Star Winds

Directly behind a planet, the ether flow tended to be relatively smooth. Nevertheless there were latent tensions which eventually broke out in a series of flurries and rapids, culminating in the large and dangerous etheric whirlpool.

“I thought we were going to miss that by a good margin,” he grumbled.

“So we were—but my calculations are off, of course, due to early discrepancies. We could still change course to give it a wide berth—but then we’d risk never catching up with Mars.” Zhorga rattled his fingers nervously on the table. “No, we shall have to run the flurry, I’m afraid. Bit of a nuisance. Still, there’s no evident danger. Just means we’ll pass too damn close to the vortex for comfort, that’s all.”

Both men were silent for a while. Both knew all too well what being caught in an ether vortex meant. There was no way out of it, except by discarding all silk, which meant being left adrift without sail power. Toward the center the forces were so intense that ether silk was broken up, first to shreds, and then to dust. The eye of the vortex then carried that dust along with it forever. If the Wandering Queen should ever be fated to arrive there, she would probably find a good many old wrecks waiting for her company.

“This is for your information only,” Zhorga rumbled. “So you’ll know what to expect. We’ll have trouble on our hands if the others get to hear of it. They’ll want to change course.”

“What about Bruge and his clique? Shouldn’t they know?”

Zhorga shook his head. “The fewer the better. Keep your mouth shut.”

Gloomily he rose and clomped in his lead footweights to the rear of the cabin, where he peered out of the slanted casements. It was strange, he thought. Space seemed so changeless and impassive. It gave no hint of the invisible, raging power that was propelling his little ship onward, either to riches or destruction.

***

“Well look—it’s the fine young lad who wanted to feed us to the dragon!”

Ignoring Boogle’s taunt, Rachad divested himself of his suit, put out the powder in his backpack, and climbed onto his bunk. Others who were seated round the long table looked up with sullen interest as Boogle followed him, grimacing into his face.

“Hope you enjoyed your star-gazing,” he hissed. “Maybe I’ll come up after you next time and make it permanent. All it needs is a knife to cut your line, and one good shove!”

“Shut up, and go away,” Rachad said wearily. Ever since the fight a few days ago with the space monster—still referred to by many as a dragon—some of the crew, led by Boogle, had begun to use him as a whipping boy to give vent to their fear and frustration, diverting to him the resentment they felt against Zhorga. Rachad did not think any real harm would befall him, but he was thinking of asking Zhorga to let him sleep in the sternhouse again.

“Leave him alone, Boogle, or you’ll answer to me,” Small called from the other end of the mess.

Boogle scowled down the table, then spoke to Rachad out of the corner of his mouth. “They say it was through talking to you the Captain got so set on this enterprise, alchemist. You put a spell on him, like as not. Well, I’ve lost good friends for it, and I’ll get you sooner or later. Here—Mars—I’ll find a way.”

“Boogle!” Small bellowed.

Reluctantly Boogle moved away, and Rachad lay back on his bunk, appalled by the man’s hatred.

He closed his eyes and shortly dozed off. He was not sure how much later it was that he woke up feeling that the bunk was shivering under him.

He sat up. The bunk was shivering. On the table, plates and utensils clattered and vibrated.

Then the whole ship began to sway. Side to side, up and down, as if she were caught in a wavering current, while at the same time she leaped forward, accelerating sharply.

He swung off his bunk, but his knees almost buckled under him with the unaccustomed weight, so harsh was the acceleration. There came a violent lurch. Utensils and other loose objects fell and rattled.

The lamps flickered. Rachad’s stomach contracted. He could hear the ends of the ship’s beams jiggling against one another, groaning and squealing, and he could imagine what that would do to the caulking—though the special pitch had a rubbery consistency that allowed for a certain amount of free play. He gripped a stanchion, and in common with everyone else present, looked about him in a questioning, wondering way.

Suddenly a trap door banged open at the farther end of the mess deck. Through it struggled Captain Zhorga, coming up from the hold where he had been inspecting the cargo. His face was livid, and even while he was only halfway through the trap door his gravelly voice smote through the room.

“Get on deck and take in the sail, every one of you! We’ve hit the rapids!”

At first there was no reaction, as if his words had no meaning. The men watched dumbly while he staggered to his feet and strode toward them, reaching for his space-suit.