“Did you say we’re flying to Oban?” Donald asked.
“I did indeed, Donald.”
“It’s a private town.”
“I am welcome.”
“May I ask how?”
“TK invited me.”
“You’re close to Tom Krossington?” Donald did not bother to keep the incredulity from his voice.
“You should know—TK introduced the two of us long ago.”
“You and I have never met, Nightminster.”
“On the contrary, yes we have. You were just a scampering little lad of three who could hardly climb onto a sofa. TK introduced me to your father Morton at Wilson House. As your father did not like the look of me—and I must confess the feeling was mutual—I made friends with you instead.”
Donald frowned, sinking back to his earliest memories. There was a shadowy recollection, one of those glimpses floating on the edge of dreams, a scene he had never been able to relate to any place or person of his later life. What lingered most strongly was the kindness of an adult who towered like a tree and then stooped to make friends at knee level. To the right, far above in the heights where adults spoke to one another, there was an orange blur.
“So that was you. I even met tragic Victorina and never knew. It’s a scene that’s always puzzled me. Years later I asked my father about it. He pretended not to know anything, but I sensed he was lying. What were you up to back then?”
“I was a student at Oxford University—about which enough said. My point is that TK and I go back a long, long way.”
On thinking behind his prejudices, Donald realised this was plausible enough. The photograph of Nightminster with Victorina Krossington on the eve of the Sack of Oxford was taken thirty-three years ago. Nightminster was obviously much more than some boyfriend of the distant past.
“There is a problem,” Donald said. “I’m TK’s appointed regent. I can’t just go swanning off to Scotland without telling him.”
“Ah! Faithful servant to the last. For your information, he is already there; do not concern yourself with TK.”
“Why does he want me there?”
Nightminster frowned and glared at Donald.
“You wanted to make this fucking trip.”
That could not be disputed.
“All right, we’re going to Oban,” Donald said. “Is this a regular trip for you?”
“No. It will involve some danger.” Nightminster pulled a savage grin. “We’re going to take an unconventional route in order to save fuel. The proper route means a huge detour along the south coast of England to the Isles of Scilly and then north up the Irish Sea. That’s 900 miles even before including head winds, which would stretch the distance flown to eleven or twelve hundred miles.
“So, instead we’re going to fly north, cross England over the Yorkshire Dales and proceed up the west coast. This distance is less than 700 miles with the winds mostly behind us, so in reality it’s only half the distance flown.”
“There are no Naclaski batteries up north?”
“On the contrary, they’re some of the best-equipped units in Britain—as you’d expect. It’s a great temptation for pilots to try sneaking through the lonely valleys of Yorkshire.”
Donald’s face must have registered his visceral horror recalling the blasts of Naclaski shells around the flying boat over Kent.
“Relax, Donald. This machine has turbo-charged diesel engines and the wings of an albatross. I can fly so high the Naclaski batteries can’t reach us. Their radar only tracks up to five miles. We shall fly above seven miles of altitude.”
“How do you know about Naclaski radar?”
“Once upon a time I worked for Chadderton’s of Bermondsey asylum, the company that makes the sets. That was how I got interested in physics and… Stop bloody pestering me and get your flying suit on.”
Donald sat for a while, getting hot in the heavy flying suit and reflecting on the situation. If they were shot down whilst flouting Naclaski, there would be no benefactor to buy them out, assuming they survived the crash. That said, this character Nightminster radiated an air of great confidence. He ruled faint lines on a chart, making notes, excluding the world with an impressive concentration. Then he picked up a clipboard and ran down a checklist.
“Did you vent the primus tank?”
“No.”
“Please go and do so, or it will explode in the thin air at high altitude. Check the water heater is switched on, or the tank will freeze solid and rupture. Put the coffee pot on the electric plate and set the heat to ‘Low’. Shut off the refrigerator by the valve at the back of it. Finally, close the cap of its chimney by the lever adjacent where it passes through the roof.”
Donald obeyed. When he returned, Nightminster handed him an aluminium crank handle as long as a man’s shin, light as a stick but stiff as bone.
“Please do the honours. You insert it in that hole in the forward port engine. There are footholds on top of the fuselage. As you crank, you will hear an ascending whine as the flywheel builds up speed. Keep turning until it sounds like a piglet getting its nuts chopped. I will shout ‘Contact!’ and you must cling for your life, or the blast of propeller wash will put you straight in the river—in which case the tide will drag you under those barges. Do you understand?”
“Too clearly,” Donald said.
*
The floodlights of the Grande Enceinte shone like a cluster of stars two hundred miles behind them. Above, beyond the cones of the propeller hubs, the Milky Way glowed like spilt phosphorus. The moon hung so clear that you could sense it was a sphere. Below and to port, the night was scattered with bright specks in a thin haze of orange. The bright specks were manors of sovereign lands, lit by electric light, whilst the smudges were countless native hamlets, lit by lamps, if lit at all. To the starboard side spread an expanse of absolute black—the North Sea—bounded by a shoal of glimmering
