"Soon," she announced.
"Soon what?"
She gestured Indian-style with her chin, back up the stair. Turning, I reascended, and she followed me.
She took me aft then and indicated the north-northwest.
"It will come from that direction," she said. "Watch for it, will you?"
"What? What will come?" I asked.
"I forget your word for it," she said, and she turned and was gone.
So I jammed my hands into my pockets, leaned against the rail and watched. Nothing happened for a long while. I found myself almost hypnotized by the bright flashes on the rushing water.
"Damn it Perry!"
"'Ey, Eddie! Whatcher up to?"
Peters had come up soundlessly behind me, Grip perched upon his shoulder.
"Nothing much," I said. "Just watching for it in the sky, to the north-northwest."
"Watchin' fer what?"
"Ah— Well, she didn't exactly say."
"Really," he said, turning his head in that direction. "Somethin' sort of like a big fool's cap, upside-down, with a basket hangin' under it?"
"What?"
I turned and stared. I squinted. I shaded my eyes. I saw nothing.
"You speak hypothetically, of course," I said, after a few moments.
"Dunno what that means, Eddie. But yer know I don't talk fancy."
"You don't really see something like that up there, do you?"
"Now why ud I make up somethin' that stupid, Eddie. 'Course it's there."
I kept looking. The best I could make out was a tiny speck against the blue—either a distant bird or a trick my eyes were playing.
"There's a black band goes 'round it, with somethin' like a silver buckle on it, too."
"You actually see the thing?"
"Sure. She's there, Eddie."
I began to recall stories about the remarkable vision of the Indians of the Plains.
"You say it, you see it," I said. "What else is there?"
He continued to stare.
"Looks to be a man in the basket," he finally announced.
I continued gazing in that direction myself. The speck had grown larger.
"Bear shit," Grip commented, as we passed an ice floe where one of the scarlet-fanged brutes was relieving itself.
"'At's a good Gripper," said Peters, rummaging in his pocket for a cracker and passing it to him. "Quick learner."
"Yo," said the raven.
It grew larger still, though it was several minutes more before it became distinguishable to me as possessing the shape Peters had attributed to it.
"'At dead man sure knows his business," Peters observed.
"Got to give him that," I agreed.
And the thing came on and on, and I recalled articles I'd read about balloons, remembering the basket beneath the gasbag to be called a gondola. Nearer still, and I saw that this one did indeed possess a human inhabitant. The device was obviously headed right toward us, and it was descending. I began to grow concerned that it might upset or rupture itself amid such masts and sails as we still possessed. I heard a hissing sound as it drew nigh. Then it drifted past us and settled gently into a mild sea off our starboard bow.
Peters and I had a boat over the side in record time and lines to him and his balloon in less than a minute after we hit the water. The man spoke some English and some French, poorly, explaining that he was one Hans Pfall, of Rotterdam, at which Peters allowed that he himself spoke "gutter Dutch" having done some errands for Mr. Ellison in the Kingdom of the Netherlands and it might be faster if he tried interpreting for him, if all parties were willing to make allowances.
All parties were, and the man explained that he had been airborne since leaving Rotterdam several weeks ago. He claimed to have been borne away from Europe by high altitude winds of terrific velocity.
Captain Guy, Ligeia, and the crew were on the deck, and the balloon still being partially inflated and its owner madly anxious that it should not be lost, the captain gave orders to deflate the huge gasbag slowly and carefully, and to see that it was hoisted with extreme caution onto the deck—along with the gondola, which contained some mysterious equipment.
Once on deck, at the vigilant direction of its pilot, the bag was dried, folded, and eventually stowed away belowdecks, along with the huge wicker basket and other gear.
We all had some doubts concerning Mr. Pfall's fantastic story. Still, the fellow must have come some impressive distance across the ocean.
Our voyage continued, almost helplesly, ever farther and farther south. Days went by, and the occasional small islands, the drifting ice, even the water we observed were increasingly strange.
We bumped gently into a drifting floe, and from the part that overhung our decks briefly we broke off chunks for drinking water. Melted in a pot, this fresh water displayed an amazing stratification. At first we were afraid to taste it because of this. It was layered and possessed of every conceivable shade of purple. We allowed it to settle thoroughly within a white basin. It formed a series of distinct veins therein, and we discovered that upon passing the blade of a knife downward through them the water closed over it immediately, and on withdrawing it all trace of the knife's passage was instantly obliterated. If, however, the blade was passed between two veins a perfect separation occurred and did not immediately repair itself.
Peters laughed, cupped a handful and swallowed it, while we were discussing its visual characteristics.
He announced it to be a "good, cold swig." In that nothing untoward occurred with him several others of us tasted it and were so gratified. Peters then explained that it had "smelled" all right, water-sniffing being a thing he'd learned in childhood, on the Plains.
Meanwhile, the current bearing us along grew stronger and stronger, until we were completely helpless in its grip.
Two days later we awoke to what I first took to be a snowfall, but a visit topside showed it to be a fall of volcanic ash that was graying our deck. We had come into the vicinity of the legendary Mt. Yaanek, bursting with gray cabbage-leaf clouds, lightnings tunneling among them, an occasional show of a bright heart beating at its center. Its distant grumbles came like thunder. The skies were ashen and sober as we went by.
I had avoided visiting Valdemar for some time, perhaps he somehow served to remind me of the night of the Red Death at Prospero's abbey. However, it appeared obvious to me that we must rapidly be nearing the Symmes' Hole, and since I did not know what to do next it seemed that a little unearthly advice might be in order. The temperature had grown milder, the ocean almost hot, and all traces of ice and snow had vanished. All these things considered, I'd a feeling it was probably time to act.
Ligeia seemed still to be asleep, but since I possessed a duplicate key to Valdemar's cabin I simply let myself in, bringing a lighted oil lamp.
I made the necessary passes, and again the noisy disturbances began, his casket itself being levitated briefly. At this, Valdemar sat up and reached forward, opening the lower half of his crate as well. Not stopping at that, he swung his legs up and out, rising, and then lowering himself, so that he sat perched at the edge like some cadaverous scarecrow.
"Oh, Eddie!" he said. "Again? You bathe me in even more life than last time, child of the Earth!"
"Sorry," I said. "It's something of an emergency, though. I believe we're nearing the South Polar Symmes' Hole."
"Nor are you incorrect!" he agreed. "What a glorious way to go! I misjudged you. Thank you for bringing me around to witness our final passing. It is about the only thing I might regard with something resembling pleasure."
"Uh— Sorry to disappoint you," I said, "but I'm looking for a way to escape it."
"No!" He rose and tottered. "I refuse to help you elude such a fine and honorable death!"
"I hate to pull rank," I said, "but I've the power to compel you in this."
I began the preliminaries to the administration of even more mesmeric energy.