They were hard at this task when voices made Marko turn. A group of Eropians was approaching over the soft earth: stocky men with little round dark-cloth caps on their heads and pitchforks and other implements hi their hands.
“Well?” said Marko, facing them.
The Eropians jabbered and gestured. One seemed to be haranguing the others to attack the aeronauts.
Marko had a fair reading knowledge of Eropian but could not understand it when spoken fast hi a local dialect. The peasants’ hostile intentions, however, were so obvious that he took hold of his ax.
“Wait, Marko,” said Halran, and spoke to the Eropians in their own tongue.
The peasants looked at Halran and began arguing among themselves louder than ever.
“They think we are demons,” said Halran. “Ugh. They look dangerous. There is nothing so dangerous as an ignorant and frightened man.”
He spoke again, shouting to make himself heard. The peasants paid him no heed. Instead, they began working themselves up to a rage. They shook their fists, screamed, spat, and jumped up and down, waving thek implements and shouting threats. Marko said:
“Doctor, take that little sword. If they start for us, our best tactic will be to charge them.”
“Oh, no, Marko! Do not antagonize them!” cried Halran. “If I can only make them listen to reason …”
Marko took out his ax, slipped off his sheepskin jacket, and wound the garment around his left arm for a shield. If he could kill a few, the rest would run.
Before the battle could be joined, however, hoofs beat upon the nearby road. A rider pulled up and walked his mount over to the crowd, shouting an order. The rider wore one of the most gorgeous costumes that Marko had ever seen. It included a tall cylindrical hat with a shiny black peak and a brass ornament on the front, a red coat with brass buttons, and high, shiny black boots. In his hand, the man bore a long saber.
At the arrival of this personage, all the peasants faced about, dropped their hoes and forks, and sank to one knee with their heads bowed. Then they rose up and began pointing at the travelers and jabbering. The rider rode closer and shouted a string of questions, which Marko took to mean “Who are you? Where do you come from? What are your names? Where were you born?“What is your citizenship? What is your occupation? What are you doing here?” Halran answered. The mounted man snapped: “Is it true that, as these clodhoppers say, you came down from the sky?”
“Yes, sir,” began Halran, but the mounted man interrupted:
“You are under arrest for illegal immigration, practicing magic without a license, and disorderly conduct. Show your papers.”
Marko had been astonished, when they first set out, at the number and variety of papers his friend had felt obliged to obtain before journeying to Eropia. Halran had assured him that, to visit that country, one could not have too many. Now Halran handed this mass of documents up. The mounted man sheathed his sword, raised a lorgnette to his eyes, and went through the papers. Apparently he read every one through. The peasants stood in a knot in the background, muttering.
At last the mounted man handed back the papers. He folded up his lorgnette, drew his sword, twirled it hi some sort of complicated salute, and sheathed it again. This time he spoke in Anglonian, albeit with a strong accent:
“A thousand pardons, Your Excellencies! A million pardons for having inconvenienced you! But, you understand, I am but a humble policeman and as such must do my duty. Patrolman Jakom Szneider, at your service. Sir Doctor, if you will have the inexpressible goodness to follow me to the police station in Utrec, I will arrange for the issuance of internal-travel papers for you.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Halran.
“Oh, these papers allow you to enter Eropia, but you need special permits to travel from one province to another. Have no fear. Utrec is only a mile down the road, and I will walk these papers through myself.”
“How about arranging transportation to Vien for my balloon?” said Halran.
“That can be done in Utrec. Let me think, Einri Lafonten has a big wagon and a four-house team. Of course, you as a foreigner must have a special license to employ a native Eropian. You must also swear to do no work in Eropia that would compete with one of our artisans’ guilds, and there are also some small taxes. But fear not. I, Jakom Szneider, will expedite matters with incredible dispatch!”
“Where is Utrec, officer?” asked Halran.
“Why, there!” said Szneider, pointing. “You can see the roofs.”
“I mean, where is it on the map? What is it near?”
“Oh? We are about fifty miles northwest of Pari.”
Halran groaned. “That means several hundred miles from Vien, and the accursed convention opens tomorrow!”
“Why can you not fly your machine to Vien?” asked Szneider.
Halran explained that balloons went with the wind only, and they came to Utrec.
Three days later, the wagon of Einri Lafonten, bearing Boert Halran, Marko Prokopiu, and the former’s balloon, rattled into Vien, an old gray city built on the inside of a bend in the Dunau River.
During this stage of their journey, Marko had come to appreciate Halran’s skill as a traveler in civilized countries. In this land, forms and regulations attended every step, the all-powerful government had its fingers in everything, and everybody expected a tip. Patrolman Szneider, for instance, had helped them not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he assumed that Halran would give him a generous present at parting. Back in Vizantia, to proffer money not due and asked for was an insult to the honor of the person to whom it was offered. Travelers had sometimes been struck dead for offering a proud Vizantian a gratuity. Other lands, other customs, Marko kept reminding himself.
The guards at the gates of Vien, as usual, pored over Halran’s papers for half an hour before letting the wagon in. Einri Lafonten’s driver drove them over the winding cobblestoned streets, past the ornately carven mansions of the magnates whose power Alzander Mirabo had broken. They stopped at the old city hall, which had been turned over to the philosophers for their convention.
The convention hall was guarded by troopers of the Prem’s imperial guard, clad in chain mail from head to foot, with cylindrical barbutes on their heads and halberds in their hands. Inside the grounds, Marko could see small groups of men, and a few women, walking about outside the building. The Eropians could be distinguished by their shaven heads. Being bald, the Prem had shaved off what little hair he had. This made the egghead the official fashion.
After more paper shuffling, the guards admitted the wagon to the convention hall’s grounds. Several men approached. Halran called greetings to some of them. A big stout fellow, with a red beard all over his chest, came forward through the gathering crowd crying:
“Boert! What in Earth’s name are you doing here?”
“Bringing my balloon to the convention, as I said I would,” replied Halran.
“You fool, don’t you know that once you’re in, they won’t let you out again?”
“Come to the parlor where we can talk,” said the red-bearded man. Halran introduced him to Marko as Ulf Toskano, a mathematician and the chairman of the convention.
“But what is this all about?” said Halran plaintively. “After all the perils we have surmounted to get here …”
Toskano said: “You should have got here at the opening, if you were bound to get caught in the trap anyway. You missed the wonderful demonstrations by the Chimei brothers yesterday.”
“Who are the Chimei brothers, sir?” asked Marko.
“Opticists from Mingkwo. They have done the most amazing thing. Ryoske Chimei has invented a thing he calls a telescope, which makes far things look near, while Dama Chimei has invented one he calls a microscope, which makes small things look large. They had the place in an uproar yesterday.