Klygon, Zorak and the old science wizard were already there, talking together excitedly. Confusion reigned inside the crowded, swaying cabin. Outside, storm winds blew, rain pelted down to smear the crystal panes; thunder growled and grumbled amidst the black, thick clouds.
The sky yacht had been attacked by another flying craft.
Or—had it?
“I tell you, my lord, I simply don’t know!” the lookout was protesting. ” ‘Tis hard enough to see out, what with the dark and the flicker of lightning, amidst all this rain—”
“But you must know what it was you saw!” said the Wizard, testily.
“A flying vehicle of some sort, smaller than your lordship’s yacht. It passed across our bows so closely I thought it was trying to ram us—”
“The storm may have blinded the foreign machine, even as we,” pointed out the Wizard.
“Perhaps, sire, but I—”
“There it is again—coming right for us!” shouted Zorak.
“Pilot! Take evasive action,” snapped Parimus. “Officer of the watch—man the energy cannon. We can take no chances.”
“Aye, my lord!”
“There it is again—swinging around towards us—”
“Shoot it down,” commanded Parimus, tensely.
There came to my ears the droning whine of the energy weapon. Then an ear-splitting crack as of a bolt of lightning!
In the next instant the mystery ship went spiralling down, crippled or demolished, into the dark waters below!
Chapter 19.
WHEN COMRADES MEET
At the crisp mental command of Zarqa the Kalood, Prince Janchan of Phaolon bent to the controls of the skysled. The aerial vehicle skimmed away, into a steep downward curve.
Not too far in that direction—back, back! came the telepathic instruction of the Winged Man. The young Phaolonese grasped the control lever in his firm grip and inched it backwards into reverse. The downward curve became a narrowing spiral.
Beneath them, a dull glinting shield made pewter flame by the rays of morning, the inland sea spread its vast expanse of waters. Islands and archipelagoes broke the glittering stretch of unknown waves. Even as they stared down at the mysterious sea, the sled arrowed towards one jungled isle.
“Amazing!” cried Janchan, staring at the weird vista. The world, to him, was composed of dry land which supported a planet-wide forest of immense trees. In their branches, the denizens of Lao made their jewelbox cities. In his wildest dreams, the young Prince had never envisioned such an inexplicable enigma as this tremendous expanse of open waters.
The old philosopher Nimbalim was entranced. His serene eyes sparkled with intellectual excitement. The cosmological speculations of the natural philosophers of his ancient realm had, in fact, predicted the sea. Or, if not the actuality, at least the theoretical possibility of its existence. After untold centuries of mental stagnation, which he had suffered during slavery to the black supermen of Calidar, he found the excitement of the discovery intoxicating.
“Whatever could have caused such a marvel as this,” murmured Janchan. “Some miracle of the gods, perhaps?”
“The hand of nature herself,” replied Nimbalim of Yoth. “The clouds which envelop our world are composed chiefly of water vapor—minute droplets of the fluid, held in suspension by the winds, perhaps. When this envelope of clouds becomes too heavily charged with droplets, they combine—merge—into drops too heavy any longer to be held aloft. This causes the phenomenon commonly called rain. Unknown quantities of the fluid fall on the trees, much of which filters through the leaves and trickles down the trunks, to end at last at the Bottom of the World—that black, nightmarish abyss which lies at the roots of the arboreal giants, a region of we know so very little.”
The free exercise of intellectual speculation, the chance to teach, argue and explain, was a heady joy to the ancient philosopher, Janchan observed with compassion. The sparkle in those fine eyes, the animation in those wasted features, belied the countless centuries of Nimbalim’s synthetic immortality. He let the old man continue his discourse, all the while remaining alert to further mental directions from Zarqa.
“Much of this rainwater which collects at the bottom of the world returns to the cloud-layer again, through the process we call ‘evaporation.’ You will have seen water heated in a ceramic container until it steams away; well, that is only an artificial acceleration of the natural process of evaporation. Reduced again to vapor, the moisture ascends into the sky, to become part of the clouds again. No one has yet discerned precisely why this upwards motion should be natural for water vapor; but a theory proposed by my colleague, Ellambyon of Tuomaha, attempts to explain it on the basis of his observation that heated air—and thus steam, as well—tends to ascend, being lighter than cold air. At any rate, so dense are the leaves and branches which interpose their nemoral barriers to the ascension of this vapor, that some of it condenses into droplets again upon the leaves, thus more water remains in the abyss than ever returns to the clouds again.”
“I see; or I think I do,” said Janchan.
“Yes, of course! If this theory were true, over the passage of numberless ages, vast quantities of water would collect at the Bottom of the World. Since it is only natural for water to seek to collect at the lowest level, any large depression in the surface of the planet would tend to become the reservoir of these waters. In time, whatever trees also occupied this portion of the planet’s surface would decay and die in these waters; over ages, creating such an expanse as this we see below us… a pity I shall never be able to bring to my colleague Ellambyon the proof of his speculations…”
“But why should you not? It is our hope to be able to return you to Yoth at the conclusion of these adventures,” argued Janchan.
A touch of sadness entered into the calm features of the thousand-year-old man.
“For two reasons, friend Janchan, either of which is sufficient to prevent me. In the first place, I understand that my natal realm of Yoth was demolished by the depredations of the Blue Barbarians, at some period after my enslavement by the Skymen of Calidar. The second, alas, is that my colleague lived and died many centuries ago, lacking the synthetic immortality conferred upon me by the experiments of the Calidarians.”
Janchan bit his lip, vexed at his insensitivity in proposing the question. Then “I’m sorry; what was that, Zarqa?”
I said the signal has faded; I am no longer receiving the mental radiations from Ralidux. Level off and let us explore these islands immediately beneath us in a widening circle, until I am able to recover reception of the thought-waves of his brain.
All that day they searched, without, however, recovering the signal. That evening, they let the skysled come to earth on a jungled-clad isle; Janchan built a fire by striking stones together and they basked in its warmth while they partook of the evening meal. Then they slept while Zarqa, who required no slumber, stood guard over their recumbent forms. With dawn they arose, bathed in the cold fresh waters, broke their fast, and resumed the search again.
For some time thereafter, their adventures continued as a humdrum repetition of search, descent, dinner, slumber and waiting to renew the search. The inland sea was incredibly vast, and the jungle isles proved far more numerous than any of them could have guessed. They were naggingly aware of a sense of wasted time; however, they had no recourse but to continue their fruitless pursuit until they regained contact with the brain of Ralidux.