It had been Zhorga’s intention to skim the atmosphere, dropping into it as he got the feel of the local ether currents. Now it was too late. With so many sails gone, or in tatters, control was lost, and there was little that he could do to take effective command anyway.
The susurration intensified. Density, Zhorga knew, would increase rapidly. The desperadoes at the bombards gave up the fight and scrambled to return to their posts as the galleon swayed under the impact of rushing air, scudding along as if driven by a storm.
The sound of the atmosphere became a buffeting roar. Down and down fluttered the Wandering Queen, spiraling and corkscrewing with the aerodynamics of a sycamore seed. It was only her inherent airworthiness that gave her any chance at all—that and the efforts of groups and individuals who stubbornly hurled themselves onto capstans and windlasses, using their instincts amid the chaos to try to bring the ship some measure of stability. When she was only two or three miles from the ground some windsail was released; temporarily it brought the ship out of her spin, sending her lurching crabwise in a stiff breeze. For a minute Zhorga thought a controlled landing might be possible after all, but the damage among the spars was too great. The ship skidded around the Martian sky. She dipped, and entered into a steep, curved descent.
The crash, when it came, was a prolonged, titanic thunder. Timbers, masts, spars and sails shattered, splintered, tore. Zhorga, like everyone else who was not actually killed, was knocked cold.
In the restricted view through his faceplate, Rachad saw that he lay on gritty soil. His head ached abominably—not just from the knock he had received from the inside of his brass helmet, but also because his backpack was nearly extinguished and the air inside his suit was foul.
He struggled to sit up, anxiously feeling himself for broken bones, and discovering none, applied himself to unscrewing his helmet. At last the headpiece came off; thankfully he drew in a lungful of cold, thin air with a slightly burnt odor, not at all strange to him after the acrid chemical air he had been breathing.
Unsteadily he came to his feet.
So here he was standing on Mars, he thought shakily. The pull of the planet seemed oddly burdening after so much time in space. Evidently he had been thrown from the Wandering Queen on impact, for he was still attached to his lifeline, which led to the wreckage of the ship. For a while he stared at this wreckage. The crash had almost completely crushed the galleon, scattering timbers over the surrounding ground. A few remaining spars leaned crazily, trailing sail.
Bodies lay unmoving. Casks and demijohns from the cracked-open hold spilled their contents onto the sand. It seemed to Rachad’s numbed mind, as he gazed at the scene, that he was the sole survivor.
He turned to survey the landscape. The ship appeared to have come down in a semi-desert region. He saw a rock-strewn plain, the sandy ground ranging in color from reddish-brown to orange and dotted here and there with stunted shrubs. Beyond the horizon there jutted up a range of hills and scaurs.
The sky was mauve, shading from grayish-pink to purple. Near the mid-heaven was the wan, half-size sun, casting a gentle, undecided light, and if one looked, one could make out glimmering stars.
Altogether it was a world sufficiently novel in appearance to hold considerable charm, albeit an alien charm, but Rachad was unable to take pleasure in the sight. He unhooked his safety line and wondered unhappily where he might be. Certainly nowhere near the city of Kars, and probably not even in the region known as Syrtis Major.
Behind him he heard the sound of falling timber. Captain Zhorga, unhelmeted like himself, was emerging from the wreck. Rachad hurried to meet him, but Zhorga ignored him and immediately bent to unscrew the helmet of the first body he came to.
With a start Rachad realized that he had been negligent. He was not the sole survivor, and his inaction might be condemning others to suffocation. He hurried to copy Zhorga, who grunted with pleasure to see him.
“I might have known you would come through all right,” he congratulated sourly.
“A pity about your ship, Captain.”
Zhorga sighed, and spared a glance for his ruined merchantman. She, at least, would never take to the air again. But he judged there was enough timber and silk to build some sort of flying raft to explore the surrounding countryside, and perhaps to ferry his men and goods to the nearest town. Thoughts of that, however, would have to wait. His first duty was to his dead and injured.
There was more movement from within the wreck. Clabert and Patchman appeared. Zhorga went over and talked with them.
Rachad pulled off a helmet. The man inside was Boogle and he was dead, his neck broken.
More men were stirring, climbing to their feet groaning and looking about them with awe. Rachad straightened, and then he heard a familiar noise—a whistling noise, the interference effect of a ship sailing too close to the ground.
Something long and dark went hurtling by overhead. It was the dragonfly, sails outstretched, its pointed tail trailing like a sting. It executed a neat turn, swooped, and put down with poise and precision on the gravelly soil.
Between them Zhorga and Rachad had by now checked all the bodies that still lay motionless on this side of the ship, and had found three who breathed and three who did not. Rachad retreated toward Zhorga, as did most others who were able to walk. The air captain glowered at the alien craft as a ramp dropped from the side of the dragonfly. A party of about eight to ten men, marching with springy step, emerged and advanced in a squad.
All but the leader, who carried a holstered pistol, bore long-barreled guns with bell-shaped muzzles. And they wore spacesuits—elegant garments, slim as cat-suits, made of some silky, deep purple material, the backpacks molded into them and making only slight humps, an armorial device—a rampant star beast—stitched on each man’s breast. The helms were likewise close-fitting, the faceplates a single curved piece of tinted glass.
The squad halted. The leader stepped forward, and with a flick of his wrist slid back his apparently flexible faceplate.
The face that stared at Zhorga with steady blue eyes was of a man about thirty. A confident, military sort of face, sporting a neat brush moustache. “Why did you ignore my instructions?” the officer inquired incisively, in a guttural but fluid accent unfamiliar to Zhorga. “Why did you open fire on me?”
Zhorga spluttered his indignation before answering. “Ignore?” he said in a strangled voice. “How in hell could I—”
He took a hold on himself. “What do you mean by shooting down a peaceful merchantman?” he said angrily. He spread his arm to indicate the scene of destruction. “Just take a look at what you’ve done! Do you know who we are? We are Earthmen! We’ve just completed the crossing from Earth—the first to do so for two generations. And the first thing that happens when we finally make it is that we get smashed up by you!”
“From Earth?” the officer echoed. He looked suspiciously at Zhorga, and seemed puzzled. “The sunward planet? I would hardly have thought your vessel fit for such a journey. I was sure you were Martians, trying some stupid attack on the Bucentaur.”
He sauntered past Zhorga, suddenly noticing the bottles, chests and bales that were scattered over the ground. He kicked at a cask. He raised his eyebrows.