Anti-Ice

13 THE BALLOON PILOT

The Smoking Cabin had been lovingly restored. The various scuffs and rents left in the upholstered walls by our weeks of incarceration had all been invisibly repaired, and I offered up a quick, silent prayer that the craft’s motive systems were in as pristine a condition.

I scrambled up a rope ladder to the Bridge. For a moment I stood there returning the gaze of the serried ranks of instrument dials, as unsure as some barbarian entering a religious shrine.

But I shook away this mood and clambered without further delay into Traveller’s couch.

As the soft upholstery took my weight some hidden switch was activated, and the electric lamps within each instrument sparked to life. I fancied I heard a hissing, as pipes bore the increasing pressure of the ship’s various hydraulic systems.

Like some huge animal the craft was coming alive to my touch.

I lay in that couch and surveyed the instrument constellation with dismay. But I had seen Traveller fly this craft from the Moon to the Earth, and it had looked simple enough; surely I would have no trouble with a minor jaunt across the English Channel!

With renewed determination I turned to the control levers beside the couch. The levers terminated in handles of molded rubber which were a little too large for my hands. Fixed on the handles were light levers of steel; these, I recalled, controlled the ignition and force of the Phaeton’s rocket motors.

As my hands closed around the handles I felt sweat pool in my palms.

I squeezed at the steel levers.

The rockets shouted their awakening. A huge shuddering beset the craft.

“Ned!”

Traveller was climbing with some difficulty through the hatch from the Smoking Cabin. He had lost his hat and his hair lay in white sheets about his forehead. He was breathing hard and sweat trickled over his platinum nose; and the glare he fixed on me was as intense as sunlight.

“Don’t try to stop me, Traveller!”

“Ned.” Now he stood on the deck, towering over me. With a voice whose quietness defeated the racket of the motors he said: “Get out of my couch.”

“You told me what Gladstone’s plans are. As a decent Englishman I cannot stand by and allow such an atrocity to proceed unchallenged. I intend to fly to France and—”

“And what?” Now he leaned over me, the sweat pooling under his deep eyes. “What then, Ned? Will you use the Phaeton to swat Gladstone’s shells from the air? Think it through, damn it; what can you possibly achieve save your own death in the resulting holocaust?”

I stuck out my chin and said, “But at least I may be able to warn the authorities—”

“What authorities? Ned, at this moment nobody knows who the authorities are! And as for the Prussians—”

“At least the warning will be delivered. And I may rescue a few souls from the devastation which is to come, and so in turn recover a little of the lost honor of England.”

His mouth worked; then some of the anger seemed to seep out of him. “Ned, you’re a fool, but I suppose there are worse ways to throw away your life… And, of course, there is your Françoise.”

I glared, as if daring him to mock me. “Mademoiselle Michelet has become a symbol to me of all those unfortunates who have become caught up in this war. If she lives still aboard the stolen land liner I pledge to rescue her—or to die in the attempt!”

“Oh, you damn idiot. I’ll give you good odds that the blessed woman is precisely where she wants to be: that she’ll shoot you down as you approach her, with your face split into the grin of a fool.” He glared harder at me, and something of that hidden perceptiveness about folk which I’d discerned in him earlier shone through his stare. “Ah, but that doesn’t matter. Does it? It’s not the thought of the rescue that’s exercising you so. You have to know the truth about your Françoise—”

I resented this insight into my soul. “Leave me be, Traveller! I won’t be stopped.”

“Ned—” Traveller reached out uncertain hands. “You cannot fly the ship. You would destroy her even before gaining the air! Why, you did not even close the hatch before trying to launch the craft.”

“Traveller, don’t try to stop me!—I suggest you return to your friend the Prime Minister, and, in return for the money he has promised you, proceed to build him his Angels of Death.”

A frown lengthened the lines in his brow.

I felt a pang of shame, but I dismissed it. “Sir Josiah, I will grant you ten seconds to get off the craft. Then I leave for France.”

With a calmness that shone through his shouted words he replied: “I disregard your ten seconds. I have no intention of leaving the ship; I cannot allow you to destroy the Phaeton.”

“Then we are at an impasse. Must I eject you bodily?” He sighed deeply, buried his face for a moment in his cupped hands; then lifted his head to face me. “That will not be necessary, Ned; for I see you are determined to go. And therefore I have no option but to accompany you.”

“What?”

“I will fly the ship. Now, kindly vacate my couch so that we may proceed—”

I studied him with the deepest suspicion, but on his long face I could read only a new determination. “Traveller, why would you do that? Why should I not suspect you of some trickery?”

He visibly drew together some shreds of patience. “You may suspect what you like. I am not given to trickery, Ned; and I was quite sincere when I said that you will destroy this craft in seconds if you proceed unaided.”

“Then assist me. Tell me how to fly the Phaeton.”

“Impossible.” He counted the points on his long fingers. “It would take several days to impart even the basics of the flight control system design. Even,” he added without irony, “to the brightest student. Second. Consider the demands of piloting a flighted craft through the atmosphere. Ned, the Phaeton is not inherently stable; this means that—unless you want to blast straight up in the air, like our French colleague—the pilot must be constantly responsive to the attitude of his craft; otherwise she is just as likely to flip upside down and plummet with all the force of her motors straight into the ground. This is the only flying vessel in the world, and I am the only man with experience of such arts. Third. You will recall that the Phaeton is a prototype. She therefore has various quirks and peculiarities which only I can anticipate and control—”

“All right!” The strain of maintaining an even pressure on the rocket levers was turning my hands into crabs of tense muscles.

Then, unexpectedly, he grinned, his hair drifting from his scalp. “You ask why I will fly the ship. I do not want you to ruin my craft, boy; that is one clear objective. Other than that—

“Well, old Glad Eyes has made it clear enough that his rocket-shells will be built with or without my participation. Now you’ve forced me to think about it, if anti-ice is to be used again as a weapon of war, perhaps I should witness the consequences of my own actions, rather than read some inaccurate account in the Guardian three days later.

“Ned, my mind is made up. Let us go seek your precious lady; let us make for Paris, the Queen of Cities!”

I searched his face again. There was no sign of guile or deception; in fact I was reminded of the impulsive enthusiasm I had reawakened in him in those last minutes of our approach to the Moon. And so, at length, I nodded.

Traveller clapped his hands together. “I have told Pocket to shelter within the house, and so we are all prepared to leave. Now then, Ned, if you would vacate my chair—release those levers as slowly as you are able—”

And so, within a few minutes, the noise of the rockets rose to a roar; the covering tarpaulins ripped and fell away, and the Phaeton soared high over the Surrey countryside.

Traveller, with skill and grace, flew at a height of about half a mile above the land. He tilted the engines, explaining that by doing so the rockets could not only support the weight of the craft in the air, but also impart a significant sideways acceleration.

And so we sped southwards.

I stood with my face pressed to the windows. At such a height the land, when not obscured by clouds, takes on the appearance of a toy layout featuring beautifully detailed houses, trees and glistening rivers. It was something of a shock when we abruptly sailed over the gunmetal-gray waters of the Channel.

After perhaps an hour we reached the French coast. A harbor town lay spread out like a diagram below us, and Traveller compared the view through his periscope with the contents of a map spread over his chest. At last he nodded in satisfaction. “We have reached Le Havre. Now it is but a short hop to Paris herself!”

I imagined the simple fisherfolk below peering up and wondering at the screaming, fire-belching monster which streaked across their sky.

Our guide now was the Seine; we followed its silver course upstream through Normandy. Smoke spiraled from scattered cottages and farmhouses and, under the influence of the prevailing winds, streamed like feathers to the east. From this godlike perspective there was no sign of the war.

At one point we sailed high over Rouen—the old streets looked like a child’s maze—and I recalled that it was here that we English had burned to death the Maid of Orléans. I wondered what that brave warrior would have made of our great aluminum air-boat. Would she have thought it one more vision of the Lord?

At last, at about two in the afternoon, we reached the outskirts of Paris herself.

From the air Paris is a rough oval through which the Seine cuts neatly from east to west. With the periscope we could quite clearly see the islands which lie at the heart of the city, and we studied the elegant roof of the Cathedral of Notre Dame—untouched as yet by the Prussian artillery which had been brought into close order around the city. Just to the north of the water, we could make out the Rue de Rivoli which runs parallel to the river. Tracing the road to its western extent I found the Champs Elysées, and I puzzled over fallen trees scattered over the roadway, looking like spilled matchstalks. I wondered if they had been felled by German artillery, but Traveller suggested that the grand avenue was being cut down in order to supply firewood for the city’s beleaguered citizens.

Around the brown-gray carcass of the city lay the main defensive fortifications: we tracked twenty miles of walls from the Bois de Boulogne in the west to the Bois de Vincennes in the east. And, in the countryside beyond the walls, we could clearly see the encampments of the besieging Prussian armies. Officers’ tents lay like scattered handkerchiefs among the woods and fields; and—when we descended a little lower—we could make out the pits in which artillery pieces had been lodged—hundreds of them, all with their sinister snouts trained on the hapless citizens of Paris. And we could even espy the flashing red, blue and silver uniforms of the Prussian soldiery themselves.

As I stared down at the wondering, upturned faces of these conquering Germans it occurred to me how simple it would be for me to drop, say, a Dewar-ful of anti-ice among them—with quite devastating effect. The Prussians could do nothing in response; we could easily rise above the range of their guns, even if they could be trained on an object floating in the air.

I shuddered, wondering if I had had a vision of some future war.

Now we were fascinated to see, rising from the brown mass of the city, the bulky, ponderous form of a hot air balloon. The Manchester newspapers had been full of the Parisians’ brave attempts to communicate with the rest of France by means of such vessels, and by the even more desperate expedient of carrier pigeons; but nevertheless the actual sight was quite startling. The clumsy vessel resembled a patchwork quilt in its jumble of colors and roughly-cut panels, and it bobbed uncertainly in the brisk westerly winds which soared over the roofs of the city, but off to the east it sailed with a semblance of grace, crossing the city walls in minutes.

We scanned the horizon with Traveller’s telescopes—but of the Prince Albert there was no sign. Traveller frowned. “Well, Ned, what next?”

I shook my head, baffled and disappointed; the scale of the martial drama laid out below me was so great that my impulsive dreams that one man could alter the course of unfolding events, even armed with such a tool as Phaeton, seemed foolish fantasies. “I don’t know what we can do here,” I said at length. “But I think I should still very much like to find Françoise.”

Traveller pulled at his chin. “Then we must gather more information as to the Albert’s whereabouts.”

“Should we land in the city itself?”

He studied the maps on his chest for a few moments. “I am reluctant to follow such a course. We would have no way of warning the citizens of our approach, or of ensuring the area was made clear—indeed, in the Parisians’ present excitable state, our imminent landing might attract large crowds, who would rush into the path of our steam jets.

“No, Ned; I can’t recommend a landing in the city. But I have an alternative suggestion.”

“Which is?”

“Let us follow that balloon pilot. When he comes down we can land in safety and approach him.”

I thought this over. I felt reluctant to waste hours in gentle pursuit of the primitive craft. But on the other hand the balloon’s pilot would surely have a wider understanding of the situation than the average Parisian, for otherwise he would not have been assisted to escape. A few moments quizzing this intrepid fellow might replace hours of scouring the Parisian mobs.

“Very well,” I said to Traveller. “Let us pursue this brave pilot, and hope that he can assist us.”

To the east of Paris lies the Champagne region of France; and it was here, some twenty miles from the city walls, that the westerly winds deposited our balloon pilot. Amid neat little vineyards his deflated vessel lay like a colorful pool, quite unmistakable from the air.

Traveller landed the Phaeton a quarter of a mile to the north. Before the rocket nozzles had cooled we unraveled rope ladders and scrambled to the ground. It was now late afternoon and we stood for a few seconds, blinking up at a cloudy sky. The Phaeton, having arrived in its usual spectacular style, sat at the center of a disc of charred and fallen vines; never again would these plants bear fruit! And just beyond the burned region a young man in a simple smock stood staring; even from here I could see how his mouth hung open.

Traveller strode confidently toward this rustic and pressed money into his hands. The engineer told the fellow, in broken French, that he was to take this offering to his employer as recompense for the destruction of a portion of his vines. Bemused, the poor chap unfolded the money and stared at it, as if he had never seen an English five-pound note before. But we left no time for further explanations; with the curtest of farewells to our reluctant host we strode off through acres of hedgerow and vine.

Five minutes later we came upon the balloon. The craft, deflated now, was constructed of crudely- sewn oddments of cloth—I spotted tablecloths, bedsheets, curtains, and even a soft, white fabric which reminded me of the gentler items of ladies’ apparel. The sac was breached by panels attached to lengths of twine; these panels were clearly intended to be ripped open in order to deflate the sac; but around these neat rectangles the balloon wall had torn, and so the craft must have descended with more velocity than the pilot intended. I remarked to Traveller, “Good Lord, Sir Josiah, this whole affair is nothing more than an improvisation.”

Traveller said, “One would need more courage to take to the air in such a vessel than to travel to the Moon in the Phaeton. The inhabitants of Paris must be truly desperate to—”

“Actually,” came a voice, in French, from behind billows of cloth, “this Parisian is only desperate to get on with his business without the accompaniment of arrogant English remarks, and—ow!”

Traveller and I exchanged startled glances; and we hurried around the fallen balloon.

The craft’s basket was nothing more than a large wicker laundry box, fixed to the sac by lengths of leather. The basket lay on its side, and scrolls and bundles had spilled over the soft soil; and in the midst of all this debris sat a young man. He was about my height and age, with dark, Gallic good looks. He was dressed in the plain, dour clothes of the city worker; so that he could have been, for example, a bank clerk. But his gray jacket was torn and muddied. His left leg was stretched out before him, and he was pushing at the ground, trying to rise to his feet; but every time he put an ounce of weight on that left leg he winced in pain.

Traveller bent to examine the damaged leg. I said, in English, “You must rest there. Your leg has clearly been hurt, and—”

In French he replied, “My name is Charles Nandron. I am a deputy in the Government of National Defense. Sir, you are on the soil of France, no doubt uninvited; you will have the courtesy to address me in the tongue of my country, or not at all—ow!” Traveller’s probing fingers had reached his ankle. Nandron threw back his head and clenched his teeth.

Using my fluent French I introduced myself and Traveller. “We came here in the Phaeton, which is an anti-ice—”

“I have no interest in English gadgets,” sniffed the deputy. “I have risked my life in order to communicate with our provincial government in Tours—”

In his snapping English, Traveller said, “If you don’t sit still and show some interest in this leg, young man, you won’t be communicating with anybody except a few grape-growers for a long while.” He turned to me and said, “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think there’s a break—just laid-open skin and a nasty sprain. In the Phaeton I have some linament and poultices; if you keep our haughty young gentleman from crawling away I will fetch the medication.”

I nodded briefly. As Traveller stalked off Nandron’s arrogant eyes flickered curiously at Sir Josiah’s platinum nose; but he soon returned to his inspection of the sky.

I said in French, “The accounts in Manchester of the state of Paris are fragmentary, based largely on the news brought out by intrepid escapers like yourself—leavened with a healthy dose of speculation.”

He nodded, closing his eyes. “Paris is in grave peril. The Prussians clearly intend to starve her into submission.”

“You receive news of the war in there?”

“We know that Bismarck holds all of France to the north and east of Orléans, save Paris alone. Just as in 1815, France will stand or fall as Paris stands or falls; but this time we will repel the invaders…”

“Yes. And is there an army inside the walls of the city?”

“An army of citizens, sir. The National Guard has been doubled to over three hundred thousand men; every able-bodied man in the city, practically, has risen to save his country. Even we politicians are expected to serve in the breach!”

I studied his proud face, plastered now with the perspiration of pain, and reflected that if the history of the hydra-like Parisian mob was any guide, these hapless politicians probably had little choice but to man the barricades with the rest. But I forbore to comment on this, asking instead: “And what is the situation in the city?”

He shook his head. “You know that food cannot be brought into the city; the prevailing winds make it impossible to fly in even a few pounds by balloon. But there is much food remaining; our difficulty as a government has been one of distribution, both by region and through society.” He laughed with a mild cynicism. “It surprises no one that the poor suffer most. Shopkeepers too are seeing their businesses ruined. But the best restaurants maintain full menus.” He fixed me with a glare and tried to sit up straighter. “Perhaps you and your dilettante companion would care to call on one such during your visit. I apologize in the name of all Parisians for the lack of such items as fresh vegetables and seafood; but the menus have been made more exotic than ever with the addition of such items as kangaroo, elephant and cat—”

I laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Sir, we are not your enemies. We are risking our own lives in this theater of war; we are searching for someone.”

With a stab of curiosity he demanded, “Who?”

“Have you heard of the Prince Albert?” I explained the circumstances of the craft’s stealing by franc-tireurs, and the accounts of its moving south toward Paris.

But Nandron shook his head. “I know nothing of such a vessel,” he said dismissively. “And in any event our franc-tireurs are now much more profitably employed on the disruption of the Prussians’ long supply lines back to Berlin…”

Disappointed by this fresh failure, I nevertheless spent the remaining minutes waiting for Traveller’s return drawing further details from this haughty young Parisian of the condition of his city. He told me, for example, how even now the program to rebuild the thirty-year-old defensive walls was beset by wrangling and delays as rival groups of engineers argued over the selection of the most elegant and appealing design. I could not help but recall my brother’s accounts of the simple but efficient earthwork fortifications thrown up by the Russians around Sebastopol.

In the calm, fading light of that rustic French afternoon I found it difficult to accept as truth the harrowing details of Nandron’s tales.

Paris’s best hope of salvation seemed to lie with the Minister of the Interior, Gambetta, who some weeks earlier had ballooned out of Paris. This Gambetta had, it seemed, raised a new army from the very earth of France itself, and had already struck at the Prussians with some success, at Coulmiers, close to Orléans. Now Gambetta was making for Orléans where he intended to make a fresh stand against the invaders. But vast Prussian forces, formerly kept busy by the siege at Metz, were moving to meet him; and it appeared that Orléans might become as decisive a battlefield as Sedan.

Traveller returned and efficiently applied a poultice to Nandron’s leg. As Sir Josiah worked Nandron went on, “It is said that General Trochu”—the head of the provisional government—“has no fears for the future of France; for he believes that Sainte Geneviиve, who delivered the country from barbarians in the fifth century, will return to do so again.” He laughed with some bitterness.

I asked, “You do not share his beliefs?”

“I would rather have truck with the rumors flying around the bars of the city which state that Bonaparte himself has returned from the dead—or perhaps did not ever die at all, in his place of British exile—and is returning in a great chariot to join Gambetta’s armies at Orléans and drive out the Prussians.”

I nodded. “Old Boney himself, eh? What a charming idea…”

But Traveller waved me silent. “This ‘great chariot’,” he snapped in his broken French. “Do these street tales bear any details?”

“Of course not. They are the gossip of the ignorant and ill-informed—”

I looked at Traveller with a new surmise. “You think this chariot could be the Albert?”

Traveller shrugged. “Why not? Imagine the great anti-ice vessel driving through the fields of France, piloted by these intrepid franc-tireurs. Might not news of such a development reach the desperate city of Paris in a garbled form, becoming mixed up with this nonsense about the Corsican?”

“Then we must make for Orléans!” I said.

But Nandron snapped, “Your analysis is wrong. No self-respecting son of France would have any truck with the gaudy machines of the British. For it is the opinion of the Government of National Defense that the technological invasion of France by Britain is every bit as odious as that of the Prussian barbarians—”

“If a little harder to define, eh?” Traveller said cheerfully. “Well, my boy, you may despise the very name of Britain; but unless you accept British help now it is going to take you rather a long time to reach Tours on that foot, despite my miraculous healing powers.”

The Frenchman said frostily, “Thank you; but I would prefer to make my own way.”

Traveller slapped his forehead in frustration. “Is there no limit to the stupidity of young men?”

In heavily accented English, Nandron said, “You must understand that you are not welcome here. We do not want you. We must throw off the hand of the Prussians with the blood of Frenchmen!”

I scratched my cheek. “I wish you’d tell that to Gladstone.”

He looked puzzled. “What?”

“Never mind.” I straightened up. “Well, Sir Josiah; that seems to be that.”

“To Orléans?”

“Indeed!”

We bade Nandron a goodbye which was not returned, and set off once more across the neat vineyards; my last view of the stubborn deputy showed him struggling on one sound leg to gather together the papers and other materials he had transported with such difficulty from besieged Paris.