Toller went forward, caught a dripping rope and kept tension on it to help guide the airship to the tethering stakes which lined the shore. At last the gondola’s keel crunched into the sand and yellow-shirted men vaulted over the side to secure it. The brush with danger had evidently rattled them. They were swearing fiercely as they pushed the pikon workers aside, using unnecessary force, and began tying the ship down. Toller could appreciate their feelings, and he smiled sympathetically as he offered his line to an approaching airman, a bottle-shouldered man with silt-coloured skin.
“What are you grinning at, dung-eater?” the man growled, reaching for the rope.
Toller withdrew the rope and in the same movement threw it into a loop and snapped it tight around the airman’s thumb. “Apologise for that!”
“What the…!” The airman made as if to hurl Toller aside with his free arm and his eyes widened as he made the discovery that he was not dealing with a typical science technician. He turned his head to summon help from other airmen, but Toller diverted him by jerking the rope tighter.
“This is between you and me,” Toller said quietly, using the power of his upper arms to increase the strain on the line. “Are you going to apologise, or would you like your thumb to wear on a necklet?”
“You’re going to be sorry for.…“The airman’s voice faded and he sagged, white-faced and gasping, as a joint in his thumb made a clearly audible popping sound. “I apologise. Let me go! I apologise.”
“That’s better,” Toller said, releasing the rope. “Now we can all be friends together.”
He smiled in mock geniality, giving no hint of the dismay he could feel gathering inside him. It had happened yet again! The sensible response to a ritual insult was to ignore it or reply in kind, but his temper had taken control of his body on the instant, reducing him to the level of a primitive creature governed by reflex. He had made no conscious decision to clash with the airman, and yet would have been prepared to maim him had the apology not been forthcoming. And what made matters worse was the knowledge that he was unable to back down, that the trivial incident might still escalate into something very dangerous for all concerned.
“Friends,” the airman breathed, clutching his injured hand to his stomach, his face contorted with pain and hatred. “As soon as I can hold a sword again I’ll…”
He left the threat unfinished as a bearded man in the heavily embroidered jupon of an aircaptain strode towards him. The captain, who was about forty, was breathing noisily and the saffron material of his jupon had damp brown stains below his armpits.
“What’s the matter with you, Kaprin?” he said, staring angrily at the airman.
Kaprin’s eyes gave one baleful flicker in Toller’s direction, then he lowered his head. “I snared my hand in a line, sir. Dislocated my thumb, sir.”
“Work twice as hard with the other hand,” the captain said, dismissing the airman with a wave and turning to face Toller. “I’m Aircaptain Hlawnvert. You’re not Sisstt. Where is Sisstt?”
“There.” Toller pointed at the station chief, who was uncertainly advancing down the slope of the shore, the hem of his grey robe gathered clear of the rock pools.
“So that’s the maniac who’s responsible.”
“Responsible for what?” Toller said, frowning.
“For blinding me with smoke from those accursed stewpots.” Hlawnvert’s voice was charged with anger and contempt as he swung his gaze to encompass the array of pikon pans and the columns of vapour they were releasing into the sky. “I’ve been told they’re actually trying to make power crystals here. Is that true, or is it just a joke?”
Toller, barely clear of one potentially disastrous scrape, was nonetheless affronted by Hlawnvert’s tone. It was the principal regret of his life that he had been born into a philosophy family instead of the military caste, and he spent much of his time reviling his lot, but he disliked outsiders doing the same. He eyed the captain coolly for a few seconds, extending the pause until it was just short of open disrespect, then spoke as though addressing a child.
“Nobody can make crystals,” he said. “They can only be grown — if the solution is pure enough.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?”
“There are good pikon deposits in this area. We are extracting it from the soil and trying to find a way to refine it until it’s pure enough to produce a reaction.”
“A waste of time,” Hlawnvert said with casual assurance, dismissing the subject as he turned away to confront Vorndal Sisstt.
“Good foreday, Captain,” Sisstt said. “I’m so glad you have landed safely. I’ve given orders for our ptertha screens to be run out immediately.”
Hlawnvert shook his head. “There’s no need for them. Besides, you have already done the damage.”
“I…” Sisstt’s blue eyes shuttled anxiously. “I don’t understand you, Captain.”
“The stinking fumes and fog you’re spewing into the sky disguised the natural cloud. There are going to be deaths among my crew — and I deem you to be personally responsible.”
“But…” Sisstt glanced in indignation at the receding line of cliffs from which, for a distance of many miles, streamer after streamer of cloud could be seen snaking out towards the sea. “But that kind of cloud is a general feature of this coast. I fail to see how you can blame me for…”
“Silence!” Hlawnvert dropped one hand to his sword, stepped forward and drove the flat of his other hand against Sisstt’s chest, sending the station chief sprawling on his back, legs wide apart. “Are you questioning my competence? Are you saying I was careless?”
“Of course not.” Sisstt scrambled to his feet and brushed sand from his robes. “Forgive me, Captain. Now that you bring the matter to my attention, I can see that the vapour from our pans could be a hazard to airmen in certain circumstances.”
“You should set up warning beacons.”
“I’ll see that it’s done at once,” Sisstt said. “We should have thought of it ourselves long ago.”
Toller could feel a tingling warmth in his face as he viewed the scene. Captain Hlawnvert was a big man, as was normal for one of a military background, but he was also soft and burdened with fat, and even someone of Sisstt’s size could have vanquished him with the aid of speed and hate-hardened muscles. In addition, Hlawnvert had been criminally incompetent in his handling of the airship, a fact he was trying to obscure with his bluster, so going against him could have been justified before a tribunal. But none of that mattered to Sisstt. In keeping with his own nature the station chief was fawning over the hand which abused him. Later he would excuse his cowardice with jokes and try to compensate for it by mistreating his most junior subordinates.
In spite of his curiosity about the reason for Hlawnvert’s visit, Toller felt obliged to move away, to dissociate himself from Sisstt’s abject behaviour. He was on the point of leaving when a crop-haired airman wearing the white insignia of a lieutenant brushed by him and saluted Hlawnvert.
“The crew are ready for your inspection, sir,” he said in a businesslike voice.
Hlawnvert nodded and glanced at the line of yellow-shirted men who were waiting by the ship. “How many took the dust?” “Only two, sir. We were lucky.” “Lucky?”
“What I mean, sir, is that but for your superb airmanship our losses would have been much higher.” HlawnVert nodded again. “Which two are we losing?” “Pouksale and Lague, sir,” the lieutenant said. “But Lague won’t admit it.”