He took the letter to Morar himself. “I will wait while the Ipso-Rorka reads it,” said he.
In a moment she had returned. “She will answer you later.” There were only four more nights to be spent on board the Chlorie, but much might happen in that time. There was no sign of the enemy—all Alan could do was to wait patiently for their next move.
That night, again, he had no sleep. Soon after he retired, the same sickly odour permeated the cabin. Again he leant out of the window until the fumes had passed; this time they were stronger and took a longer time to dispel. He smiled—it was to be a duel to the end, and he needed all his wits about him. Certainly, Keemarnians possessed of the “madness” were more formidable, more crafty, more callous enemies, than men belonging to Terra. Another night passed—no communication had come from Chlorie. Alan, weary of his vigil, tried to keep awake, but drowsiness overcame him, and his last conscious effort was to drag himself to the window, and rest with his head breathing in the pure air. Again the sweet fumes entered the room, but Alan had safeguarded himself. The next night passed without the enemy showing their hand. They doubtless thought him proof against “serquor” and would take other methods to rid themselves of his presence. Suddenly in the darkness of the night, a noise interrupted his musings. There was a jerk—a crash—and the vessel shivered. Alan flew out of his cabin and met Waz-Y-Kjesta.
“What is it?” he cried.
“Nothing to be alarmed about, my friend. Something has happened to the engine. I have not discovered what, yet—we shall be forced to make a descent. Luckily there is an island near; we will anchor there, and put the matter right. We shall be delayed only a very short time, I think.”
The machine descended in jerks and jumps with many creakings and groanings, but reached the ground in safety.
“I will seek Morar, and tell her to acquaint the Ipso-Rorka with this news,” said the Waz. The whole day passed, and the Y-Kjesta called Alan in dismay. “I cannot understand it,” said he. “There is a screw missing here, and that waste pipe has been filled with refuse. It means taking the whole of the mechanism to pieces, and two days delay at least.” But Alan guessed who had planned this sinister work, and that night he kept vigil—not in his own room, but outside the Princess’.
Waz-Y-Kjesta was frankly puzzled. “Yesterday I fixed up the screw for the outer valve,” said he, “yet to-day it has gone again. Surely I couldn’t have dreamt it—yet it could not go without hands.”
“Perhaps some one has moved it, purposely, for spite,” suggested Alan.
Y-Kjesta laughed. “Not in Keemar. Besides what for? Who could do such a foolish thing?”