“You can’t get closer to the station than this?” said the President, leaning forward to let his voice carry to the pilot.
“Not if you want to land,” the pilot said.
“Yes, we want to land. Very well, put us down below the ridge.”
The pilot gave orders for the crew to prepare to moor. Since the equipment they were going to unload was heavy as well as delicate, it was important to make the craft secure. The President settled back, tapping his fingers on the arm of his seat, gnawing his lip, but saying nothing and letting the pilot work unflustered.
From his hiding place in the transverse bulkheads at the rear of the cabin, Lord Roke watched. Several times during the flight his little shadowy form had passed along behind the metal mesh, clearly visible to anyone who might have looked, if only they had turned their heads; but in order to hear what was happening, he had to come to a place where they could see him. The risk was unavoidable.
He edged forward, listening hard through the roar of the engines, the thunder of the hail and sleet, the high‑pitched singing of the wind in the wires, and the clatter of booted feet on metal walkways. The flight engineer called some figures to the pilot, who confirmed them, and Lord Roke sank back into the shadows, holding tight to the struts and beams as the airship plunged and tilted.
Finally, sensing from the movement that the craft was nearly anchored, he made his way back through the skin of the cabin to the seats on the starboard side.
There were men passing through in both directions: crew members, technicians, priests. Many of their daemons were dogs, brimming with curiosity. On the other side of the aisle, Mrs. Coulter sat awake and silent, her golden daemon watching everything from her lap and exuding malice.
Lord Roke waited for the chance and then darted across to Mrs. Coulter’s seat, and was up in the shadow of her shoulder in a moment.
“What are they doing?” she murmured.
“Landing. We’re near the generating station.”
“Are you going to stay with me, or work on your own?” she whispered.
“I’ll stay with you. I’ll have to hide under your coat.”
She was wearing a heavy sheepskin coat, uncomfortably hot in the heated cabin, but with her hands manacled she couldn’t take it off.
“Go on, now,” she said, looking around, and he darted inside the breast, finding a fur‑lined pocket where he could sit securely. The golden monkey tucked Mrs. Coulter’s silk collar inside solicitously, for all the world like a fastidious couturier attending to his favorite model, while all the time making sure that Lord Roke was completely hidden in the folds of the coat.
He was just in time. Not a minute later a soldier armed with a rifle came to order Mrs. Coulter out of the airship.
“Must I have these handcuffs on?” she said.
“I haven’t been told to remove them,” he replied. “On your feet, please.”
“But it’s hard to move if I can’t hold on to things. I’m stiff – I’ve been sitting here for the best part of a day without moving – and you know I haven’t got any weapons, because you searched me. Go and ask the President if it’s really necessary to manacle me. Am I going to try and run away in this wilderness?”
Lord Roke was impervious to her charm, but interested in its effect on others. The guard was a young man; they should have sent a grizzled old warrior.
“Well,” said the guard, “I’m sure you won’t, ma’am, but I can’t do what I en’t been ordered to do. You see that, I’m sure. Please stand up, ma’am, and if you stumble, I’ll catch hold of your arm.”
She stood up, and Lord Roke felt her move clumsily forward. She was the most graceful human the Gallivespian had ever seen; this clumsiness was feigned. As they reached the head of the gangway, Lord Roke felt her stumble and cry out in alarm, and felt the jar as the guard’s arm caught her. He heard the change in the sounds around them, too; the howl of the wind, the engines turning over steadily to generate power for the lights, voices from somewhere nearby giving orders.
They moved down the gangway, Mrs. Coulter leaning heavily on the guard. She was speaking softly, and Lord Roke could just make out his reply.
“The sergeant, ma’am – over there by the large crate – he’s got the keys. But I daren’t ask him, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“Oh well,” she said with a pretty sigh of regret. “Thank you anyway.”
Lord Roke heard booted feet moving away over rock, and then she whispered: “You heard about the keys?”
“Tell me where the sergeant is. I need to know where and how far.”
“About ten of my paces away. To the right. A big man. I can see the keys in a bunch at his waist.”
“No good unless I know which one. Did you see them lock the manacles?”
“Yes. A short, stubby key with black tape wound around it.”
Lord Roke climbed down hand over hand in the thick fleece of her coat, until he reached the hem at the level of her knees. There he clung and looked around.
They had rigged a floodlight, which made the wet rocks glisten brilliantly. But as he looked down, casting around for shadows, he saw the glare begin to swing sideways in a gust of wind. He heard a shout, and the light went out abruptly.
He dropped to the ground at once and sprang through the dashing sleet toward the sergeant, who had lurched forward to try and catch the falling floodlight.
In the confusion Lord Roke leapt at the big man’s leg as it swung past him, seized the camouflage cotton of the trousers – heavy and sodden with rain already – and kicked a spur into the flesh just above the boot.
The sergeant gave a grunting cry and fell clumsily, grasping his leg, trying to breathe, trying to call out. Lord Roke let go and sprang away from the falling body.
No one had noticed: the noise of the wind and the engines and the pounding hail covered the man’s cry, and in the darkness his body couldn’t be seen. But there were others close by, and Lord Roke had to work quickly. He leapt to the fallen man’s side, where the bunch of keys lay in a pool of icy water, and hauled aside the great shafts of steel, as big around as his arm and half as long as he was, till he found the one with the black tape. And then there was the clasp of the key ring to wrestle with, and the perpetual risk of the hail, which for a Gallivespian was deadly: blocks of ice as big as his two fists.
And then a voice above him said, “You all right, Sergeant?”
The soldier’s daemon was growling and nuzzling at the sergeant’s, who had fallen into a semi‑stupor. Lord Roke couldn’t wait: a spring and a kick, and the other man fell beside the sergeant.
Hauling, wrestling, heaving, Lord Roke finally snapped open the key ring, and then he had to lift six other keys out of the way before the black‑taped one was free. Any second now they’d get the light back on, but even in the half‑dark they could hardly miss two men lying unconscious –
And as he hoisted the key out, a shout went up. He hauled up the massive shaft with all the strength he had, tugging, heaving, lifting, crawling, dragging, and hid beside a small boulder just as pounding feet arrived and voices called for light. “Shot?”
“Didn’t hear a thing – ”
“Are they breathing?”
Then the floodlight, secure again, snapped on once more. Lord Roke was caught in the open, as clear as a fox in the headlights of a car. He stood stock‑still, his eyes moving left and right, and once he was sure that everyone’s attention was on the two men who had fallen so mysteriously, he hauled the key to his shoulder and ran around the puddles and the boulders until he reached Mrs. Coulter.
A second later she had unlocked the handcuffs and lowered them silently to the ground. Lord Roke leapt for the hem of her coat and ran up to her shoulder.
“Where’s the bomb?” he said, close to her ear.
“They’ve just begun to unload it. It’s the big crate on the ground over there. I can’t do anything till they take it out, and even then – ”