Star Winds

“Don’t you understand?” he roared in fury. “It’s too soon! We’re headed for the trailer!”

This they did comprehend. There were gasps and throaty wails; then a strange silence, broken only by sobs and grunts of effort, as the men began to struggle into their suits. Zhorga, lashing up his toggles, approached Rachad.

“You too, boy. This is a real emergency.”

In a daze, Rachad began to pull on his canvas garment. “What happened?” he asked in a hushed tone. “We were supposed to miss it by a million miles!”

Zhorga pulled a face. “Gebeth’s chart gives the wrong damned position, I suppose!” he grated, telling the truth as far as he understood it, but neglecting to mention how fine he had tried to cut his course. “Get moving or we’re all finished.”

He rammed on his helmet, screwed it tight, and thrust a taper in Rachad’s hand. Rachad performed the service of lighting his backpack and the Captain lumbered off, the first to head for the airshed.

The crew poured onto the deck and scurried for the capstans. Zhorga was desperately hoping that, by clewing up all sail as quickly as possible, the rapids would lessen their hold on the vessel and her deadweight momentum would be enough to carry her past the vortex—through the rim of the vortex, even—without being dragged into it.

The gigantic degree of luck this would require, however, was not with him. The billowing, elaborate canopy had, indeed, begun to break up, and the star clouds were shining through the gaps, but most sails were still fullspread when the entire ship keeled over about twenty degrees.

The transition came so quickly that scarcely anyone or anything on board was disturbed. But everyone knew what it meant. It was like taking a curve at high speed, but with the deck tilting, compensating for the change in direction, so that the only physical effect was a sudden swing to one side coupled with a momentary increase in weight.

The Wandering Queen had been seized by the vortex. Mechanically the crew continued to work the windlasses, fighting the dawning realization that they were doomed. And bleakly Zhorga stared ahead of him, fancying he saw the stars move as the ship swept along on her new, inwardly spiraling path (though the turns of the spiral were so huge that the impression must have been in his imagination) and wondering what he could possibly do now.

***

Eventually as many as there was room for gathered under the air balloon, where it was possible to talk. The rest looked on from outside, hands pressed enviously against the transparent sheeting. For once Zhorga’s face was white as he stood facing his crew, helmet under one arm, his back to the cabin door. Many were openly weeping. Others raged impotently, shaking their fists at him but not daring to come closer.

Endpress’s face was distorted. “A fine testimony to your leadership, Captain!”

“Follow me, he said,” another blurted between ragged sobs, “I’ll see you through, I’ll take you all the way to Mars, he said, and instead we’re all going to die in the trailer …”

“We should have killed you in Olam!”

Finally Zhorga became impatient with the imprecations. “SHUT UP!” he roared. Then, in a lower tone: “I’ll get you out of this.”

Endpress’s response was a hysterical laugh. “How? No ship ever got out of the trailer!”

“I need a dozen good men,” Zhorga said. He glanced around him, peering into space. It seemed as if he were searching for something. He cleared his throat. “The rest of you can get below, where if’s safer, and wait. Five men I have already—Bruge, Patchman, Zataka, Small, and the bosun. Seven more. It will be dangerous work and I can’t even promise that you’ll live through it—but you’ll have a chance of saving the ship.”

“Bluff!” someone jeered. “It’s just bluff!”

Zhorga waited no longer. He waded into the crowd, struck the last speaker in the mouth with his canvas-covered fist, and then began grabbing and shoving, selecting the most stalwart and pushing them to one side where they were watched over by the flintlock-wielding Clabert.

There was surprisingly little resistance. They all knew from the look in Clabert’s eyes that he was ready to shoot down any one of them like a dog. “This should do it,” Zhorga gasped, panting. “The rest—get below decks and hang on for all you’re worth.”

“Captain! Take me too!” Rachad pushed his way forward, but Zhorga merely waved him back. “Sorry lad, no amateurs. Get below.”

Rachad turned away crestfallen. Zhorga entered his cabin and returned with his folding telescope. While the dismissed men made their way, silent and suspicious, to the mess deck, he put the spyglass to his eye and swept space to port, searching out something he had glimpsed a few minutes earlier.

There it was: a cloud of milky-white points, moving slowly against the starry background. He muttered to himself, his brow ridged in concentration, then turned to his skeleton crew.