Kiteworld

Book 109: Gateway Essentials

by Keith Roberts

Genres: Science Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

The Realm of Kiteworld has survived nuclear catastrophe and is governed by a feudal and militant religious oligarchy - the Church Variant. In the outer Badlands, real or imagined Demons are kept at bay by flying defensive structures of giant interlocking Cody kites piloted by an elite and brave Corps of Observers. Through a series of Kite stories we are drawn compellingly into a strange but recognizable world where loyalty to the Corps is everything and non-conformity is a sin. Keith Roberts depicts the fortunes, passions and failings of his characters against this background of a fragile and superstitious society. As the fanatical Ultras embark on a religious campaign of destruction, the Realm starts to disintegrate fast.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 288

Sample

The ground crew had all but finished their litany. They stood in line, heads bowed, silhouetted against the last dull flaring from the west; below me the Launch Vehicle seethed gently to itself, water sizzling round a rusted boiler rivet. A gust of warmth blew up toward the gantry, bringing scents of steam and oil to mingle with the ever-present smell of dope. At my side the Kite-captain snorted, it seemed impatiently; shuffled his feet, sank his bull head even further between his shoulders.

I glanced round the darkening hangar, taking in the remembered scene; the spools of cable, head-high on their trolleys, bright blades of the anchor rigs, fathom on fathom of the complex lifting train. In the centre of the place, above the Observer’s wickerwork basket, the mellow light of oil lamps grew to stealthy prominence; it showed the spidery crisscrossings of girders, the faces of the windspeed telltales, each hanging from its jumble of struts. The black needles vibrated, edging erratically up and down the scales; beyond, scarcely visible in the gloom, was the complex bulk of the Manlifter itself, its dark, spread wings jutting to either side.

The young priest turned a page of his book, half glanced toward the gantry. He wore the full purple of a Base Chaplain; but his worried face looked very young. I guessed him to be not long from his novitiate; the presence of a Kitemaster was a heavy weight to bear. His voice reached up to me, a thread of sound mixed with the blustering of the wind outside. ‘Therefore we beseech thee, Lord, to add Thy vigilance to ours throughout the coming night; that the Land may be preserved, according to Thy covenant …’ The final response was muttered; and he stepped back, closing the breviary with evident relief.

I descended the metal-latticed steps to the hangar floor, paced unhurriedly to the wicker basket. As yet there was no sign of Canwen, the Observer; but that was to be expected. A Flier of his seniority knows, as the Church herself knows, the value of the proper form of things. He would present himself upon his cue; but not before. I sprinkled oil and earth as the ritual dictates, murmured my blessing, clamped the Great Seal of the Church Variant to the basket rim and stepped away. I said, ‘Let the Watching begin.’

At once the hangar became a scene of ordered confusion. Tungsten arcs came to buzzing life, casting their harsher and less sympathetic glare; orders were shouted, and Cadets ran to the high end doors, began to roll them back. The wind roared in at once, causing the canvas sides of the structure to boom and crack; the arc globes swung, sending shadows leaping on the curving walls. The valve gear of the truck set up its fussing; I climbed back to the gantry as the heavy vehicle nosed into the open air. I restored the sacred vessels to their valise, clicked the lock and straightened.

The Kitecaptain glanced at me sidelong, and back to the telltales. ‘Wind-speed’s too high, by eight or ten knots,’ he growled. ‘And mark that gusting. It’s no night for flying.’

I inclined my head. ‘The Observer will decide,’ I said.

He snorted. ‘Canwen will fly,’ he said. ‘Canwen will always fly …’ He turned on his heel. ‘Come into the office,’ he said. ‘You’ll observe as well from there. In any case, there’s little to see as yet.’ I took a last glance through the line of rain-spattered windows, and followed him.

The room in which I found myself was small, and as spartan as the rest of the establishment. An oil lamp burned in a niche; a shelf held manuals and dogeared textbooks, another was piled with bulky box files. A wall radiator provided the semblance at least of comfort; there was a square steel strongbox, beside it a battered metal desk. On it stood a silver-mounted photograph; a line of youths stood stiffly before a massive, old-pattern Launch Vehicle.

The Captain glanced at it and laughed, without particular humour. ‘Graduation day,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I keep it. All the rest have been dead and gone for years. I’m the last; but I was the lucky one of course.’ He limped to a corner cabinet, opened it and took down glasses and a bottle. He poured, looked over his shoulder. He said, ‘It’s been a long time, Helman.’

I considered. Kitecaptains, by tradition, are a strangely-tempered breed of men. Spending the best part of their lives on the Frontier as they do, they come to have scant regard for the social niceties most of us would take for granted; yet the safety of the Realm depends on their vigilance, and that they know full well. It gives them, if not a real, at least a moral superiority; and he seemed determined to use, or abuse, his position to the hilt. However if he chose to ignore our relative status, there was little I could do. In public, I might rebuke him; in private, I would merely risk a further loss of face. I accordingly remained impassive, and took the glass he proffered. ‘Yes,’ I agreed calmly, ‘it has, as you say, been a very long time.’

He was still watching me narrowly. ‘Well at least,’ he said, ‘one of us did all right for himself. I’ve little enough to show for twenty years’ service; save one leg two inches shorter than the other.’ He nodded at my robes. ‘They reckon,’ he said, ‘you’ll be in line for the Grand Mastership one day. Oh yes, we hear the chat; even stuck out in a rotting hole like this.’

‘All things,’ I said, ‘are within the will of God.’ I sipped, cautiously. Outback liquor has never been renowned for subtlety, and this was no exception; raw spirit as near as I could judge, probably brewed in one of the tumbledown villages through which I had lately passed.

He gave his short, barking laugh once more. ‘Plus a little help from Variant politics,’ he said. ‘But you always had a smooth tongue when it suited. And knew how to make the proper friends.’

‘We are not all Called,’ I said sharply. There are limits in all things; and he was pushing me perilously close to mine. It came to me that he was already more than a little drunk. I walked forward to the window, peered; but nothing was visible. The glass gave me back an image of a bright Cap of Maintenance, the great clasp at my throat, my own sombre and preoccupied face.

I sensed him shrug. ‘We aren’t all touched in the head,’ he said bitterly. ‘You won’t believe it, I find it hard myself; but I once had a chance at the scarlet as well. And I turned it down. Do you know, there was actually a time when I believed in all of this?’ He paused. ‘What I’d give, for my life back just once more,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. A palace on the Middlemarch, that’s what I’d have; servants round me, and decent wine to drink. Not the rotgut we get here …’

I frowned. Rough though his manner was, he had a way with him that tugged at memory; laughter and scents of other years, touches of hands. We all have our sacrifices to make; it’s the Lord’s way to demand them. There was a summer palace certainly, with flowering trees around it in the spring; but it was a palace that was empty.

I turned back. ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘Believed in all of what?’

He waved a hand. ‘The Corps,’ he said. ‘The sort of crap you teach. I thought the Realm really needed us. It seems crazy now. Even to me.’ He drained the glass at a swallow, and refilled it. ‘You’re not drinking,’ he said.

I set my cup aside. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘I’d best watch from the outer gallery.’

‘No need,’ he said. ‘No need, I’ll shade the lamp.’ He swung down before the light a species of burlap screen; then arcs flared on the apron down below, and all was once more clear as day. Anchors, I saw, had been run out in a half circle from the rear of the Launch Vehicle. ‘We’ve never needed them yet,’ said the Kitecaptain at my elbow. ‘But on a night like this, who can tell?’

A ball of bright fire sailed into the air, arced swiftly to the east. At the signal Cadets surged forward, bearing the first of the Kites shoulder-high. They flung it from them; and the line tightened and strummed. The thing hung trembling, a few feet above their heads; then insensibly began to rise. Steerable arc lamps followed it; within seconds it was lost in the scudding overcast. The shafts of light showed nothing but sparkling drifts of rain.

‘The Pilot,’ said the Captain curtly; then glanced sidelong once more. ‘But I needn’t tell a Kitemaster a thing like that,’ he said.

I clasped my hands behind me. I said, ‘Refresh my memory.’

He considered for a while; then it seemed he came to a decision. ‘Flying a Cody rig isn’t an easy business,’ he snapped. ‘Those bloody fools back home think it’s like an afternoon in Middle Park.’ He rubbed his face, the iron-grey stubble of beard. ‘The Pilot takes up five hundred foot of line,’ he said. ‘Less, if we can find stable air. The Lifter Kites come next. Three on a good day, four; though at a need we can mount more. The Lifter’s job is to carry the main cable; the cable’s job is to steady the Lifters. It’s all to do with balance. Everything’s to do with balance.’ He glanced sidelong once more; but if he expected a comment on his truism, he was disappointed.

Steam jetted from the Launch Vehicle, to be instantly whirled away. The Launchmaster squatted atop the big, hunched shape, one hand to the straining thread of cable, the other gesturing swiftly to the Winchman; paying out, drawing in, as the Pilot clawed for altitude. Others of the team stood ready to clamp the bronze cones to the Trace. The cone diameters increase progressively, allowing the Lifters to ride each to its proper station; and therein lies the skill. All must be judged beforehand; there is no room for error, no time for second thoughts.

An extra-heavy buffet shook the hangar’s sides, set the Kitecaptain once more to scowling. Mixed with the hollow boom I thought I heard a growl of thunder. The Trace paid out steadily though, checked for the addition of the first of the vital cones. A second followed, and a third; and the Kitecaptain unconsciously gripped my arm. ‘They’re bringing the Lifters,’ he said, and pointed.

How they controlled the monstrous, flapping things at all was a mystery to me; but control them they did, hauling at the boxlike structures that seemed at any moment about to fling the men themselves into the air. The tail ring of the first was clipped about the line; orders echoed across the field, the Kite sailed up smoothly into the murk. Its sisters followed it without a hitch; and the Captain visibly relaxed. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That was neatly done. You’ll find no better team this side of the Salient.’ He poured more spirit from the bottle, swallowed. ‘Arms and legs enough have been broken at that game,’ he said. ‘Aye, and necks; in gentler blows than this.’

I restrained a smile. Despite his sourness, the quality of the man showed clear in the remark; the pride he still felt, justifiably, in a job well done. The Rigs might look well enough in high summer, the lines of them floating lazy against the blue, as far as the eye could reach; or at the Air Fairs of the Middle Lands, flying, beribboned, for the delectation of the Master and his aides. It was here though, in the blustering dark, that the mettle of the Captains and their crews was truly tested.

All now depended on the Launchmaster atop the Launcher. I saw him turn, straining his eyes up into the night, stretch a gauntleted hand to the Trace. Five hundred feet and more above, the Pilot flew invisible; below, the Lifters spread out in their line, straining at their bridles of steel rope. The Rig was aloft; but the slightest failure, the parting of a shackle, the slipping of an ill-secured clamp, could still spell disaster. All was well however; the Launchmaster pulled at the Trace again, gauging the angle and tension of the cable, and the final signal was given. I craned forward, intrigued despite myself, brushed with a glove at the cloudy glass.

Quite suddenly, or so it seemed, the Observer was on the apron. A white-robed acolyte, his fair hair streaming, took from his shoulders his brilliant cloak of office. Beneath it he was dressed from head to foot in stout black leather; kneeboots, tunic and trews, close-fitting helmet. He turned once to stare up at the hangar front. I made out the pale blur of his face, the hard, high cheekbones; his eyes though were invisible, protected by massive goggles. He saluted, formally yet it seemed with an indefinable air of derision, turned on his heel and strode toward the Launch Vehicle. I doubt though that he could have made out either the Kitecaptain or myself.

The Ground Crew scurried again. Moving with practised, almost military precision, they wheeled the basket forward; the Observer climbed aboard, and the rest was a matter of skilled, split-second timing. The Man-lifter, shielded at first by the hangar from the full force of the wind, swayed wildly, wrenching at its restraining ropes. Men ran back across the grass; the steam winch clattered and the whole equipage was rising into the night, the Observer already working at the tail-down tackle that would give him extra height. The winch settled to a steady, gentle clanking; and the Captain wiped his face. I turned to him. ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘A splendid launch.’

Somewhere, distantly, a bell began to clang.

‘They’re all launched,’ he said. ‘Right up to the high G numbers; and south, down through the Easthold. The whole Sector’s flying; for what good it’ll serve.’ He glowered at me. ‘You understand, of course, the principles involved?’ he said sarcastically.

‘Assuredly,’ I said. Air flows above the Manlifter’s surfaces faster than beneath them, thus becoming rarified. The good Lord abhors a vacuum; so any wing may be induced to rise.’

He seemed determined not to be mollified. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve swallowed a textbook or two. There’s a bit more to it than that though. If you’d ever flown yourself, you wouldn’t be so glib.’

I lowered my eyes. I knew, well enough, the dip and surge of a Cody basket; but it was no part of my intention to engage him in a game of apologetics. Instead I said, ‘Tell me about Canwen.’

He stared at me, then nodded to the valise. He said, ‘You’ve got his file.’

‘Files don’t say everything,’ I said. ‘I asked you, Kitecaptain.’

He turned away, stood hands on hips and stared down at the Launcher. ‘He’s a Flier,’ he said at length. ‘The finest we’ve got left. What else is there to say?’

I persisted. ‘You’ve known him long?’

‘Since I first joined the Corps,’ he said. ‘We were Cadets together.’ He swung back, suddenly. ‘Where’s all this leading, Helman?’

‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘Perhaps to understanding.’

He brought his palm down flat upon the desk. ‘Understanding?’ he shouted. ‘Who in all the Hells needs understanding? It’s explanations we’re after, man …’

‘Me too,’ I said pointedly. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

He flung an arm out. ‘Up in G7,’ he said, ‘an Observer slipped his own Trace one fine night, floated off into the Badlands. I knew him too; and they don’t come any better. Another sawed his wrists apart, up there on his own; and he’d been flying thirty years. Last week we lost three more; while you and all the rest sit trying to understand …’

A tapping sounded at the door. It opened to his shout; a nervous-looking Cadet stood framed, his eyes on the floor. ‘The Quartermaster sends his compliments,’ he stammered, ‘and begs to know if the Kitemaster – I mean My Lord – wishes some refreshment …’

I shook my head; but the Captain picked the bottle up, tossed it across the room. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘get me some more of this muck. Break it out of stores, if you have to; I’ll sign the chitty later.’ The lad scurried away on his errand; the other stood silent and brooding till he returned. Below, on the apron, the ratchet of the winch clattered suddenly; a pause, and the smooth upward flight was continued. The Captain stared out moodily, screwed the cap from the fresh bottle and drank. ‘You’ll be telling me next,’ he said, ‘they’ve fallen foul of Demons.’

I turned, sharply. For a moment I wondered if he had taken leave of his senses; he seemed however fully in command of himself. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you heard me right first time.’ He filled the glass again. ‘How long has it really been,’ he said, ‘since the Corps was formed? Since the very first Kite flew?’

‘The Corps has always been,’ I said, ‘and always will be. It is the Way …’

He waved a hand dismissively ‘Save it for those who need it,’ he said brutally. ‘Don’t start preaching your sermons in here.’ He leaned on the desk. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what was the real idea? Who dreamed it up?’

I suppose I could have remained silent, or quit his company; but it seemed that beneath the bluster there lay something else. A questioning, almost a species of appeal. It was as if something in him yet needed confirmation of his heresy; the confirmation, perhaps, of argument. Certainly I understood his dilemma, in part at least; it was a predicament that in truth was by no means new to me. ‘The Corps was formed,’ I said, ‘to guard the Realm, and keep its borders safe.’

‘From Demons,’ he said bitterly. ‘From Demons and night walkers, all spirits that bring harm …’ He quoted, savagely, from the Litany. ‘Some plunge, invisible, from highest realms of air; some have the shapes of fishes, flying; some, and these be hardest to descry, cling close upon the hills and very treetops …’ I raised a hand, but he rushed on regardless. ‘These last be deadliest of all,’ he snarled. ‘For to these the Evil One hath given semblance of a Will, to seek out and destroy their prey … Crap!’ He pounded the desk again. ‘All crap,’ he said. ‘Every last syllable. The Corps fell for it though, every man jack of us. You crook your little fingers, and we run; we float up there like fools, with a pistol in one hand and a prayerbook in the other, waiting to shoot down bogles, while you live off the fat of the land …’

I turned away from the window and sat down. ‘Enough,’ I said tiredly ‘Enough, I pray you …’

‘We’re not the only ones of course,’ he said. He struck an attitude. ‘Some burst from the salt ocean,’ he mocked, ‘clad overall in living flame So the Seaguard ride out there by night and day, with magic potions ready to stop the storms …’ He choked, and steadied himself. ‘Now I’ll tell you, Helman,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘I’ll tell you, and you’ll listen. There are no Demons; not in the sky, not on the land, not in the sea …’

I looked away. ‘I envy,’ I said slowly, ‘the sureness of your knowledge.’

He walked up to me. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ he shouted. ‘You hypocritical bastard …’ He leaned forward. ‘Good men have died in plenty,’ he said, ‘to keep the folk in fear, and you in your proper state. Twenty years I flew, till I got this; and I’ll say it again, as loud and clear as you like. There are no Demons …’ He swung away. ‘There’s something for your report,’ he said. ‘There’s a titbit for you …’

I am not readily moved to anger. Enraged, we lose awareness; and awareness is our only gift from God. His last remark though irritated me beyond measure. He’d already said more than enough to be relieved of his command; enough, indeed, to warrant a court martial in Middle-march itself. And a conviction, were I to place the information before the proper authorities. The sneer reduced me to the level of a Variant spy, peeping at keyholes, prying into ledgers. ‘You fool,’ I said. ‘You arrogant, unreasoning fool.’

He stared, fists clenched. ‘Arrogant?’ he said. ‘You call me arrogant? You …?’

I stood up, paced back to the window. Aye, arrogant,’ I said. ‘Beyond all measure, and beyond all sense.’ I swung back. ‘Will you be chastised,’ I said bitterly, ‘like a first year Chaplain, stumbling in the Litany? If that’s the height of your desire, it can readily be accomplished …’

He sat back at the desk, spread his hands on its dull-painted top. ‘What do you want of me?’ he said.

‘The courtesy with which you’re being used,’ I said. ‘For the sake of Heaven, man, act your age …’

He drained the glass slowly, and set it down. He stretched his hand toward the bottle, changed his mind. Finally he looked up, under lowering brows. ‘You take a lot on yourself, Helman,’ he said. ‘If any other spoke to me like that, I’d kill him.’

‘Another easy option,’ I said shortly. ‘You’re fuller of them than a beggar’s dog of fleas.’ I shook my head. ‘You alone, of all the Lord’s creation,’ I said. ‘You alone, beg leave to doubt your faith. And claim it as a novel sentiment …’

He frowned again. ‘If you’d ever flown …’

‘I’ve flown,’ I said.

He looked up. ‘You’ve seen the Badlands?’ he asked sharply.

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have.’

He took the bottle anyway, poured another drink. ‘It changes you,’ he said. ‘For all time.’ He picked the glass up, toyed with it. ‘Folk reckon nothing lives out there,’ he said grimly. ‘Only Demons. I could wish they were right.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes of a clear day, flying low, you see … more than a man should see. But they’re not Demons. I think once, they were folk as well. Like us …’

I folded my arms. I too was seeing the Badlands, in my mind; the shining vista of them spread by night, as far as the eye could reach. The hills and valleys twinkling, like a bed of coals; but all a ghastly blue.

It seemed he read my thoughts. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s something to look at all right …’ He drank, suddenly, as if to erase the memory. ‘It’s strange,’ he said. ‘But over the years, I wonder if a Flier doesn’t get to see with more than his normal eyes.’ He rubbed his face. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I’d see them stretching out farther and farther, all round the world; and nothing left at all, except the Realm. One little corner of a little land. That wasn’t Demons either though. I think men did it, to each other.’ He laughed. ‘But I’m forgetting, aren’t I?’ he said bitterly. ‘While the Watching goes on, it can never happen here …’

I touched my lip. I wasn’t going to be drawn back into an area of barren cant. ‘I sometimes wonder,’ I said carefully, ‘if it’s not all merely a form of words. Does it matter, finally, how we describe an agent of Hell? Does it make it any more real? Or less?’

‘Why, there you go,’ he cried, with a return to something of his former manner. ‘Can’t beat a good Church training, that’s what I always say. A little bit here, a little bit there, clawing back the ground you’ve lost. Nothing ever alters for you, does it? Face you with reality though; that’s when you start to wriggle …’

‘And why not?’ I said calmly. ‘It’s all that’s left to do. Reality is the strangest thing any of us will ever encounter; the one thing, certainly, that we’ll never understand. Wriggle though we may.’

He waved his glass. ‘I tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’ll propose a small experiment. You say the Watching keeps us from all harm …’

I shook my head. ‘I say the Realm is healthy, and that its fields are green.’

He narrowed his eyes for a moment. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘For a month, we’ll ground the Cody rigs. And call in all the Seaguard. That would prove it, wouldn’t it? One way or the other …’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘You might pay dearly for the knowledge though.’

He slammed the glass down. ‘And what,’ he said, ‘if your precious fields stayed green? Would you concede the point?’

‘I would concede,’ I said gently, ‘that Hell had been inactive for a span.’

He flung his head back and guffawed. The laughter was not altogether of a pleasant kind. ‘Helman,’ he said, ‘you’re bloody priceless.’ He uncapped the bottle, poured. ‘I’ll tell you a little story,’ he said. ‘We were well off, when I was a youngster. Big place out in the Westmarch; you’d better believe it. Only we lost the lot. My father went off his head. Not in a nasty way, you understand; he never hurt a fly, right through his life. But every hour on the hour, for the last ten years, he waved a kerchief from the tower window, to scare off little green men. And you know what? We never saw a sign of one, not all the time he lived.’ He sat back. ‘What do you say to that?’

I smiled. ‘I’d say that he had rediscovered Innocence. And taught you all a lesson; though at the time, maybe you didn’t see.’

He swore, with some violence. ‘Lesson?’ he cried. ‘What lesson lies in that?’

‘That logic may have circular propensities,’ I said. ‘Or approach the condition of a sphere; the ultimate, incompressible form.’

He pushed the bottle away, staring; and I burst out laughing at the expression on his face. ‘Man,’ I said, ‘you can’t put Faith into a test tube, prove it with a piece of litmus paper …’

A flash of brilliance burst in through the windows. It was followed by a long and velvet growl. A bell began to sound, closer than before. I glanced across to the Kitecaptain; but he shook his head. He said harshly, ‘Observation altitude …’

I lifted the valise on to the desk edge, unlocked it once more. I assembled the receiver, set up the shallow repeater cone with its delicate central reed. The other stared, eyes widening. ‘What’re you doing?’ he croaked.

‘My function is to listen,’ I said curtly. ‘And as I told you, maybe to understand. I’ve heard you; now we’ll see what Canwen has to say.’ I advanced the probe to the crystal; the cone vibrated instantly, filling the room with the rushing of the wind, the high, musical thrumming of the Cody rig.

The Captain sprang away, face working. ‘Necromancy,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ll not have it; not on my Base …’

‘Be quiet,’ I snapped. ‘You impress me not at all; you have more wit than that.’ I touched a control; and the Observer roared with laughter. ‘The tail-down rig of course,’ he said. ‘New since your day …’

The other stared at the receiver; then through the window at the Launch Vehicle, the thread of cable stretching into the dark. ‘Who’s he talking to?’ he whispered.

I glanced up. ‘His father was a Flier, was he not?’

The Kitecaptain moistened his lips. ‘His father died over the Salient,’ he said. ‘Twenty years ago.’

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I know.’ Rain spattered sudden against the panes; I adjusted the control and the wind shrilled again, louder than before. Mixed as it was with the singing of the cables, there was an eerie quality to the sound; almost it was as if a voice called, thin and distant at first then circling closer. Canwen’s answer was a great shout of joy. ‘Quickly, Pater, help me,’ he cried urgently. ‘Don’t let her go again …’ Gasps sounded; the basket-work creaked in protest and there was a close thump, as if some person, or some thing, had indeed been hauled aboard. The Observer began to laugh. ‘Melissa,’ he said. ‘Melissa, oh my love …’

‘His wife,’ I supplied. ‘A most beautiful and gracious lady. Died of childbed fever, ten years ago in Middlemarch …’

‘What?’ cried Canwen. ‘What?’ Then, ‘Yes, I see it …’ A snapping sounded, as he tore the Great Seal from the basket; and he began to laugh again. ‘They honour us, beloved,’ he cried. ‘The Church employs thaumaturgy against us …’

The Kitecaptain gave a wild shout. ‘No,’ he cried, ‘I’ll hear no more of it …’ I wrestled with him, but I was too late. He snatched the receiver, held it on high and dashed it to the floor. The delicate components shattered; and the room fell silent, but for the close sound of the wind.

The pause was of brief duration. Lightning flared again; then instantly the storm was all around us. Crash succeeded crash, shaking the very floor on which I stood; the purple flaring became continuous.

The Captain started convulsively; then it seemed he collected himself. ‘Down rig,’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘We must fetch him down …’

‘No,’ I cried. ‘No …’ I barred his way; for a moment my upflung arm, the sudden glitter of the Master’s Staff, served to check him, then he had barged me aside. I tripped and fell, heavily. His feet clattered on the gantry steps; by the time I had regained my own his thick voice was already echoing through the hangar. ‘Down rig … Down rig, for your lives …’

I followed a little dazedly, ran across the cluttered floor of the place. The great end doors had been closed; I groped for the wicket, and the wind snatched it from my hand. My robes flogged round me; I pressed my back to the high metal, offered up a brief and fervent prayer. Before me the main winch of the Launcher already screamed, the great drum spun; smoke or steam rose from where the wildly-driven cable snaked through its fairleads. Men ran to the threatened points with water buckets, white-robed Medics scurried; Cadets, hair streaming, stood by with hatchets in their hands, to cut the rigging at a need. I stared up, shielding my face against the glaring arcs; and a cry of ‘View-ho’ arose. Although I could not myself descry it,