Star Winds

On the town side of the field, half a mile away, he approached a lone building outlined against the dusk. The building’s narrow windows glowed from the light within, and were composed of strips of colored glass. A painted signboard picturing a clipper hung outside the door. The tavern was named, appropriately enough, The Ship.

Zhorga pushed open the door and let the comforting noise and confusion of the taproom sweep over him. The lamplight gleamed on burnished oak ceiling beams, pewter tankards and teak tables. Many of his crew were already there, including his first mate, Clabert. He ignored them and shouldered his way to the counter.

“Give me a bottle of ombril.”

Clutching the bottle of pale orange spirit he moved to a table where other air captains sat in a huddle. Zhorga had some esteem among them; few owned their own ships as he did, but captained the vessels of merchants. He sat down grumpily, answering their greetings with grunts. The ombril, with its bitter, fiery taste, slid down his throat and warmed his stomach, sending heady fumes to his brain.

The talk was of the increasing tribulations facing the air trade, and more specifically, of piracy. There had always been such depredations, of course, but latterly it had a different object. Pirates sought to rob ships, not of the cargoes they carried, but primarily of the ether sail on their masts.

“I heard that Ringebass was forced down in the Sanaman Desert, and every scrap of silk taken from him,” said Hindemage, a scrawny and uncommonly ugly individual with a glaucomatous left eye and a dirty red bandanna under his captain’s hat. “He and his men would have died of thirst if a camel caravan hadn’t come upon them.”

This information prompted Zhorga to join in. “That’s terrible. Something ought to be done,” he said, choosing to forget that not too long ago, espying a small bark when on the other side of the world, he had done the same thing himself for what bit of ether silk was bent to her yard.

Everyone knew of his escapade over Olam that afternoon, and that he had been called to the Portmaster. But when asked about it Zhorga merely scowled and refused to speak, until he started on his second bottle of ombril, by which time drink had loosened his tongue.

“Business is all over,” he said in a heavily laden voice. “I haven’t got enough sail to carry a decent cargo any more. We damn near came down in the ocean a few days ago. Had to throw part of my freight overboard.” To sink in the sea, now, that would be a disgrace. As it was the trip had left him without a penny of profit.

“What’s the Portmaster have to say?” asked Hindemage, repeating someone else’s question.

“Wasn’t my fault,” announced Zhorga grudgingly. “I’m short on good sail, that’s all. I don’t have a single piece that’s without holes in it.” In fact the Portmaster had imposed a swingeing return fine, which meant that next time Zhorga landed at Olam he would either have to pay it or have his ship impounded.

The others turned from him in that slightly awkward manner of those who see a defeated man in their midst. This tweaked Zhorga’s pride, and it was for this reason, perhaps, that he blurted out his next words so impulsively.

“There’s only one thing wrong, and that’s that there’s no silk to be had. The solution’s obvious. All we have to do is get fresh silk.”

“Oh yes, that’s all.” Everyone smiled and turned to new topics.

“I know where to get some,” Zhorga interrupted forcefully, angered that he should be ignored.

Instantly he was the center of attention. Hindemage leaned close, sly and concerned. “Where?”

“Mars,” Zhorga stated.

This time he elicited derisive laughter. Even Hindemage grinned crookedly, a chuckle escaping his lips. Zhorga reddened.

“What’s the matter, you never heard of the place?” he roared.

“We’ve heard of it,” Hindemage said mildly. “No one’s been there since I was a boy. As a matter of fact there are no spacefaring ships in existence now, as far as I am aware.”

Zhorga shrugged. “In principle there’s no reason why any large, well-built ship shouldn’t make the journey, provided she has ether sail enough. An air-sailing ship could be caulked for the voyage—”

“Principles are one thing, facts are another,” Hindemage said quietly. “The notion is madness. The chances of getting to Mars and back in one of our ships are negligible.”

“Even supposing there’s silk to be had there,” put in Ench, a squat bald man who captained a clipper. “If there is, why does no one from there ever come here?”

“Who the hell would want to come here?” rumbled Zhorga into his beard, and placing the palms of his hands on the table, he pushed himself to his feet and walked unsteadily toward the back of the tavern.

Outside, he relieved himself at the urinal and was about to return to the taproom when a slim figure accosted him. “Sir, may I speak to you?”

Zhorga looked at a fair-haired young man in a faded green tunic. The face was alert and mobile, eager one might say, and the hands rested on a wide leather belt.