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10
Wind, Sand,
and Stars

"You fool!" Charlie yelled. "What've you done?"

In the pale light, he saw the Hoka's puzzlement. "Wha hae I done?" Hector replied. "Why, wha but spring ye frae the grip o' your grim and treacherous enemy, tae bring ye again amang them wha love ye and wad win for ye' your richtful crown?"

"But they can't! I mean, I, I— It isn't my crown, none of this is any of our business, here we were finally safe and, and guaranteed a ride back where we belong, and you had to come spoil it—b-b-because it didn't fit that dream world of yours—you interfering idiot!"

"Is it really so, laddie?" whispered the Hoka.

Charlie turned his back on him.

Through mumble of wind and creak of rigging, he heard a thin, heartbroken voice choke forth: "Aweel, then, syne I hae been o' such dissairvice to my Prince, best I lay me doon and dee. God send ye better followers, but He canna find any wha'll care more for ye than did your puir auld thickheaded Hector MacGregor."

Charlie spun around, barely in time to see his companion leap out of the basket.

"Stop!" he screamed, but he was too late. "Hector. . . . Bertram . . . Hector, I never meant—I—oh, if only—Hector, I'd never say anything against you, I'd be anything you wanted—"

At which point he saw a hand clasp the wickerwork, and another, and he noticed how the carrier was tilted in that direction. The Hoka chinned himself till he could climb inboard. Full of good cheer, he said, "I thocht ye might change your mind, laddie—that 'twas nobbut weariness wha spake, and never Bonnie Charlie. So I clung to a sandbag hanging there for ballast, till ye came back to your senses." He laid a finger beside his black nose and winked. "Ah, rough I be, and nane too bricht, but we Scots are by defineetion unco canny."

Charlie, still in a state of shock, gave the kilted figure a very sharp look. No matter how thoroughly he acted out a part, the Hoka never seemed to let go of a certain basic shrewdness.

A few minutes later they examined their surroundings, by the light of moon, stars, and oncoming dawn. Secured at the middle of the basket was a sheet-iron stove, vented to the mouth of the bag so that the heat of a fire would expand the air inside and give lift. A supply of charcoal seemed alarmingly low. Charlie shoveled in more and peered across the glimmering waters. The desert isle lay behind him, but as yet he could not make out Vletska, the land on which Belogh stood. The wind wasn't moving at all fast. If they ran out of fuel far from shore, he and Hector might well drown.

Thus he had trouble hiding his relief from his companion soon after sunrise. Out of the north were bound six flying objects, crimson cigar shapes. They had to be Olaghi's blimps, in pursuit. Wonderful! They'd overhaul this motorless balloon, bring the prisoners back—And Charlie realized the king would doubtless order the Hoka's execution.

He had to prevent that. No matter the early-morning chill, sweat prickled him. How could he threaten or bribe or wheedle Olaghi into granting a pardon? No believable method came to mind. It didn't help his thinking that he grew ever more hungry and thirsty.

At last he forced himself to raise the subject. "And don't just say you'll go to your death with a stiff upper lip," he finished.

"Never," Hector agreed. "I'm nae bluidy Englishman. A firm lower jaw is for me."

"I don't want you dead, not any old way!" Charlie saw how to put it. "If I should be recaptured, I'd need you alive to help me get free again."

"Aye, there's that, and I dinna mind confessing the preenciple gies me a wee sense of relief." Hector pondered. "If we can make shore or swimming distance of it, we can descend till I can go doon by a rope. They'll na bother wi' me, when ye're the true prize." He pointed to a smudge on the southern horizon. "Yonder's Vletska. Mony a weary mile to gang."

Through a crude telescope, Charlie studied the nearest of his pursuers. Beneath a long hot-air container, a wicker gondola accommodated nine males. Four of them rode bicyclelike devices which turned propellers; two adjusted control surfaces for direction; three stood by what must be weapons of some sort.

Only slowly were those awkward, underpowered machines closing the gap. From their bearing, Charlie deduced that a shift in airflow had forced them to maneuver crosswind, which was difficult for them. That gave him an idea. He knew wind direction often varies with altitude. Vletska Island was a big target, and he needn't care where he hit it.

Experimenting, he found he could sink by opening a valve in the fabric and dampening the fire. To rise, he could stoke up, or better, in view of the fuel shortage, he could discard sandbags. Gleeful, he caught a differently aimed breeze and watched the blimps fall behind. They fought their way to favorable conditions and once more approached him. But that took time, during which the hills of Vletska grew clearer to the sight.

He let the Olaghists draw so nigh that he heard warriors swear when he repeated his evasion. With their greater volume, the blimps could not match the speed of the balloon where it came to vertical movement.

But winds were dying down as the sun climbed and the warmth of day equalized temperatures. Charlie recalled the flat calms frequent around noon. His heart sank. His stomach, less loyal, growled.

A shout startled him. "Look, laddie, look! Deleeverance!"

Charlie's gaze swept past the Hoka's forefinger. Toylike at its distance, a ship which was a smaller version of the king's was bound from the island. Behind followed half a dozen more conventional craft. And off that flight deck rose one cigar shape after the next.

Hector danced for joy. Rigging complained and the basket wobbled dangerously. " 'Tis the fleet o' the Vletska laird!" he caroled. "What else could it be? They've gane o'er to the side o' truth and reason . . . and noo, having spied what they surely ken is the royal air force, they're headed oot tae see what's afoot. . . . Och, lad, we're safe!"

"Not yet." Charlie moistened his lips. The baron's fliers numbered three; Olaghi's six were a lot closer.

In the near-breathless hush that had fallen, the blimps moved more readily than before. The balloon could dodge them only by bobbing up and down like an elevator. Charlie could not bring himself to protest when Hector dumped still-burning contents of the stove overboard, then refilled it soon afterward. They had expended their ballast. And it was a sinister sight, a gondola full of warriors gliding within meters, warriors who shook their fists and howled curses.

The time was actually about half an hour, but felt like a piece of eternity, while the balloonists labored to stay free. It ended abruptly. The baronial blimps arrived, and Charlie and Hector found themselves in the middle of a dogfight.

Furiously, crewmen pedaled and backpedaled, hauled on ropes which led to control surfaces, manned their armaments. Even in a calm, their vehicles were so clumsy that the difference in numbers between the two sides didn't much matter. A pair of opponents might lumber around for minutes to get within range of each other, and then the least lazy breeze pushed them apart again.

Arrows and crossbow quarrels flew between them. But the minor leaks these made in gas bags were not too dangerous, when amply fueled stoves supplied abundant heat to keep the fabric inflated. Telescoping lances and shears didn't work, in spite of valiant efforts, nor did water pumps, intended to douse an enemy's fire. An equal failure was every attempt to ram or to lay alongside, grapple fast, and board.

The typical encounter consisted of two blimps gradually working inward, passing near at last while crews struggled to inflict damage and captains exchanged abuse through megaphones, before they drifted elsewhere. The vessels would then try to come about for a fresh attempt. This went more and more slowly; the pedalers were growing exhausted.

Charlie stared as if hypnotized—until he became aware that the combat was now above him. Or rather, he saw with a gasp, he was below it. His supply of charcoal was gone. As the balloon cooled, contracted, and made shuddering noises, it sank.

"What can we do?" he cried.

"Swim," said Hector doughtily. He prepared a bundle of kilt, stockings, and shoes, to tie on his head. "Let me hae your sark, Hieness," he requested. "They'll be glad when I donate it to the Edinburgh Museum."

They might have gained time by jettisoning the stove. But it was still too hot to touch. When the basket struck, a cloud of steam hissed up. The bag followed, spread across a wide area. The passengers had to dive and go for some distance below the surface not to be dragged along as the whole apparatus sank.

The sea was cool. It tasted less salty than a terrestrial ocean. Sunlight skipped across waves. Charlie and Hector trod water while the ship bore down on them.

A glance aloft showed the battle finished. Olaghi's aeronauts knew they had no chance to complete their mission and returned while they were able. The Vletskans trailed them at a cautious distance, to see where the foe had come from.

Their carrier lowered a lifeboat, which hauled in the escapers. Naked, chilled, starved, worn out, Charlie was just barely able to climb a ladder let down the ship's side. Warriors crowded the flight deck. Led by Mishka, they cheered him till his head rang.

Dzenko was also on hand. His robes billowed with his haste to greet the arrivals. "Congratulations, Charles," he said, low-voiced beneath the shouts. "We must confer at once. I managed to keep your disappearance quiet after we found your abandoned wagon—yes, even after we saw those aircraft from afar and I guessed what the case must be—but now let's plan how to get maximum propaganda value out of the episode. This can double your prestige, you know."

"Uh-huh," said Charlie, and fainted.

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Dzenko's face. It bore an expression of scorn.

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Framed