Once the vertiginous fear generated by our state of continual falling was passed—and also, in poor Holden’s case, a severe physical sickness reminiscent of
But the darker side of our situation was never far beneath the surface of my thoughts, and—as time wore on—the dangers and uncertainty confronting us emerged ever more clearly in my mind, as sand blows steadily away to reveal buried ruins.
My dreams centered on Francoise.
I passed idle hours envisioning the love which might one day blossom between us—and my dreams were so intense that sometimes it was as if I knew already that feeling of companionship, of relief that one is no longer alone, that comes from true love. And, even beyond that: as I meditated further, Francoise’s sweet and distant face became transformed in my mind into a symbol of the human world from which I had been torn.
Each morning I would watch eagerly as Pocket folded back the blinds, hoping beyond hope that somehow our situation might have changed during the night, that our flight might have been reversed by our unseen pilot (though Traveller impatiently explained more than once that were the engines engaged again we should hardly sleep through the experience). But each morning I was disappointed; each morning Earth shriveled a little more, demonstrating that we continued to recede from the planet of our birth by hundreds more miles every minute.
So we four strangers, thrown so suddenly into this aerial jail together, waited out the days. We were tolerant of each other—wary even. Holden and Traveller bore their plight with stoicism and fortitude, broken only by Traveller’s impatience to return to his various engineering projects on Earth. (Personally I found my work, and Spiers’s malevolent little face, easy to forget.) And Pocket—though the most vertigo-prone of us all—seemed as happy in his domestic routine as if he were on solid ground.
But as time went on without change, boredom, resentment and claustrophobic irritation grew within me like weeds; and on the fifth morning, as I sat in my chair facing Pocket’s bacon and toast breakfast and listening to Traveller and Holden discuss the vagaries of the Stock Exchange, something broke inside me.
I rose from my chair and dashed away my breakfast tray. “I can no longer listen to this!” I hovered in the air like some avenging angel, an effect spoilt only by fragments of orbiting toast.
Traveller looked up, a blob of marmalade perched comically on his platinum nose. “Good God, Wickers. Restrain yourself, sir.”
I felt my anger shine through the trembling of my voice. “Sir Josiah, for the hundredth and last time my name is Vicars, Edward Vicars; and as for restraint, I have had quite enough of that over the last several days.”
Holden said gloomily, “This will do no good, Ned.”
I turned on him. “Holden, we remain trapped in this ridiculous padded box which hurtles ever more deeply into the untracked void! And yet you sit and debate hypothetical stock movements—”
Traveller took another bite of toast. “What alternative do you propose?”
I thumped my fist into my palm. “That we abandon this game of normality; that we sit down and discuss ways of wresting back control of this vessel from the deranged Hun who has occupied the Bridge.”
Holden said, “Ned—”
But Traveller nodded. “We will converse on any subject you nominate,” he said with a rasp. “But, sir, you will allow me to finish my breakfast in good order.”
I spluttered, “Breakfast? How can you swallow toast in a situation unparalleled in the experience of man— when, indeed, our very lives are at peril…”
I continued in this vein at some length, but the old gentleman would have none of it; and I was forced to subside, fuming, and wait until breakfast was over and cleared away.
Traveller, utterly composed, wiped his long fingers on a napkin.
“Now then, Ned, I sympathize with your sentiments, and even admire your resolve which, while founded on ignorance and hotheadedness, nevertheless contains elements of courage. However, Ned, you are not as stupid as you appear, and you know very well that the connecting hatchway between this compartment and the Bridge is jammed from above. And we are bereft of tools by means of which we might effect a forced entry.”
I found myself grinding my teeth together. “And your conclusion?”
“That there is nothing we can do to improve our prospects—although there are many actions we can take which would make things worse.”
Holden had blanched, but steepled his fat fingers together in a composed manner. “Then what do you recommend?”
“We must accept that which we cannot change. We must hope that our Teutonic pilot sees fit to reverse the course of this vessel—if indeed he can. Then we must pray that the craft retains the ability to return us safely to our native world.”
I leapt from my chair and cannonaded from the padded ceiling. “Hope? Pray? You counsel us with inactivity, Sir Josiah. Will you continue to press this advice when the marmalade supply dwindles to naught?”
Traveller barked laughter.
I said, “I for one am not prepared to face my death without a fight.”
Holden sat straighter in his chair and faced me grimly. “I hope you will face your death with resolution, as an Englishman should, Ned.”
That evoked a sunburst of shame inside my anger, but I went on regardless: “Holden, there is nothing English about lying down to die.”
Traveller rested his hands on his lap. “Gentlemen, it can certainly do no harm to talk. Provided,” he said to me severely, “we conduct our conversation in a civilized fashion.”
I climbed back into my chair; but my fingers danced restlessly on the chair’s arms throughout the ensuing discussion.
“So,” said Traveller, “what would you like to talk about, Ned?”
“It’s obvious. We must find a way to open that hatch to the Bridge.”
“And I have already explained that such a course of action is impossible. What else do you suggest?”
Baffled and angry, I looked to Holden, who said smoothly, “Sir Josiah, I fear that without the advantage of your deep knowledge of the
Traveller’s eyebrows rose. “The walls? Perhaps, you speculate, a heroic figure could slip between the inner and outer hulls, slither like a ferret up to the Bridge, and burst upon our German friend? Alas, the space between the hulls is only nine inches deep—a little too narrow even for our young companion, let alone one with such ample girth as yours—and in any event is occupied by pipes for heating, water and air, by springs which cushion the inner compartment from impact—the inner chamber is gimballed, you know—and the various beds, chairs and other devices of which you both make such extensive use. And anyway the double hull terminates at the joint with the Bridge; the Bridge and Smoking Cabin are separate, airtight compartments.
“To save you time, let me say that the only access to the Bridge—other than the blocked hatch above us—is through the hatch set in the Bridge’s outer glass wall. And that, of course, could only be opened were one positioned outside the vessel.”
Holden shook his head. “I cannot understand how you allowed a design in which access to the vessel’s controls can be blocked so easily!”
Sir Josiah smiled. “In my youthful naпvety, I did not anticipate sabotage. I never envisaged the situation which pertains today.”
Traveller’s use of the word “airtight” had given me an idea. “Sir, where is the air supply which feeds the Bridge?”
“Bridge and Smoking Cabin are both fed by the same network of air pipes, which climb through the hull from pumps and filter sets in the Engine Chamber beneath our feet.”
I nodded. “To which we have access.”
“Ned, what’s in your mind?” Holden asked.
