“Neighbours would have been around before now,” he said aloud to block the flow of questions. “Even in a place as remote as this, neighbours would have been around before now. And they would have taken all the tools—farmers don’t let much go to waste.” Comforted by the simple logic, he walked quickly to the single-storey farmhouse, unlatched the green front door and pushed it open.
His eyes were attuned to the fierce sunlight, therefore it was several seconds before they adapted to the shade of the eaves and the comparative dimness within the house, several seconds before he clearly saw the nameless beast which was waiting for him to enter.
He sobbed, leapt backwards and fell, mind’s eye brimming with the dreadful vision… the dark, slow-heaving pyramid of the body, upright and tall as a man… the sagging, dissolving face, with wounds in place of eyes… the single slim tentacle, gently groping forward…
Bartan jarred down onto his backside and hands, rolled over in the dust and was in the act of surging up and away from the house in a fear-boosted sprint when the picture behind his eyes shifted and changed. Instead of a nightmarish monster he saw miscellaneous items of old clothing suspended from a hook on a wall. There was a dark cloak, a torn jacket, a hat, and a stained apron with one string being wafted by the abrupt opening of the door.
He slowly got to his feet and brushed the dust from his body, all the while staring at the dark rectangle of the doorway. It was obvious what had caused the momentary illusion, and he felt a tingle of shame over his reaction, but in spite of that he was now oddly reluctant to enter the house.
What made me want to go in there in the first place? he thought. It’s somebody else’s property. Nothing to do with me…
He turned and had taken one pace towards his boat when a new thought obtruded. What he was actually doing was running away from the farmhouse because he had become unaccountably fearful, and if he allowed that to happen he would be even less of a man than Trinchil had supposed. Muttering unhappily to himself, Bartan spun on his heel and marched into the house.
A quick inspection of the musty rooms established that the worst of his fears had been groundless—there were no human remains. All the major items of furniture had been removed, but he found extra evidence that the occupants had departed in great haste. Mats had been left in two of the rooms and there was a ceramic jar full of salt in a niche in the stone fireplace. Farming people simply did not abandon items like that in normal circumstances, Bartan knew, and he was unable to rid himself of a suspicion that something sinister had occurred on the lonely farm in the not-too-distant past.
Relieved at having no further cause to remain in the uneasy atmosphere, he went outside—brushing past the slow-stirring garments hanging by the door—and walked straight to the airboat. It had lost some buoyancy as the gasbag cooled and now was resting lightly on its skids. Bartan unfastened the tether, seated himself in the gondola and took the boat aloft. It was still only a short time past noon and after a moment’s thought he decided to continue flying west, following the line of a faint track into the lush green landscape. Much of the terrain consisted of drumlins—small hog-backed hills, oval in plan because of ancient glaciation—so regularly arranged that they reminded him of giant eggs in a basket. There’s the natural name for this fertile region, he thought. The Basket of Eggs!
Within a short time he saw another farm agreeably positioned on the slopes of one of the rounded hills. He banked and flew towards it, and this time—in his state of alertness—he was quicker to realise that the place was not being worked. On arriving overhead he circled the farm once at low altitude to confirm his findings. No tools or equipment were visible and the farmhouse appeared to have been completely stripped, evidence that the evacuation had been more leisurely and ordered, but why had it taken place at all?
Deeply puzzled, Bartan continued with the flight, changing to a zigzag search pattern which slowed his progress to the west. In the hour that followed he discovered eight more farms, all in ideal agricultural land, all totally deserted. The sections in the region were far too large to be worked by single families, and the people who claimed them did so with the intention of laying down fortunes for their descendants. As the population of Overland increased the pioneers would be able to sell or sublet land to later generations. It was a prize not to be yielded lightly—and yet something had induced many hard-headed farmers to pack up their belongings and move on.
Eventually Bartan began to pick out the glint of sunlight on a sizable river and decided on it as a natural limit to the day’s sortie. At the northern end of one of his sweeps he detected a hazy column of smoke arising from a point which seemed to be close to the river. It was the first sign of human habitation he had seen in more than ten days, and was made even more intriguing by the prospect of getting information about the empty land he had been crossing. He set a course for the smoke trace, flying as fast as he dared in view of the gasbag’s untrustworthy condition, and soon began to realise that what he was approaching was not another farm, but a small township.
It was situated on a Y-shaped fork created by a tributary joining the main river. As the airboat brought him closer, Bartan saw that it consisted of about forty buildings, some of which were large enough to be warehouses. White squares and triangles of sails indicated the river was navigable to the southern ocean. The place was obviously a trading centre, with the potential to become important and prosperous, and its presence made the enigma of the abandoned farms all the more baffling.
Long before Bartan had reached the edge of the township the roar of his jet had attracted attention on the ground. Two men came galloping out on bluehorns to meet him, waving vigorously, and then kept pace with the boat as he guided it down into an open patch near a bridge which spanned the lesser river. Men and women were issuing from the surrounding buildings to form a ring of spectators. Several youths, needing no appeal, willingly grabbed the skids and held the craft until Bartan had tethered it to a convenient sapling.
A red-faced man with prematurely white hair approached Bartan, obviously in the role of spokesman. In spite of being slightly below average height he had an air of assurance and, unusually in such a community, was wearing a smallsword.
“I am Majin Karrodall, reeve of the township of New Min-nett,” he said in friendly tones. “We don’t see many aircraft in these parts.”
“I’m scouting for a party of claimants,” Bartan replied to the unspoken question. “My name is Bartan Drumme, and I would be grateful for some water to drink. I have flown much farther than I intended today and it is thirsty work.”
“You’re welcome to all the water you want, but if you would prefer it you can have good brown ale. What do you say?”
“I say good brown ale.” Bartan, who had not tasted an alcoholic beverage since joining the expedition, grinned to show his appreciation of the offer. There was a murmur of approval from those watching and the men began a general movement towards an open-fronted barn-like building which appeared to double as a meeting place and tavern. In a short time Bartan was seated at a long table in the company of Karrodall and about ten other men, most of whom had been introduced to him as storekeepers or riverboat crew. From the tone of the amiable banter going on around him Bartan guessed that impromptu gatherings like this were not infrequent events, and that his arrival had been seized on as a convenient excuse. A substantial two-handled jar was placed before him and when he sipped from it he found the ale to be cool, strong and not too sweet for his taste. Comforted by the welcome and the unexpected hospitality, he proceeded to quench his thirst and to answer questions about himself, the airboat and the objectives of Trinchil’s expedition.