With increasing confidence and excitement he followed the course of the ancient waterway. As grassy contours rose up beneath the boat he saw groups of deer-like animals, disturbed by the sound of the jet, make swerving runs, with white hindquarters beaconing their alarm. Frightened birds occasionally erupted from trees like wind-borne swirls of petals.

Bartan kept his eyes on the slopes ahead. They seemed to form a barrier which was being raised higher and higher to block his view, then he was crossing a ridge and with dramatic suddenness the horizon receded, fleeing into the distance before him. The intervening space was revealed as a complex vista of savannahs, gentle hills, lakes and occasional strips of woodland.

Bartan gave a whoop of glee as he saw that the territory, spilling out in front of him like a rich man's hoard, was a homesteader's dream translated into reality. His first impulse was to turn the airboat and head back to Trinchil and the others with the good news, but the hillside was shelving away beneath him now in a silent invitation to fly onwards. He decided it would do no harm to spend a few extra minutes in getting a closer and more detailed view of the nearer tracts, and perhaps to locate a stream which would afford a good preliminary stopping place. It would help impress on the farmers that he was a competent and practical man.

Allowing the boat to lose altitude naturally through the cooling of the gasbag, Bartan continued sailing west, sometimes laughing aloud with sheer pleasure, sometimes sighing in relief over the nearness of his escape from humiliation and expulsion. The clarity of the air defeated perspective, stacking geographical features on top of each other as in a meticulously executed drawing, allowing him to pick out details of rock formations and vegetation at ranges he would normally have considered impossible. Thus it was that—although he was a good five miles from the white speck on the hillside when he first noticed it—identification was immediate.

He was looking at a farmhouse!

His pang of disappointment seemed to darken the sky and chill the air, drawing an involuntary moan of protest from his lips. Bartan knew that King Chakkell's first major decision on ascending the throne had been to establish Kolcorron as a single world state. To that end, a fleet of large airships had been employed to disperse the newly arrived migrants around the globe. Those seedling communities had served as nodal points for vigorous expansion, but it had been Bartan's understanding that this southerly part of the continent was as yet untouched. To help maintain the impetus of growth, farmers moving into new territories were entitled to claim much larger plots than were granted in comparatively settled areas—a consideration which had motivated Jop Trinchil—and now it seemed that the selfsame factor could thwart Trinchil's ambitions. Bartan's own plans could be similarly affected unless it transpired that settlement of the region had only just begun, in which case there might be ample land for new families. Definite information had to be obtained before he returned to the expedition.

Encouraged by the flickering of hope, Bartan altered his course slightly to north of west, aiming directly for the minuscule white rectangle of the farmhouse. In a short time he was within a mile of the house and could discern drably coloured sheds around it. He was preparing to shed buoyancy for a landing when he began to notice something wrong with the general aspect of the place. There were no people, animals or vehicles in sight, and the ground slipping beneath the prow of his boat did not look well tended. Faint variations in coloration showed that crops had once been planted in the familiar six-strip pattern, but the edges of the sections were blurred and there seemed to have been an invasion of native grasses which showed as an overall green haze.

The realisation that the farm had been abandoned took Bartan by surprise. It was possible that there had been some kind of epidemic, or that the owners had been tyros who had become discouraged and had returned to urban life—but surely someone else would have been glad to take over a unit in which all the gruelling basic work had already been done.

His curiosity aroused, Bartan shut off the jet and floated his craft down on to the level ground which surrounded the house and its outbuildings. The slightness of the breeze enabled him to make an accurate landing within yards of a patch of wryberry vines. As soon as he stepped out of the boat the craft as a whole became lighter than air and tried to drift away, but he held it down by one of the skids until he had thrown a tether around the nearest vine. The boat gently rose to the full extent of the rope and came to rest, wallowing a little in weak air currents.

Bartan walked towards the farm buildings, becoming further intrigued with the mystery of the place as he noticed a dust-covered plough lying on its side. Other smaller implements could be seen here and there. They were made of brakka, but some had rivets of iron, a metal which was becoming generally available, and from the degree of rusting he guessed the tools had been lying around untouched for at least a year. He frowned as he estimated the practical value of the abandoned equipment. It was as though the owners of the farm had simply walked away from their livelihood—or had been spirited away by some unknown means.

The notion was a strange one to come to Bartan while he was standing in the full flood of the aft day sun, especially as he had never had anything but scorn for credulous people who heeded stories of the supernatural. Suddenly, however, he was uneasily conscious of the fact that his kind had been on Overland for only twenty-four years, and that much on the planet remained unknown to them. In the past the knowledge that he was a newcomer on a largely unexplored world had always exhilarated Bartan, but now he felt strangely chastened by it.

Don't start acting like a child, he told himself. What is there to be afraid of?

He turned towards the farmhouse itself. It was well constructed of sawn timbers caulked with oakum, and the whitewashing showed that somebody had taken pride in it. Bartan frowned again as he saw that yellow curtains still hung in the windows, glowing in the shade of the wide eaves. It would have been the work of only a moment to snatch them down, something he would have expected any home-lover to do, no matter how hasty the departure.

Is it possible they haven't departed? Could a whole family still be in there? Dead of some disease? Or … or murdered?

"Neighbours would have been around before now," he said aloud to block the flow of questions. "Even in a place as remote as this, neighbours would have been around before now. And they would have taken all the tools—farmers don't let much go to waste." Comforted by the simple logic, he walked quickly to the single-storey farmhouse, unlatched the green front door and pushed it open.

His eyes were attuned to the fierce sunlight, therefore it was several seconds before they adapted to the shade of the eaves and the comparative dimness within the house, several seconds before he clearly saw the nameless beast which was waiting for him to enter.

He sobbed, leapt backwards and fell, mind's eye brimming with the dreadful vision … the dark, slow-heaving pyramid of the body, upright and tall as a man … the sagging, dissolving face, with wounds in place of eyes … the single slim tentacle, gently groping forward…

Bartan jarred down onto his backside and hands, rolled over in the dust and was in the act of surging up and away from the house in a fear-boosted sprint when the picture behind his eyes shifted and changed. Instead of a nightmarish monster he saw miscellaneous items of old clothing suspended from a hook on a wall. There was a dark cloak, a torn jacket, a hat, and a stained apron with one string being wafted by the abrupt opening of the door.

He slowly got to his feet and brushed the dust from his body, all the while staring at the dark rectangle of the doorway. It was obvious what had caused the momentary illusion, and he felt a tingle of shame over his reaction, but in spite of that he was now oddly reluctant to enter the house.

What made me want to go in there in the first place? he thought. It's somebody else's property. Nothing to do with me…

He turned and had taken one pace towards his boat when a new thought obtruded. What he was actually doing was running away from the farmhouse because he had become unaccountably fearful, and if he allowed that to happen he would be even less of a man than Trinchil had supposed. Muttering unhappily to himself, Bartan spun on his heel and marched into the house.

A quick inspection of the musty rooms established that the worst of his fears had been groundless—there were no human remains. All the major items of furniture had been removed, but he found extra evidence that the occupants had departed in great haste. Mats had been left in two of the rooms and there was a ceramic jar full of salt in a niche in the stone fireplace. Farming people simply did not abandon items like that in normal circumstances, Bartan knew, and he was unable to rid himself of a suspicion that something sinister had occurred on the lonely farm in the not-too-distant past.

Relieved at having no further cause to remain in the uneasy atmosphere, he went outside—brushing past the slow-stirring garments hanging by the door—and walked straight to the airboat. It had lost some buoyancy as the gasbag cooled and now was resting lightly on its skids. Bartan unfastened the tether, seated himself in the gondola and took the boat aloft. It was still only a short time past noon and after a moment's thought he decided to continue flying west, following the line of a faint track into the lush green landscape. Much of the terrain consisted of drumlins—small hog-backed hills, oval in plan because of ancient glaciation—so regularly arranged that they reminded him of giant eggs in a basket. There's the natural name for this fertile region, he thought. The Basket of Eggs!

Within a short time he saw another farm agreeably positioned on the slopes of one of the rounded hills. He banked and flew towards it, and this time—in his state of alertness—he was quicker to realise that the place was not being worked. On arriving overhead he circled the farm once at low altitude to confirm his findings. No tools or equipment were visible and the farmhouse appeared to have been completely stripped, evidence that the evacuation had been more leisurely and ordered, but why had it taken place at all?

Deeply puzzled, Bartan continued with the flight, changing to a zigzag search pattern which slowed his progress to the west. In the hour that followed he discovered eight more farms, all in ideal agricultural land, all totally deserted. The sections in the region were far too large to be worked by single families, and the people who claimed them did so with the intention of laying down fortunes for their descendants. As the population of Overland increased the pioneers would be able to sell or sublet land to later generations. It was a prize not to be yielded lightly—and yet something had induced many hard-headed farmers to pack up their belongings and move on.

Eventually Bartan began to pick out the glint of sunlight on a sizable river and decided on it as a natural limit to the day's sortie. At the northern end of one of his sweeps he detected a hazy column of smoke arising from a point which seemed to be close to the river. It was the first sign of human habitation he had seen in more than ten days, and was made even more intriguing by the prospect of getting information about the empty land he had been crossing. He set a course for the smoke trace, flying as fast as he dared in view of the gasbag's untrustworthy condition, and soon began to realise that what he was approaching was not another farm, but a small township.

It was situated on a Y-shaped fork created by a tributary joining the main river. As the airboat brought him closer, Bartan saw that it consisted of about forty buildings, some of which were large enough to be warehouses. White squares and triangles of sails indicated the river was navigable to the southern ocean. The place was obviously a trading centre, with the potential to become important and prosperous, and its presence made the enigma of the abandoned farms all the more baffling.

Long before Bartan had reached the edge of the township the roar of his jet had attracted attention on the ground. Two men came galloping out on bluehorns to meet him, waving vigorously, and then kept pace with the boat as he guided it down into an open patch near a bridge which spanned the lesser river. Men and women were issuing from the surrounding buildings to form a ring of spectators. Several youths, needing no appeal, willingly grabbed the skids and held the craft until Bartan had tethered it to a convenient sapling.

A red-faced man with prematurely white hair approached Bartan, obviously in the role of spokesman. In spite of being slightly below average height he had an air of assurance and, unusually in such a community, was wearing a smallsword.

"I am Majin Karrodall, reeve of the township of New Minnett," he said in friendly tones. "We don't see many aircraft in these parts."

"I'm scouting for a party of claimants," Bartan replied to the unspoken question. "My name is Bartan Drumme, and I would be grateful for some water to drink. I have flown much farther than I intended today and it is thirsty work."

"You're welcome to all the water you want, but if you would prefer it you can have good brown ale. What do you say?"

"I say good brown ale." Bartan, who had not tasted an alcoholic beverage since joining the expedition, grinned to show his appreciation of the offer. There was a murmur of approval from those watching and the men began a general movement towards an open-fronted barn-like building which appeared to double as a meeting place and tavern. In a short time Bartan was seated at a long table in the company of Karrodall and about ten other men, most of whom had been introduced to him as storekeepers or riverboat crew. From the tone of the amiable banter going on around him Bartan guessed that impromptu gatherings like this were not infrequent events, and that his arrival had been seized on as a convenient excuse. A substantial two-handled jar was placed before him and when he sipped from it he found the ale to be cool, strong and not too sweet for his taste. Comforted by the welcome and the unexpected hospitality, he proceeded to quench his thirst and to answer questions about himself, the airboat and the objectives of Trinchil's expedition.

"I fear this is not the kind of news you wish to hear," Karrodall said, "but I think you will be obliged to turn north. The lands to the west of here are curtailed by the mountains, and to the south by the ocean—and the prime tracts have all been claimed and registered. It isn't much better if you head north into New Kail, I admit, but I have heard that there are one or two quiet little valleys still untouched on the other side of the Barrier range."

"I've seen those valleys," a plump man called Otler put in. "The only way you can stand upright is by growing one leg longer than the other."

The remark occasioned some laughter, and Bartan waited until it had subsided. "I have just flown over some excellent farming land to the east of the river. I realise, of course, that we are too late to claim it—but why are the farms not being worked?"

"It'll never be too late to claim that cursed place," Otler muttered, staring down into his drink.

Bartan was immediately intrigued. "What do you…?"

"Pay him no heed," Karrodall said quickly. "It was the ale talking."

Otler sat up straight, with an offended expression on his round face. "I'm not drunk! Are you suggesting that I'm drunk? I'm not drunk!"

"He's drunk," Karrodall assured Bartan.

"Nevertheless, I'd like to know what he meant." Bartan knew he was displeasing the reeve by pursuing the point, but Otler's strange comment was reverberating in his mind. "This is a matter of considerable importance to me."

"You might as well tell what he wants to know, Majin," another man said. "He'll be able to find out for himself."

Karrodall sighed and shot Oiler a venomous glance, and when he spoke his voice had lost its former briskness. "The land to which you refer is known to us as the Haunt. And while it is true that all claims to it have been allowed to lapse, that information is of no value to you. Your people will never settle there."

"Why not?"

"Why do you think we call it the Haunt? It is a place of evil, my friend. All who go there are … troubled."

"By ghosts? By wraiths?" Bartan made no attempt to hide his incredulity and joy. "Are you saying that there are only hobgoblins to dispute the ownership of that land?"

Karrodall's face was solemn, the eyes intent. "I'm saying that you would be ill-advised to try settling there."

"Thank you for the advice." Bartan drained his ale, set the jar down with a flourish and stood up. "And thank you for the hospitality, gentlemen—I will repay it soon."

He left the table and went out into the aftday sunshine, eager to get aloft and return to the expedition with his good news.