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.
"Stop! You could not be so heartless!"
He tottered toward me, arms extended before him.
"You will tell me what you know in this," I said, "or I will animate you even further."
"Ask me anything else," he replied. "The secrets of the ages are open books to me. What would you care to have? Sophocles' missing dramas? The proof for Fermat's Last Theorem? The precise archaeological location of Troy? The—"
"You're stalling," I said. "Why— I see. We're that close, are we?"
His arms fell.
"Yes, we are," he said.
"But we've still a chance to make it, haven't we? It's going to be close—so close that minutes could actually make a difference, one way or another."
"You're smarter than I gave you credit for, Perry."
"I don't want your flattery, just some facts. The balloon must be the only way out. How long does it take to inflate?
"Approximately two hours," he answered.
"How long till we plunge into the Hole?"
"Perhaps three hours."
"How many people can it carry?"
"Four."
"That will never do. There are twelve of us."
"It will do," he replied, showing all of his teeth.
"I do not understand."
"Shall I explain?"
"I'm sure you'd like to. I'm also sure there isn't time. Good-bye."
I turned and rushed for the door.
"Eddie! Wait!"
I halted at the strange note of urgency I had never heard in his speech before.
"What?" I asked.
"Go armed."
"Why?"
"I've nothing against you personally. Just get your saber and wear it."
"All right," I said. "Thanks."
And I was out the door and running.
I came out of my quarters buckling the thing into place when I heard the cries from above, and a clash of metal on metal. Rather than heading for the cargo area where the balloon was stowed I climbed the companionway, to see what was doing.
As my head and shoulders came out of the companionway, a crewman who had apparently been guarding it thrust a staff at me. I fell back, drew my blade and cut at it, knocking it aside. He raised it again and I executed a simple chest cut, feeling it shear through ribs. He screamed. I surveyed the situation clearly then.
Captain Guy, Peters, and Hans Pfall were all aft, trapped upon the poop deck by the crewmen, who'd apparently decided the time was right for their mutiny. I noticed a stack of supplies beside one of the boats, a splash of red on the deck nearby. Captain Guy had blood on his shirtfront, also, and he leaned against the railing as if partly stunned. I suspected he had caught the crew in the act of abandoning ship, and the mutiny had commenced at that point.
Peters held a belaying pin in either hand. Pfall held a saber similar to my own. The five remaining crewmen looked back at the one I had just cut down. My presence at their rear seemed to influence their decision to attack forward. Uttering a cry, they rushed the three men.