Abbigens came into the saloon. He looked around with an air of triumph, nodded toward someone. Who? Glystra twisted his head. Too late. White faces, open mouths. And now—a picture he would never forget: the door swung open, the mate staggered in, his hand held as if he were rubbing his throat. His face was the colour of raw potato; ghastly dark ribbons striped the front of his juniper. He pointed a terrible trembling finger at Abbigens. Blood rasped in his lungs, his knees folded, he fell to the deck. His hand slipped to show a second mouth under his chin.
Glystra stared at the squat man with the blond hair falling thickly down his forehead.
Dark shadows rushed up past the saloon ports. A monstrous splintered instant: the floor of the saloon struck up. The lights went out; there was a hoarse crying.
Glystra crawled up the floor. He sensed walls toppling; he saw a sudden dark motion, heard jarring thunder, and then felt an instant of pain…
Glystra rose toward consciousness like a waterlogged timber. He opened his eyes; vision reached his brain.
He lay on a low bed at the rear of a plank-walled cottage. With a feverish movement he half-raised on the cot, propped himself on an elbow, stared out the open door, and it seemed that he was seeing the most wonderful sight of his life.
He looked out on a green slope, spangled with yellow and red flowers, which rose to a forest. The gables of a village showed through the foliage, quaint gables of carved dark-brown timber. The entire landscape was drenched in a tingling golden-white radiance; every color shone with jewel-like clarity.
Three girls in peasant dress moved across the field of his vision; they were dancing a merry jig which flung their belled blue and red skirts back and forth, side to side. Glystra could hear music, the drone of a concertina, tinkle of mandolin and guitar.
He slumped back to the cot, closed his eyes. A picture from the golden ages. A beautiful dream.
The thud of footsteps roused him. Watching under half-cracked eyelids he saw Pianza and Cloyville enter the cottage: the one tidy, gray, quiet; the other puffing, red-faced, effusive. Behind came a fresh-faced girl with blonde pigtails, carrying a tray.
Glystra struggled up on his elbows again. Pianza said soothingly, “Relax, Claude. You’re a sick man.”
Glystra demanded, “Was anyone killed?” He was surprised to find his voice so weak.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Well? Who got it?”
“The stewards. They had gone to hide in the shell. And the nun. Apparently she went into her cabin just before the crash. It’s twenty feet underground now. Of course the captain and the mate, both with their throats cut.”
Glystra closed his eyes. “How long has it been?”
“About four days.”
He lay passive a few seconds, thinking. “What’s been happening?”
“The ship’s a total loss,” said Cloyville. He pulled out a chair, seated himself. “Broken in three pieces. A wonder any of us came out alive.”
The girl laid the tray on the bed, knelt, prepared to feed Glystra with a horn spoon.
Glystra looked up ruefully. “Is this what’s been going on?”
“You had to be taken care of,” said Pianza. He patted the girl’s head. “This is Natilien-Thilssa. Nancy for short. She’s an excellent nurse.”
Cloyville winked slyly. “Lucky dog.”
Glystra moved back from the spoon. “I can feed myself,” he said shortly. He looked up at Pianza. “Where are we?”
Pianza frowned slightly, as if he had hoped to avoid serious discussion. “The village of Jubilith—somewhere near the northeastern tip of Beaujolais.”
Glystra pressed his lips together. “It could hardly be worse. Naturally they planned to drop us closer to Grosgarth, right into the Bajarnum’s lap.” He struggled up on his elbow. “I’m astonished we haven’t been taken up already.”
Pianza looked out the door. “We’re rather isolated, and naturally there are no communications… We’ve been nervous, I’ll admit.”
The last terrible scene in the saloon rose before Glystra’s mind. “Where’s Abbigens?”
“Abbigens? Oh, he’s gone. Disappeared.”
Glystra groaned under his breath. Pianza looked uneasily at Cloyville, who frowned.
“Why didn’t you kill him?” Glystra moaned.
All Pianza could do was shake his head. Cloyville said, “He got away.”
“There was someone else too,” said Glystra weakly.
Pianza leaned forward, his eyes sharp and gray. “Someone else? Who?”
“I don’t know. Abbigcns slaughtered the captain and the mate, the other sabotaged the motors, discharged the life-boats.” He heaved restlessly on the couch. The girl put a cool hand on his forehead. “I’ve been unconscious four days. Extraordinary.”
“You’ve been sedated,” said Pianza, “to keep you resting. For a while you were out of your head, climbing out of bed, fighting, yelling.”
2
Forty-thousand-mile Trek
Glystra sat up against Nancy’s restraining hand, felt the base of his skull. He tried to rise to his feet. Cloyville jumped up. “For Heaven’s sake, Claude, take it easy,” he admonished.
Glystra shook his head. “We’ve got to get out of here. Fast. Think. Where’s Abbigens? He’s gone to report to Charley Lysidder, the Bajarnum.” He stood swaying. Nancy came to cajole him back to the cot, but instead, leaning on her shoulder, he went to the door and stood in the wash of golden-white sunlight, the Big Planet panorama before him. Pianza brought a chair, Glystra sank into it.
The cottage, the forest, the village were situated halfway up the face of a slope, vast beyond Earthly conception. Above, Glystra could see no sharp termination or ridge; the land melted into pale blue distance. Below was a vista so grand and airy that after the first few miles the eye could sense only the spread of territory, meadows and forests becoming a green, blue, beige blur.
Cloyville stretched his heavy arms out into the warmth. “Here’s where I’m coming in my old age.” He yawned. “We never should have wasted Big Planet on the freaks.”
Nancy slipped into the house with a stiff back.
Cloyville chuckled. “I guess she thought I was calling her a freak.”
“You’ll never have an old age,” said Glystra, “if we don’t clear out of here.” He looked up and down the slope. “Where’s the ship?”
“Up in the forest a little bit.”
“And how far are we from Beaujolais?”
Cloyville looked southwest diagonally up the slope. “The borders of Beaujolais are vague. Over the top of the slope is a deep valley, apparently volcanic. Full of hot springs, fumaroles, geysers, so they tell me—the valley of the Glass-Blowers. Last year the Bajarnum moved in with his troops, and now the valley is part of Beaujolais. To date he hasn’t sent officials or tax-collectors to Jubilith, but they’re expected every day, together with a garrison.”
“Why a garrison? To keep order?”
Cloyville gestured down the slope. “Protection against the nomads—gypsies, they call ’em.”
“Mmmph.” Glystra looked up at the village. “They don’t seem to have suffered too much… How far is Grosgarth?”
“As near as I can make it, two hundred miles south. There’s a garrison town—Montmarchy, they call it— about fifty miles southeast along the slope.”
“Fifty miles.” Glystra considered. “That’s probably where Abbigens headed for…” A heavy metallic crash sounded from the forest. Glystra looked questioningly at Pianza.
“They’re cutting up the ship. It’s the most metal they’ve seen in their lives. We’ve made them all millionaires.”
“Until the Bajarnum confiscates the whole thing,” said Cloyville.
“We’ve got to get out,” Glystra muttered, twisting in his chair. “We’ve got to get to the Enclave— somehow…”