“It is a machine which will carry me about on land as your ship does at sea. You will see in a few days, or in a few hours at most.”
Barlennan let the new word pass without question, since the remark was clear enough anyway. “I will come, and will see,” he agreed.
The Flyer’s friends on Mesklin’s inner moon had prophesied correctly. The commander, crouched on his poop, counted only ten sunrises before a lightening of the murk and lessening of the wind gave their usual warning of the approaching eye of the storm. From his own experience he was willing to believe, as the Flyer had said, that the calm period would last one or two hundred days.
With a whistle that would have torn Lackland’s eardrums had he been able to hear such a high frequency the commander summoned the attention of his crew and began to issue orders.
“There will be two hunting parties made up at once. Don-dragmer will head one, Merkoos the other; each will take nine men of his own choosing. I will remain on the ship to coordinate, for the Flyer is going to give us more of his talking machines. I will go to the Flyer’s Hill as soon as the sky is clear to get them; they, as well as other things he wants, are being brought down from Above by his friends, therefore all crew members will remain near the ship until I return. Plan for departure thirty days after I leave.”
“Sir, is it wise for you to leave the ship so early? The wind will still be high.” The mate was too good a friend for the question to be impertinent, though some commanders would have resented any such reflection on their judgment. Barlennan waved his pincers in a manner denoting a smile.
“You are quite right. However, I want to save the time, and the Flyer’s Hall is only a mile away.” “But-”
“Furthermore it is downwind. We have many miles of line in the lockers; I will have, two bent to my harness, and two of the men — Terblannenland Hars, I think, under your supervision, Don — will pay those lines out through the bitts as I go. I may — probably will — lose my footing, but if the wind were able to get such a grip on me as to break good sea cord, the Bree would be miles inland by now.”
“But even losing your footing — suppose you were to be lifted into the air — ” Dondragmer was still deeply troubled, and the thought he had uttered gave even his commander pause for an instant.
“Falling — yes — but remember that we are near the Edge — at it, the Flyer says, and I can believe him when I look north from the top of his Hill. As some of you have found, a fall means nothing here.”