Land and Overland Omnibus

THE FUGITIVE WORLDS

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 1990 by Bob Shaw

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. Published by arrangement with Victor Gollancz Ltd.

A Baen Book

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, N. Y. 10471

ISBN: 0-671-72029-5

Cover art by Don Clavette

First Baen printing, December 1990

Distributed by

SIMON & SCHUSTER

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, N.Y. 10020

Printed in the united states of America





Contents





Part I: The Return to Land

Part II: Strategies of Despair





PART I:

The Return to Land





Chapter 1



The lone astronaut had fallen from the very edge of space, down through thousands of miles of gradually thickening atmosphere, a drop which had lasted more than a day. In the later stages of the descent his body had been acted on by wind forces which had carried him far to the west of the capital city. Perhaps through inexperience, perhaps from a desire to be free of the restraints of the fallbag, he had opened his parachute too soon. It had been deployed a good ten miles above the planetary surface, and as a result was being wafted even farther into the sparsely populated regions which lay beyond the White River.

Toller Maraquine II, who had been patrolling the area for eight days, examined the creamy fleck of the parachute through powerful binoculars. It was an inconspicuous object, hardly as bright as the daytime stars, seemingly fixed in position beneath the great curving rim of the sister world which filled the centre of the sky. The movement of Toller's airship made it difficult to keep the parachute centred in his field of view, but he was able to pick out the tiny figure slung beneath it and he felt a growing sense of anticipation.

What would the astronaut have to report?

The very fact that the expedition had lasted longer than expected was a good omen in Toller's eyes, but in any case it would be a relief to pick the man up and transport him to Prad. Patrolling the near-featureless region, with nothing to do but return the companionable waves of farm workers, had been monotonous in the extreme, and Toller had a craving to get back to the city where he could at least find congenial company and a glass of decent wine. There was also some unfinished and highly pleasurable business with Hariana, a blonde beauty in the Weavers' Guild. He had been in ardent pursuit of her for many days, and he sensed she had been on the verge of yielding when he had been sent away on the current irksome duty.

The airship was running easily before the easterly breeze, requiring only an occasional nudge from the jet engines to keep pace with the parachutist's lateral motion. In spite of the shade provided by the elliptical gasbag overhead, the heat on the upper deck was becoming intense, and Toller knew that the twelve men comprising his crew were as eager as he to see the mission come to an end. Their saffron airmen's blouses were dappled with sweat and their postures were as drooped as was compatible with observance of shipboard discipline.

Two hundred feet below the gondola the striated fields of the region slipped quietly by, forming patterns of stripes which flowed out to the horizon. It was now just over fifty years since the migration to Overland, and the Kolcorronian farmers had had time to impose their designs on the natural coloration of the landscape. On a planet without seasons the edible grasses and other vegetation tended to be heterogeneous, each plant following its own maturation cycle, but the farmers had painstakingly sorted them into synchronous groups to achieve the six harvests a year which had been traditional on the Old World since history began. Each field of grain displayed linear variations in colour, from the delicate green of young shoots to harvest gold and the brown of shorn earth.

"There's another ship to the south of us, sir," shouted Niskodar, the helmsman. "Same altitude or a bit higher. About two miles away."

Toller located the ship—a dark sliver low on the purple-hazed horizon—and turned his glasses on it. The magnified image showed that the craft had blue-and-yellow Sky Service markings, a fact which caused Toller some surprise. Several times in the previous eight days he had glimpsed the ship which was patrolling the sector adjoining his to the south, but that had been at the mutual limit of the sweeps and the visual contacts had been fleeting. The newcomer was well inside Toller's assigned territory and, as far as he could determine, was closing with him as though also intending to intercept the returning parachutist.

"Get on the sunwriter," he said to Lieutenant Feer, who was at the rail beside him. "Give the commander of that ship my compliments and advise him to change course—I am on the Queen's business and will brook no interference or obstruction."

"Yes, sir," Feer replied eagerly, obviously pleased that the incident had come along to add a hint of savour to the foreday. He opened a locker and took out a sunwriter which was of the new lightweight design employing silvered mirror slats in place of the conventional glass sandwich construction. Feer aimed the instrument and worked the trigger, producing a busy clacking sound. For about a minute after he had finished there was no visible response, then a tiny sun began to blink rapidly on the distant ship.

Good foreday, Captain Maraquine, came the pulsed message. The Countess Vantara returns your greeting. She has decided to take command of this operation in person. Your attendance is no longer required. You are hereby instructed to return to Prod immediately.

Toller choked back the angry swear words the message had inspired in him. He had never met Countess Vantara, but he knew that she, as well as holding the rank of sky-captain, was a granddaughter of the Queen and that she habitually used the royal connection to enhance her authority. Many other commanders faced with a similar situation would have backed down, perhaps after a token protest, for fear of prejudicing their careers, but Toller was constitutionally unable to accept what he saw as a slur. His hand dropped to the hilt of the sword which had once belonged to his grandfather, and he scowled fiercely in the direction of the intruding ship as he composed a reply to the countess's imperious message.

"Sir, do you wish to acknowledge the signal?" Lieutenant Feer's manner was absolutely correct, but a certain brightness in his eyes showed that he relished seeing Toller faced with a tricky decision. Although of subordinate rank he was somewhat the older of the two, and he almost certainly subscribed to the general view that Toller had achieved captaincy so early through family influence. It was apparent that the prospect of witnessing a duel between the privileged and the privileged had a strong appeal to the lieutenant.

"Of course I wish to acknowledge it," Toller said, hiding his irritation. "What is that woman's family name?"

"Dervonai, sir."

"All right, forget all that countess frippery and address her as Captain Dervonai. Say: Your kind offer of assistance is noted, but in this instance the presence of another vessel is likely to be more of a hindrance than a help. Continue with your own business and do not impede me in the execution of the Queen's direct orders."

A look of gratification appeared on Feer's narrow face as he beamed Toller's words out to the other ship—he had not expected an outright confrontation to develop so quickly. There was only the briefest pause before a reply came. Your show of discourtesy, not to say insolence, has also been noted, but I will refrain from reporting it to my grandmother if you withdraw at once. I urge you to be prudent.

"The arrogant bitch!" Toller snatched the sunwriter out of Feer's hands, aimed it and worked the trigger. I deem it more prudent to be reported to her Majesty for discourtesy than for treason, which would be the case were I to abandon my mission. I therefore urge you to return to your needlework.

"Needlework!" Lieutenant Feer, who had been able to read the message from the side, gave an appreciative chuckle as Toller handed the sunwriter back to him. "The lady aviator won't appreciate that one, sir. I wonder what her reply will be."

"There it is," Toller said, having raised his binoculars just in time to discern smoke pluming out from the other ship's main jets. "She's either departing the scene in a huff or going all out to reach our objective first—and if what I've heard about the Countess Vantara is true… Yes! We have a race on our hands!"

"Do you want full speed?"

"What else?" Toller said. "And tell the men to put on parachutes."

At the mention of parachutes Feer's gleeful expression faded and was replaced by one of wariness. "Sir, you don't think it's going to come to—"

"Anything can happen when two ships dispute a single piece of sky." Toller injected a note of joviality into his voice, subtly punishing the lieutenant for the improprieties in his attitude. "A collision could easily result in deaths, and I would prefer it that they were all on the opposition's side."

"Yes, sir." Feer turned away, already signalling to the engineer, and a moment later the main jets began a steady roar as maximum continuous power was applied. The nose of the long gondola lifted as the jet thrust tried to rotate the entire ship about its centre of gravity, but the helmsman quickly corrected its attitude by altering the angle of the engines. He was able to do so single-handed, by means of a lever and ratchets, because the engines were of the modern lightweight type consisting of riveted metal tubes.

Until quite recently each jet would have utilized the entire trunk of a young brakka tree, and consequently would have been heavy and unwieldy. The power source was still a mixture of pikon and halvell crystals, which throughout history had been extracted from the soil by the root systems of brakka trees. Now, however, the crystals were obtained directly from the earth by means of chemical refining methods developed by Toller's father, Cassyll Maraquine.

Industrial chemistry and metallurgy were the cornerstones of the Maraquine family's immense fortune and power—which in turn were the source of most of the personal difficulties Toller had with his parents. They had expected him to understudy his father in preparation for taking up the reins of the family's industrial empire—a prospect he had viewed with dread—and his relationship with them had been occasionally strained ever since he had chosen to enter the Sky Service in pursuit of excitement and adventure. Those two qualities had been less plentiful than he had hoped for, which was one of the reasons for his determination not to be elbowed aside on this particular occasion…

He returned his attention to the astronaut, who was still a good mile above the surface of the undulating farmlands. There was no practical point in racing to the parachutist's estimated touchdown point, but it might strengthen Vantara's case if she could claim to have been at the site first. Toller guessed that she had by pure chance intercepted the sunwriter message he had relayed to the palace earlier in the day, and then had decided on a whim to take over at the interesting phase of what had been a tedious mission.

He was considering whether or not to send her a final warning message when he noticed that a line of dark blue had appeared on the western horizon. His binoculars confirmed that there was a substantial body of water ahead, and on consulting his charts he found that it was called Lake Amblaraate. It was more than five miles across, which meant that the astronaut had little chance of drifting himself clear of its edges, but it was traversed by a line of small, low-lying islands from which a skilful parachutist ought to be able to select a good landing site.

Toller beckoned Feer to him and showed him the chart. "I think we may be in for some sport," he said. "Those islets look scarcely big enough to accommodate a parade ground. If yonder flyaway seed manages to plant himself on one of them the task of plucking him up again will call for some fancy airmanship. I wonder if the lady aviator, as you dubbed her, will remain so anxious to claim the honour."

"The important thing is that the messenger and his dispatches are conveyed safely to the Queen," Feer replied. "Does it really matter who picks him up?"

Toller gave him a broad smile. "Oh yes, lieutenant—it matters a great deal."

He leaned on the gondola's rail, enjoying the cooling effect of the gathering slipstream, and watched the other ship draw nearer on the converging course. The range was still too great for him to be able to see any of the crew clearly, even with binoculars, but he knew they were all female. It had been Queen Daseene herself who had insisted on women being allowed to enter the Sky Service. That had been during the emergency of twenty-six years earlier, at the time of the threatened invasion from the Old World, but the tradition persisted to the present day, though for mainly practical reasons it had been decided not to use mixed crews. Toller, who had spent most of his active service on the far side of Overland, had not previously encountered any of the very few airships crewed by women, and he was interested in finding out if gender had any noticeable effect on ship-handling techniques.

As he had expected, both ships reached Lake Amblaraate while the parachutist was still high above them. Toller judged which of the islands was most likely to provide the touchdown point, ordered his ship down to a hundred feet and began cruising in a circle around the triangular patch of green. To his annoyance, Vantara adopted a similar tactic, taking up a station at the opposite side of the circle. The two ships rotated as though attached to the ends of an invisible rod, the intermittent blasts of their jets disturbing colonies of birds which nested on the low ground.

"This is a waste of good crystals," Toller grumbled.

"A criminal waste." Feer nodded, permitting himself a hint of a smile over the fact that his commander was frequently reprimanded by the Service's quartermaster general for using up his stores of pikon and halvell at a greater rate than any other captain because of his impatient flying style.

"That woman should be grounded and—" Toller broke off as the parachutist, apparently having agreed with his audience on a choice of landing site, abruptly furled part of his canopy, increasing his fall-speed and steepening his angle of descent.

"Get us down there with all possible speed!" Toller ordered. "Use all four anchor guns on first contact—we must land on the first pass."

The smile returned to Toller's face as he saw that the crucial moment had come while his ship was well to the west of the island, so that a single natural manoeuvre would bring it into position for an upwind landing. It very much looked as though the aerial wheel of chance had declared against Vantara. He glanced again at the Countess's ship and was appalled to see that it was already breaking out of the flight pattern and beginning a steep descent to the island, obviously intent on making an illegal downwind landing.

"The bitch," Toller whispered. "The stupid bitch!"

He watched helplessly as the other vessel, its speed enhanced by the following breeze, speared down through the lowest levels of the air and drove towards the centre of the island. Too fast, he thought. The anchors will never take the strain! Puffs of smoke appeared on each side of the gondola as its keel touched the grass and the anchor cannon fired their barbs into the ground. The ship slowed abruptly, its gasbag distorting. For a moment it looked as though Toller's prediction would be proved wrong, then both ropes on the left side of the gondola snapped. The ship rolled and turned, hauling its rear anchor out of the soil, and would have broken free had not the crew member on the solitary remaining anchor begun paying out line at maximum possible speed, thus easing the strain on the rope. Against the odds the single line took up the load without breaking, and all at once it was impossible for Toller to bring off his intended landing manoeuvre—Vantara's ship, dipping and wallowing, lay across his line of descent.

"Abort the landing!" he shouted. "Up! Go up!"

The main jets sounded immediately and, following the emergency drill, the crewmen who were not otherwise engaged ran aft to transfer their weight and help tilt the nose of the vessel upwards. Prompt though the corrective actions had been, the inertia of the tons of gas in the envelope which strained overhead slowed down the ship's response. For nightmarishly protracted seconds it continued on its course, with the obstructing vessel expanding to fill the view directly ahead, then the horizon began to sink with nerve-abrading slowness.

From his position at the side of the bridge Toller glimpsed the long-haired figure of Countess Vantara, a momentary vision which was replaced by the swift-sliding curvatures of the other gasbag, so close that he could make out the individual stitches of the panels and load tapes. He held his breath, willing himself and his ship to rise vertically, and was beginning to hope that a collision had been averted when there came a vast groaning sound from below. The sound—low-pitched, quavering, reproachful—told him that his keel was ploughing its way across the upper surface of the other ship's gasbag.

He looked aft and saw Vantara's ship emerging from beneath his own. At least two seams had given way in the varnished linen envelope, allowing the supportive gas to spew into the atmosphere. The rents, although serious, were not bad enough to cause a catastrophe—the elliptical gasbag was slowly becoming misshapen and wrinkled, allowing the gondola beneath it to sink to the ground.

Toller gave the orders for his ship to resume normal flying and to make another circuit in preparation for landing. The manoeuvre gave him and his crew an excellent opportunity to watch the countess's ship sink down at the end of its tether, and—the final ignominy—be blotted out of sight by the collapsing gasbag. As soon as it had become apparent that nobody was going to be killed or even injured, the release of tension caused Toller to laugh. Taking their cue from him, Feer and the rest of the crew joined in and the merriment became almost hysterical when the parachutist—whose existence had virtually been forgotten—descended into the scene of action, made a comically awkward landing and ended up sitting on his backside in a patch of swamp.

"There's no hurry now, so I want a flawless showpiece landing," Toller said. "Take her in slowly."

In accordance with his instructions the ship settled down against the breeze with a stately motion and grounded with a barely perceptible shudder. As soon as the anchor cannon had secured the craft, Toller swung himself over the rail and dropped to the grass. The first of Vantara's crew were beginning to struggle out from beneath the folds of their gasbag, but Toller ignored them and walked towards the parachutist, who had risen to his feet and was gathering the sprawled canopy. He raised his head and saluted as he saw Toller approaching. He was a lean, fair-skinned youngster who looked barely old enough to have left his family home, but—and Toller was impressed by the realization—he had completed a double crossing of the void that lay between the sister worlds.

"Good foreday, sir," he said. "Corporal Steenameert, sir. I bear urgent dispatches for her Majesty."

"I thought as much," Toller smiled. "I am under orders to transport you to Prad without delay, but I think we can take a moment to let you get out of that skysuit. It can't be very comfortable walking around with a wet arse."

Steenameert returned the smile, appreciating the way in which Toller had put the relationship on an informal footing. "It wasn't one of my best landings."

"Bad landings seem to be the order of the day," Toller said, glancing past Steenameert. Countess Vantara was striding towards him, a tall black-haired woman whose high-breasted figure was made even more impressive by the fact that she was holding herself angrily erect. Close behind her was a smaller woman, much rounder in build, wearing a lieutenant's uniform, who was labouring to keep pace with her superior. Toller returned his attention to Steenameert, his sense of wonder stirring as he thought of the magnitude of the journey the boy had completed. In spite of his youthfulness, Steenameert had seen sights and had been granted experiences Toller could scarcely imagine. Toller envied him and also was deeply curious about what had been discovered on the voyage to Land—the first since the colonization of Overland had begun fifty years earlier.

"Tell me, corporal," he said. "What was it like on the Old World?"

Steenameert looked hesitant. "Sir, the dispatches are privy to her Majesty."

"Never mind the dispatches. Man-to-man, what did you see? What was it like?

A gratified expression appeared on Steenameert's face as he struggled out of his one-piece skysuit, making it apparent that he had a compulsion to talk about his adventures. "Empty cities! Great cities, cities which make Prad look like a village—and all of them empty!"

"Empty? But what about the—?"

"Mister Maraquine!" The Countess Vantara was still a dozen paces away, but her voice was forceful enough to silence Toller in mid-sentence. "Pending your dismissal from the Service for wilfully damaging one of her Majesty's airships, I am taking command of your vessel. You will consider yourself under arrest!"

The arrogance and the sheer unreasonableness of Vantara's words checked Toller's breath, inspiring in him a pang of fury so intense that he knew it was vital for it to be subdued. He put on his most relaxed smile, turned slowly towards the countess, and immediately wished he had met her under different circumstances. She had one of those faces which have the effect of filling men with hopeless admiration and women with hopeless envy. It was oval, grey-eyed and perfect—flawless in a way which set its owner apart from all the other women Toller had ever seen.

"What are you grinning at?" Vantara demanded. "Did you not hear what I said?"

Putting his regrets aside, Toller said, "Don't be silly. Do you need any help with repairs to your ship?"

Vantara glanced in outrage at the lieutenant who had just arrived at her side, then triangulated her gaze on Toller's face. "Mister Maraquine, you don't seem to realize the seriousness of your situation. You are under arrest."

Toller sighed. "Listen to me, captain. You have behaved very stupidly, but fortunately no real damage has been done and there is no need for either of us to make an official report. Let us just go our separate ways and forget the whole sorry incident."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"It would be better than prolonging this lunacy of yours."

Vantara's hand moved to the butt of the pistol in her belt. "I repeat, Mister Maraquine, you are under arrest."

Scarcely able to believe what was happening, Toller instinctively gripped the haft of his sword.

Vantara's smile was icily perfect. "What do you think you could do with that ridiculous museum piece?"

"Since you ask, I'll tell you," Toller said, lightly and evenly. "Before you could even raise your pistol I could cleave your head from your body, and were your lieutenant foolhardy enough to try menacing me she would suffer the same fate. Furthermore, even if you had two others of your crew with you … and even if they managed to fire and put their bullets into me … I would nevertheless be able to run at them and cut them down.

"I hope I have made myself clear, Captain Dervonai. I am under direct orders from her Majesty, and if anybody attempts to prevent me executing those orders that attempt will end in terrible bloodshed. Those are the simple facts of the matter." Keeping his expression bland, Toller waited to see what effect his words would have on Vantara. The physique he had inherited from his grandfather was a living reminder of the days when the military had comprised a separate caste in Kolcorron. He towered over the countess and had twice her weight, and yet he was not at all certain that things were going to go his way. She had the look of one who was not accustomed to being thwarted, whatever the circumstances.

There was a tense moment during which Toller was acutely aware that his entire future was trembling in the balance, and then—unexpectedly—Vantara gave a delighted laugh.

"Just look at him, Jerene!" she said, nudging her companion. "I do believe he's taking all this seriously." The lieutenant seemed startled for an instant, then she mustered a weak smile.

"It is a very serious—"

"Where's your sense of humour, Toller Maraquine?" Vantara cut in. "Of course, now that I think of it, you always did take yourself too seriously."

Toller was taken aback. "Are you claiming that we have met before?"

Vantara laughed again. "Don't you remember your father taking you to the Migration Day reception at the palace when you were little? Even then you went around wearing a sword … trying to look like your famous grandfather…"

Toller was certain he was being mocked, but if this was the countess's way of backing down without too much loss of face he was prepared to be compliant. Anything was better than continuing the needless confrontation.

"I confess to not remembering you," he said, "but I suspect it is because your appearance has changed to a greater degree than mine."

Vantara shook her head, rejecting the implied compliment. "No. It's simply that you have a poor memory—what about this skyman for whose custody you were, only minutes ago, prepared to risk the safety of two ships?"

Toller turned to Steenameert, who had been listening to the exchange with interest. "Go aboard my ship and have the cook prepare you a meal. We will continue our conversation in comfort." Steenameert saluted, took hold of his parachute and dragged it away.

"I presume you asked him why the expedition lasted so much longer than expected," Vantara said casually, as though the clash of wills had never taken place.

"Yes." Toller was unsure of how to deal with the countess, but he decided to try making their relationship as informal and friendly as possible. "He said that Land was empty. He spoke of empty cities."

"Empty! But what has become of the so-called New Men?"

"The explanation, if there is one, should be in the dispatches."

"In that case I must visit her Majesty, my grandmother, as soon as possible," Vantara said. The reference to her royal family connection had been unnecessary, and Toller took it as an indication that he was expected to keep his distance.

"I, too, must return to Prad with all possible speed," he said, making his tone brisk. "Are you sure you don't want any help with repairs?"

"Positive! The seams will be sewn before littlenight, then I'll be on my way."

"There's just one more thing," Toller said as Vantara was turning away. "Strictly speaking, our ships were in collision and we are supposed to file incident reports. How do you feel about that?"

She met his gaze directly. "I find all that paperwork rather tiresome, don't you?"

"Very tiresome." Toller smiled and saluted. "Goodbye, captain."

He watched the countess and her junior officer walk off in the direction of their ship, then he turned and retraced his steps to his own vessel. The great disk of the sister planet was filling the sky overhead, and the shrinkage of its sunlit crescent told him there was not much more than an hour until the daily eclipse which was known as littlenight. He was acutely aware, now that they had parted company, of the extent to which he had allowed himself to be manipulated by Vantara. Had a man been guilty of such appalling behaviour in the air and arrogance on the ground, Toller would have given him a verbal blistering so fierce that it could easily have provoked a duel, and most certainly would have indicted him in an official report. As it was, he had been unmanned and bemused by the countess's incredible physical perfection, and had conducted himself like an impressionable youth. It was true that he had conclusively defeated Vantara on the main issue, but in retrospect he could almost believe that he had been as much concerned with impressing her as with carrying out his duty.

By the time he reached his ship a crewman was standing beside each of the four anchors and making ready for departure. He went up the rungs on the side of the gondola and swung himself over the rail, then paused and stared at Vantara's grounded craft. Its crew were busy detaching the gasbag and laying it out on the grass under Vantara's supervision.

Lieutenant Feer came to his side. "Continuous thrust to Prad, sir?"

If I ever get married, Toller thought, it has to be to that woman.

"Sir, I asked you if—"

"Of course I want continuous thrust to Prad," Toller said. "And bring Steenameert to my cabin—I want to talk to him in private."

He went to his cabin at the rear of the main deck and waited for the skyman to be shown in. The ship felt alive again, its timbers and rigging emitting occasional creaks as the structure as a whole adjusted to the tensions of flying into the wind. Toller sat at his desk and toyed abstractedly with navigation instruments, unable to put the Countess Vantara out of his thoughts. How had he managed to forget meeting her as a child? He could recall being dragged against his will to the Migration Day ceremonies, at an age when he scorned the company of girls, but surely even then he would have noticed her among the giggling, gauzy creatures at play in the palace gardens…

His musings were interrupted when Steenameert tapped at the door and came into the small room, still brushing food particles from his chin. "You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes. We were interrupted at an interesting point in our conversation. Tell me more about these empty cities. Did you see no living people whatsoever?"

Steenameert shook his head. "Not one, sir! Lots of skeletons—thousands of them—but, as far as I could tell, the New Men no longer exist. Their own pestilence seems to have turned against them and wiped them out."

"How far abroad did you travel?"

"Not far—two hundred miles at the most. As you know, we only had the three skyships … nothing with lateral thrusters … and had to rely on the winds to get us about. But that was enough for me, sir. After a while I had an uncanny feeling about the place—I knew there was nobody there.

"I mean, we first dropped down only a couple of miles out of Ro-Atabri, the old capital. We were in the heart of ancient Kolcorron itself. If there were any people living on Land, that's where they would be found. It stands to reason that's where they would be found." Steenameert spoke fervently, as though he had a personal stake in convincing Toller that his ideas were valid.

"You're probably correct," Toller said. "Unless, of course, it is something to do with the ptertha. From what I've been taught, the worst of them infested Kolcorron, while the other side of the globe was comparatively free of them."

Steenameert became even more intense. "The second great discovery we made is that the ptertha on Land are colourless—just like those on Overland. It appears that they have already reverted to their neutral state, sir. I suppose it was because the poison they developed for use against humans had done what was required of it; and now they are in a state of readiness to war against any other type of creature which threatens brakka trees."

"That's very interesting," Toller said, but—belying his words—his attention wandered as the image of Countess Vantara's face began to swim before his mind's eye. I wonder how I can arrange to see her again. And how long will it take?

"It seems to me," Steenameert was saying, "that the logical thing to do now is to mount a proper expedition. Lots of ships, well-equipped and carrying settlers, to reclaim the Old World—just as King Prad predicted we would."

Toller had half-consciously noted earlier that Steenameert was unusually well-spoken for a ranker, and now it came to him that the man also seemed better educated than might have been expected. He examined Steenameert with new interest.

"You've been pondering this matter, have you?" he said. "Is it your wish to go back to Land?"

"Yes, sir!" The smooth skin of Steenameert's face grew pinker. "If Queen Daseene decides to send a fleet to Land I'll be among the first to volunteer for the journey. And if you were likewise inclined, sir, I'd consider it an honour to serve under you."

Toller considered the notion and his mind conjured up a sombre-hued picture of a handful of airships roaming over landscapes of weed-shrouded ruins wherein lay millions of human skeletons. The vision was made even more unappealing by there being no place in it for Vantara. If he went to Land, he and she would literally be worlds apart. It shocked him to find that he was already according her such a prominent place in his life scheme, and with so little justification, but it showed the extent to which she had breached his emotional defences.

"I can't help you get back to the Old World," he said to Steenameert. "I believe I have enough to keep me fully occupied right here on Overland."