Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 7



“I’m not at all sure that I’m doing the right thing,” Lord Glo said as Toller Maraquine finished strapping him into his walking frame. “I think it would be much more prudent—not to mention being more fair to you—if I were to take one of the servants to the Great Palace with me and … hmm … leave you here. There is enough work to be done around the place, work which would keep you out of trouble.”

“It has been two years,” Toller replied, determined not to be excluded. “And Leddravohr has had so much on his mind that he has probably forgotten all about me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, my boy—the prince has a certain reputation in these matters. Besides, if I know you, you’re quite likely to give him a reminder.”

“Why would I do something so unwise?”

“I’ve been watching you lately. You’re like a brakka tree which is overdue for a blow-out.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing any more.” Toller made the protest automatically, as he had often done in the past, but it came to him that he had in fact changed considerably since his first encounter with the military prince. His occasional periods of restlessness and dissatisfaction were proof of the change, because of the way in which he dealt with them. Instead of working himself up to a state in which the slightest annoyance was liable to trigger an outburst, he had learned—like other men—to divert or sublimate his emotional energies. He had schooled himself to accept an accretion of minor joys and satisfactions in place of that single great fulfilment which was yearned for by so many and destined for so few.

“Very well, young man,” Glo said as he adjusted a buckle. “I’m going to trust you, but please remember that this is a uniquely important occasion and conduct yourself accordingly. I will hold you to your word on this point. You realise, of course, why the King has seen fit to … hmm … summon me?”

“Is it a return to the days when we were consulted on the great imponderables of life? Does the King want to know why men have nipples but can’t suckle?”

Glo sniffed. “Your brother has the same unfortunate tendency towards coarse sarcasm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not, but I’ll enlighten you just the same. The idea I planted in the King’s mind two years ago has finally borne fruit. Remember what you said about my flying higher and seeing…? No, that was Lain. But here’s something for you to … hmm … think about, young Toller. I’m getting on in years and haven’t much longer to go—but I’ll wager you a thousand nobles that I will set foot on Overland before I die.”

“I would never challenge your word on any subject,” Toller said diplomatically, marvelling at the older man’s talent for self-deception. Anybody else, with the possible exception of Vorndal Sisstt, would have remembered the council meeting with shame. So great was the philosophers’ disgrace that they would surely have been deposed from Greenmount had the monarchy not been preoccupied with the plague and its consequences—yet Glo still nurtured his belief that he was highly regarded by the King and that his fantasising about the colonisation of Overland could be taken seriously. Since the onset of his illness Glo had shunned alcohol, and was able to comport himself better as a result, but his senility remained to distort his view of reality. Toller’s private guess was that Glo had been summoned to the palace to account for the continuing failure to produce the efficacious long-range anti-ptertha weapon which was vital if normal agriculture were to resume.

“We’ve got to make haste,” Glo said. “Can’t risk being late on our day of triumph.” With Toller’s help he donned his formal grey robe, working it down over the cane framework which enabled him to stand on his own. His formerly rotund body had shrunk to a loose-skinned slightness, but he had left his clothing unaltered to accommodate and hide the frame, hoping to disguise the extent of his disability. It was one of the human foibles which had earned him Toller’s sympathy.

“We’ll get you there in good time,” Toller said reassuringly, wondering if he should be trying to prepare Glo for the possible ordeal that lay ahead.

The drive to the Great Palace took place in silence, with Glo nodding ruminatively to himself now and then as he rehearsed his intended address.

It was a moist grey morning, the gloom of which was deepened by the anti-ptertha screens overhead. The level of illumination had not been reduced a great deal in those streets where it had been sufficient to put up a roof of netting or lattices supported on canes which ran horizontally from eave to eave. But where there were roofs and parapets of different heights in proximity to each other it had been necessary to erect heavy and complicated structures, many of which were clad with varnished textiles to prevent air currents and downdraughts from carrying ptertha dust through countless apertures in buildings which were designed for an equatorial climate. Many of the once-glittering avenues in the heart of Ro-Atabri now had a cavernous dimness to them, the city’s architecture having been clogged and obscured and rendered claustrophobic by the defensive shroud.

The Bytran Bridge, the main river crossing on the way south, had been completely sheathed with timber, giving it something of the appearance of a giant warehouse, and from there a tunnel-like covered way crossed the moats and led to the Great Palace, which was now draped and tented. Toller’s first intimation that the meeting was going to be different from that of two years earlier came when he noticed the lack of carriages in the principal courtyard. Apart from a handful of official equippages, only his brother’s lightweight brougham—acquired after the banning of team-drawn vehicles—waited near the entrance. Lain was standing alone by the brougham with a slim roll of paper under his arm. His narrow face looked pale and tired under the sweeps of black hair. Toller jumped down and assisted Glo to leave his carriage, discreetly taking his full weight until he had steadied himself.

“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a private audience,” Toller said.

Glo gave him a look of humorous disdain, momentarily appearing his old self. “I can’t be expected to tell you everything, young man—it’s important for the Lord Philosopher to be aloof and … hmm … enigmatic now and again.” Leaning heavily on Toller’s arm, he limped towards the carved arch of the entrance, where they were joined by Lain.

During the exchange of greetings Toller, who had not seen his brother for some forty days, was concerned at Lain’s obvious debility. He said, “Lain, I hope you’re not working too hard.”

Lain made a wry grimace. “Working too hard and sleeping too little. Gesalla is pregnant again and it’s affecting her more than the last time.”

“I’m sorry.” Toller was surprised to hear that, after her miscarriage of almost two years ago, Gesalla was still determined on motherhood. It indicated a maternal instinct which he had trouble in reconciling with the rest of her character. Apart from the single curious shift in his perception of Gesalla on his return from the disastrous council meeting, he had always seen her as being too dry, too well-ordered and too fond of her personal autonomy to enjoy rearing children.

“By the way, she sends her regards,” Lain added.

Toller smiled broadly to signal his disbelief as the three men proceeded into the palace. Glo directed them through the muted activity of the corridors to a glasswood door which was well away from the administrative areas. The black-armoured ostiaries on duty were a sign that the King was within. Toller felt Glo’s body stiffen with exertion as he strove to present a good appearance, and he in turn tried to look as though he was giving Glo only minimal assistance as they entered the audience chamber.

The apartment was hexagonal and quite small, lighted by a single window, and the only furnishings were a single hexagonal table and six chairs. King Prad was already seated opposite the window and by his side were the princes Leddravohr and Chakkell, all of them informally attired in loose silks. Prad’s sole mark of distinction was a large blue jewel which was suspended from his neck by a glass chain. Toller, who had a strong desire for the occasion to pass off smoothly for the sake of his brother and Lord Glo, avoided looking in Leddravohr’s direction. He kept his eyes down until the King signalled for Glo and Lain to be seated, then he gave all his attention to getting Glo into a chair with a minimum of creaking from his frame.

“I apologise for this delay, Majesty,” Glo said when finally at ease, speaking in high Kolcorronian. “Do you wish my attendant to retire?”

Prad shook his head. “He may remain for your comfort, Lord Glo—I had not appreciated the extent of your incapacity.”

“A certain recalcitrance of the … hmm … limbs, that is all,” Glo replied stoically.

“Nevertheless, I am grateful for the effort you made to be here. As you can see, I am dispensing with all formality so that we may have an unimpeded exchange of ideas. The circumstances of our last meeting were hardly conducive to free discussion, were they?”

Toller, who had positioned himself behind Glo’s chair, was surprised by the King’s amiable and reasonable tones. It seemed as though his own pessimism had been ill-founded and that Glo was to be spared fresh humiliation. He looked directly across the table for the first time and saw that Prad’s expression was indeed as reassuring as it could be on features that were dominated by one inhuman, marble-white eye. Toller’s gaze, without his conscious bidding, swung towards Leddravohr and he experienced a keen psychic shock as he realised that the prince’s eyes had been drilling into him all the while, projecting unmistakable malice and contempt.

I’m a different person, Toller told himself, checking the reflexive defiant spreading of his shoulders. Glo and Lain are not going to be harmed in any way by association with me.

He lowered his head, but not before he had glimpsed Leddravohr’s smile flick into being, the effortless snake-fast twitch of his upper lip. Toller was unable to decide on a course of action or inaction. It appeared that all the things they whispered about Leddravohr were true, that he had an excellent memory for faces and an even better one for insults. The immediate difficulty for Toller lay in that, determined though he was not to cross Leddravohr, it was out of the question for him to stand with his head lowered for perhaps the whole foreday. Could he find a pretext to leave the room, perhaps something to do with…?

“I want to talk about flying to Overland,” the King said, his words a conceptual bomb-blast which blew everything else out of Toller’s consciousness. “Are you, in your official capacity as Lord Philosopher, stating that it can be done?”

“I am, Majesty.” Glo glanced at Leddravohr and the dark-jowled Chakkell as though daring them to object. “We can fly to Overland.”

“How?”

“By means of very large hot air balloons, Majesty.”

“Go on.”

“Their lifting power would have to be augmented by gas jets—but it is providential that in the region where the balloons would practically cease to function the jets would be their most effective.” Glo was speaking strongly and without hesitations, as he could sometimes do when inspired. “The jets would also serve to turn the balloons over at the midpoint of the flight, thus enabling them to descend in the normal manner.

“I repeat, Majesty—we can fly to Overland.”

Glo’s words were followed by an air-whispering silence during which Toller, bemused with wonder, looked down at his brother to see if—as before—the talk of flying to Overland had come as a shock to him. Lain appeared nervous and ill at ease, but not at all surprised. He and Glo must have been in collaboration, and if Lain believed that the flight could be made—then it could be made! Toller felt a stealthy coolness spread down his spine to the accompaniment of what for him was a totally new intellectual and emotional experience. I have a future, he thought. I have discovered why I am here…

“Tell us more, Lord Glo,” the King said. “This hot air balloon you speak of—has it been designed?”

“Not only has it been designed, Majesty—the archives show that an example was actually fabricated in the year 2187. It was successfully flown several times that year by a philosopher called Usader, and it is believed—although the records are … hmm … vague on this point—that in 2188 he actually attempted the Overland flight.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was never heard of again.”

“That hardly inspires confidence,” Chakkell put in, speaking for the first time. “It’s hardly a record of achievement.”

“That depends on one’s viewpoint.” Glo refused to be discouraged. “Had Usader returned a few days later one might be entitled to describe his flight as a failure. The fact that he did not return could indicate that he had succeeded.”

Chakkell snorted. “More likely that he died!”

“I’m not claiming that such an ascent would be easy or without its share of … hmm … risks. My contention is that our increased scientific knowledge could reduce the risks to an acceptable level. Given sufficient determination—and the proper financial and material resources—we can produce ships capable of flying to Overland.”

Prince Leddravohr sighed audibly and shifted in his chair, but refrained from speaking. Toller guessed that the King had placed powerful restraints on him before the meeting began.

“You make it all sound rather like an aftday jaunt,” King Prad said. “But isn’t it a fact that Land and Overland are almost five-thousand miles apart?”

“The best triangulations give a figure of 4,650 miles, Majesty. Surface to surface, that is.”

“How long would it take to fly that distance?”

“I regret I cannot give a definite answer to that question at this stage.”

“It’s an important question, isn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly! The speed of ascent of the balloon is of fundamental importance, Majesty, but there are many variables to be … hmm … considered.” Glo signalled for Lain to open his roll of paper. “My chief scientist, who is a better mathematician than I, has been working on the preliminary calculations. With your consent, he will explain the problem.”

Lain spread out a chart with trembling hands, and Toller was relieved to see that he had had the foresight to draw it on a limp cloth-based paper which quickly lay flat. Part of it was taken up by a scale diagram which illustrated the sister worlds and their spatial relationships; the remainder was given over to detailed sketches of pear-shaped balloons and complicated gondolas. Lain swallowed with difficulty a couple of times and Toller grew tense, fearing that his brother was unable to speak.

“This circle represents our own world … with its diameter of 4,100 miles,” Lain finally articulated. “The other, smaller circle represents Overland, whose diameter is generally accepted as being 3,220 miles, at its fixed point above our equator on the zero meridian, which passed through Ro-Atabri.”

“I think we all learned that much basic astronomy in our infancy,” Prad said. “Why can’t you say how long the journey from the one to the other will take?”

Lain swallowed again. “Majesty, the size of the balloon and the weight of the load we attach to it will influence the free ascent speed. The difference in temperature between the gases inside the balloon and the surrounding atmosphere is another factor, but the most important governing factor is the amount of crystals available to power the jets.

“Greater fuel economy would be achieved by allowing the balloon to rise to its maximum height—slowing down all the while—and not using the jets until the gravitational pull of Land had grown weak. That, of course, would entail lengthening the transit time and therefore increasing the weight of food and water to be carried, which in turn would…”

“Enough, enough! My head swims!” The King held out both his hand, fingers slightly crooked as though cradling an invisible balloon. “Settle your mind on a ship which will carry, say, twenty people. Imagine that crystals are reasonably plentiful. Now, how long will it take that ship to reach Overland? I don’t expect you to be precise—simply give me a figure which I can lodge in my cranium.”

Lain, paler than ever, but with growing assurance, ran a fingertip down some columns of figures at the side of his chart. “Twelve days, Majesty.”

“At last!” Prad glanced significantly at Leddravohr and Chakkell. “Now—for the same ship—how much of the green and purple will be required?”

Lain raised his head and stared at the King with troubled eyes. The King gazed back at him, calmly and intently, as he waited for his answer. Toller sensed that wordless communication was taking place, that something beyond his understanding was happening. His brother seemed to have transcended all his nervousness and irresolution, to have acquired a strange authority which—for the moment, at least—placed him on a level with the ruler. Toller felt a surge of family pride as he saw that the King appeared to acknowledge Lain’s new stature and was prepared to give him all the time he needed to formulate his reply.

“May I take it, Majesty,” Lain said at length, “that we are talking about a one-way flight?”

The King’s white eye narrowed. “You may.”

“In that case, Majesty, the ship would require approximately thirty pounds each of pikon and halvell.”

“Thank you. You’re not going to quibble over the fact that a higher proportion of halvell gives the best result in sustained burning?”

Lain shook his head. “Under the circumstances—no.”

“You are a valuable man, Lain Maraquine.”

“Majesty, I don’t understand this,” Glo protested, echoing Toller’s own puzzlement. “There is no conceivable reason for providing a ship with only enough fuel for one transit.”

“A single ship, no,” the King said. “A small fleet, no. But when we are talking about…” He turned his attention back to Lain. “How many ships would you say?”

Lain produced a bleak smile. “A thousand seems a good round figure, Majesty.”

“A thousand!” There was a creaking sound from Glo’s cane frame as he made an abortive attempt to stand up, and when he spoke again an aggrieved note had crept into his voice. “Am I the only person here who is to be kept in ignorance of the subject under discussion?”

The King made a placating gesture. “There is no conspiracy, Lord Glo—it’s merely that your chief scientist appears to have the ability to read minds. It would please me to learn how he divined what was in my thoughts.”

Lain stared down at his hands and spoke almost abstractedly, almost as though musing aloud. “For more than two-hundred days I have been unable to obtain any statistics on agricultural output or ptertha casualties. The official explanation was that the provincial administrators were too severely overworked to prepare their returns—and I have been trying to persuade myself that such was the case—but the indicators were already there, Majesty. In a way it is a relief to have my worst fears confirmed. The only way to deal with a crisis is to face up to it.”

“I agree with you,” Prad said, “but I was concerned with avoiding a general panic, hence the secrecy. I had to be certain.”

“Certain?” Glo’s large head turned from side to side. “Certain? Certain?”

“Yes, Lord Glo,” the King said gravely. “I had to be certain that our world was coming to an end.”

On hearing the bland statement Toller felt a unique emotional pang. Any fear which might have been part of it fled at once before curiosity and an overwhelming, selfish and gloating sense of privilege. The most momentous events in history were being staged for his personal benefit. For the first time in his life, he was in love with the future.

“…as though the ptertha were encouraged by the events of the past two years, in the manner of a warrior who sees that his foe is weakening,” the King was saying. “Their numbers are increasing—and who is to say that their foul emissions will not become even more deadly? It has happened once, and it can happen again.

“We in Ro-Atabri have been comparatively fortunate thus far, but throughout the empire the people are dying from the insidious new form of pterthacosis in spite of all our efforts to fend the globes off. And the newborn, upon whom our future depends, are the most vulnerable. We might be facing the prospect of slowly dwindling into a pitiful, doomed handful of sterile old men and women—were it not for the looming spectre of famine. The agricultural regions are becoming incapable of producing food in the quantities which are necessary for the upkeep of our cities, even allowing for our vastly reduced urban populations.”

The King paused to give his audience a thin sad smile. “There are some among us who maintain that there is still room for hope, that fate may yet relent and wheel against the ptertha—but Kolcorron did not become great by supinely trusting to chance. That attitude is foreign to our national character. When forced to yield ground in a battle, we withdraw to a secure redoubt where we can gather our strength and determination to surge forth again and overwhelm our enemies.

“In the present case, as befits the ultimate conflict, there is the ultimate redoubt—and its name is Overland.

“It is my royal decree that we shall prepare to withdraw to Overland—not in order to cower away from our enemy, but to grow numerous and powerful again, to gain time in which to devise means of destroying the ptertha in their loathsome entirety, and finally—regardless of how long it may take—to return to our home world of Land as a glorious and invincible army which will triumphantly lay claim to all that is naturally and rightfully ours.”

The King’s oratory, enhanced by the formalism of the high tongue, had carried Toller along with it, opening up new perspectives in his mind, and it was with some surprise that he realised no response was forthcoming from either his brother or Glo. The latter was so immobile that he might have been dead, and Lain continued to stare down at his hands as he twisted the brakka ring on his sixth finger. Toller wondered, with a twinge of guilt, if Lain was thinking of Gesalla and the baby which would be born into turbulent times.

Prad ended the silence by choosing, oddly in Toller’s view, to address himself to Lain. “Well, wrangler? Have you another demonstration of mind reading for us?”

Lain raised his head and eyed the King steadily. “Majesty, even when our armies were at their most powerful, we avoided going against Chamteth.”

“I resent the implications of that remark,” Prince Leddravohr snapped. “I demand that…”

“Your promise, Leddravohr!” The King rounded angrily on his son. “I would remind you of your promise to me. Be patient! Your time is at hand.”

Leddravohr raised both hands in a gesture of resignation as he settled back in his chair, and now his brooding gaze was fixed on Lain. The spasm of alarm Toller felt over his brother’s welfare was almost lost in the silent clamour of his reaction to the mention of Chamteth. Why had he been so slow to appreciate that an interplanetary migration fleet, if it were ever constructed, would require power crystals on such a vast scale that its needs could be met from only one scource? If the King’s awesome plans also included going to war against the enigmatic and insular Chamtethans, then the near future was going to be even more turbulent than Toller could readily visualise.

Chamteth was a country so huge that it could be reached just as readily by travelling east or west into the Land of the Long Days, that hemisphere of the world which was not swept by Overland’s shadow and where there was no littlenight to punctuate the sun’s progress across the sky. In the distant past several ambitious rulers had tried probing into Chamteth and the outcome had been so convincing, so disastrous that Chamteth had virtually been erased from the national consciousness. It existed, but—as with Overland—its existence had no relevance to the quotidian affairs of the empire.

Until now, Toller thought, striving to rebuild his picture of the universe. Chamteth and Overland are linked … bonded … to take one is to take the other…

“War against Chamteth has become inevitable,” the King said. “Some are of the opinion that it always has been inevitable. What do you say, Lord Glo?”

“Majesty,!…” Glo cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “Majesty, I have always regarded myself as a creative thinker, but I freely admit that the grandeur and scope of your vision have taken my … hmm … breath away. When I originally proposed flying to Overland I envisaged despatching a small number of pathfinders, followed by the gradual establishment of a small colony. I had not dreamed of migration on the scale you are contemplating, but I can assure you that I am equal to the responsibilities involved. The designing of a suitable ship and the planning of all the necessary…” Glo stopped speaking as he saw that Prad was shaking his head.

“My dear Lord Glo, you are not a well man,” the King said, “and I would be less than fair to you if I permitted you to expend what remains of your strength on a task of such magnitude.”

“But, Majesty…”

The King’s face hardened. “Do not interrupt! The extremity of our situation demands equally extreme measures. The entire resources of Kolcorron must be reorganised and mobilised, and therefore I am dissolving all the old dynastic family structures. In their place—as of this moment—is a single pyramid of authority. Its executive head is my son, Prince Leddravohr, who will control and coordinate every aspect—military and civil—of our national affairs. He is seconded by Prince Chakkell, who will be responsible to him for the construction of the migration fleet.”

The King paused, and when he spoke again his voice had none of the attributes of humanity. “Be it understood that Prince Leddravohr’s authority is absolute, that his power is unlimited, and that to go counter to his wishes in any respect is a crime equivalent to high treason.”

Toller closed his eyes, knowing that when he opened them again the world of his childhood and youth would have passed into history, and that in its place would be a dangerous new cosmos in which his tenure might be all too brief.