“Quite likely,” I agreed. “However, I hazard a guess that the captain’s cabin will also divulge a signal-book. And if not, we shall make certain that our artificial injuries are such as to make signaling impossible break away all the rigging, for example, so that flags cannot be flown-cut away those portions of wingfront and bow from where signal lamps are shown. Something like this can be done, surely.”
A final argument was offered by Lord Yarrak himself.
“What of the personal appearance of the crew and yourself?” he asked. “You will not in the slightest resemble Zanadarians.”
Thus was true. The Golden People of Shondakor, with their lambent emerald eyes, blazing red-gold manes and amber skins are startlingly different from the Zanadarians, who have papery-white skin, lank black hair, and lusterless black eyes.
The difference between the races is so extreme that it is one of the many mysteries of Thanator.* However, I had, of course, anticipated this objection and was ready for it.
“A simple matter of cosmetics will take care of that problem,” I said. “Surely a whitening cream can be used to give our complexions the Zanadarian pallor, and black paste will darken our hair. The corpses of the Sky Pirates slain in the battle will supply us with authentic uniforms.”
No further objections were raised, and so it was agreed.
There was just one chance in a thousand that we should succeed in this fantastic imposture and manage to carry away the princess from amidst the very stronghold of her enemies. But even one chance in a thousand was better than none. And even a chance so risky as the one I contemplated was worth taking, when the life of the Princess Darloona was the prize at stake.
“I am well aware that we will be voyaging into danger,” I said. “However, we have won success before in the face of the most desperate odds, through bold enterprise. I cannot think that our luck will desert us now. But I will understand if any of you wish to withdraw from this mission. At any rate, Lord Yarrak must remain in Shondakor to administer his regency over the city. But if any of the rest of you would prefer to stay and help him in his task, just speak up ….
Koja, Valkar, and even old Lukor the Swordmaster refused to be left behind on this mad venture.
And so it was agreed.
Chapter 2
THE QUEST BEGINS
Our work on the flying galleon began the following day. In this task, my most valuable assistance came from the old philosopher Zastro. I have called him by that term for lack of a better, but he was no ivory-tower intellect who spent his years puzzling out intricate moral dilemmas or mental mazes. Quite the contrary, Zastro of Shondakor was more akin to those philosophic engineers of terrene antiquity whose talents ran to problems of practical mechanics, like Archimedes, who devoted his genius to the contrivance of elaborate and surprising war machines dedicated to the defense of Syracuse, or the mighty brain of Leonardo da Vinci, that superman of the Renaissance, who designed everything from cathedrals and aqueducts to tanks and protohelicopters.
The help of a master intellect of Zastro’s talent was imperative if we were to repair and fly anew the damaged ornithopter.
The cunning and resourceful warlord of the Chac Yuul, Arkola, had long anticipated such an eventuality as the aerial invasion Thuton of Zanadar had hurled against the walled stone city. He had devised a system of rooftop catapults as partial protection against the sky vessels. A well-placed stone missile from one of these rooftop war engines had smashed the control cupola of the galley in question. Grappling irons, securely hooked in the ornamental carvings, figureheads, and deck balustrade, had immobilized the powerless aerial contrivance, drawn it against the roof of a neighboring edifice, whence warriors of the Black Legion, stationed thereupon against just such an eventuality, had swept the decks of the captive vessel with a torrent of deadly arrows, until the last Zanadarian of the sky ship’s crew had fallen to the barbed rain.
All had been slain aboard the ill-fated flying machine save only for her captain, a cool-headed, suave-tongued gentleman privateer of Zanadar, who had received an arrow through the shoulder. This officer―his name was Ulthar―was the only captive that had been taken alive during the battle. And he had a place in my plans, I must add.
It was not impossible that we might yet win his active cooperation in repairing, manning, and navigating the aerial galleon. Although thus far, it must be admitted, Captain Ulthar had smoothly but stead fastly declined to assist the foes of his nation, for which I could hardly blame him. I yet had hope of converting him to our cause, if only to escape the rigors of slavery that awaited all war captives. I had also resolved to take him with us on the expedition, although I intended to keep close watch on him, and have him under guard at all times.
At any rate, we toured the damaged and captive ship with an eye toward our chances of rendering her sky-worthy once again. At my side, old Zastro searched the vessel with quick, intelligent eyes that missed not the smallest detail. We strode the decks of the sky ship together, assessing the extent of the damage Arkola’s catapult had caused.
“Ingenious! Fantastically ingenious,” the old philosopher murmured as he leaned over the deck rail to scrutinize the complicated system of cables and joints and pulleys by which the jointed stationary wings of the flying ship worked.
I agreed with him profoundly. Although I loathed the Sky Pirates for their callous cruelty, their merciless rapacity, and their insatiable greed, there was no question that they were a race of engineering geniuses without parallel in the chronicles of two worlds.
The ungainly flying contraptions of the Zanadarians were like great wooden galleons, rendered fantastical with carved poop, fluttering banners, ornamental balustrades, and cupolas and gazebos. They hung aloft on slowly beating wings, buoyed up against the gravitational pull of Callisto by the powerful lifting force of the natural gas wherewith, under compression, their hollow double hulls were suffused. To the eye of the uninitiate, that so huge a ship could float weightless, plying the winds of this world as the ancient galleons of imperial Spain once plied the waves of terrene seas, seemed incredible―miraculous. But the secret lay in the ingenious construction of the vessel. It was not fashioned out of wood at all, but of paper. Every last inch of the flying galleons were made of miraculously tough and resilient laminated paper-hulls, decks, masts, compartments.
This secret rendered the construction of the sky navy of Zanadar no less miraculous, but at least understandable. The true miracle lay, I think, in the incredibly clever system of weights and counterweights, wheels and pulleys, joints and hinges, by which the ungainly and enormous jointed wings could be manipulated in a close approximation of the actions of a bird’s wings and by which maneuvering and flight were affected.
Koja and I had labored at the slave gangs that powered the vessels of Zanadar, and we were intimately acquainted with the motive system used. But knowledge did nothing to abate my admiration for the genius that had created the flying contrivances. No scientific achievement ever perfected on my own far distant world equaled the fantastic achievement of the Zanadarian ships, although the immortal da Vinci had sketched out plans for just such wingpowered ornithopters in his coded notebooks. Even his genius, however, had failed to go beyond the conception to the practicality. The Zanadarians had turned the dream into physical reality, and despite all their cruel ways, I could not help applauding their amazing skills with an undimmed enthusiasm.