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trunk closed, then said, "Come on. Let's be off."
Ankowaljuu not only had a wain outside, but also a driver. The fellow's face
was a perfect blank mask, part Skrelling impassivity, part the boredom of
flunkies everywhere waiting for their bosses to finish business that doesn't
involve them. He stayed behind the wheel and let Park and Dunedin heave the
trunk in by themselves.
"Go," Ankowaljuu told him.
The wain sprang ahead, shoving Park back in his seat. He was no milquetoast
driver himself, but
Ankowaljuu's man did not seem to care whether he lived or died. Eric Dunedin's
face was white as they shot through Kuuskoo like a dodge-'em car, evading
trucks by the thickness of a coat of paint and making pedestrians scatter for
their lives. Park sympathized with his thane. Though he wasn't really
Bishop Ib Scoglund, he'd never felt more like praying.
Ankowaljuu turned to grin at his passengers. "When Ljiikljiik here isn't
swinking for me, he's a champion wain-racer."
"I believe it," Park said. "Who would dare stay on the same track with him?"
Ankowaljuu laughed out loud. He translated the remark into Ketjwa for
Ljiikljiik's benefit. The driver's face twitched. Park supposed that was a
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smile.
Soon they were out of town. That meant less traffic, but Ljiikljiik sped up
even more, rocketing south down the valley at whose northern end Kuuskoo sat.
The airfield was just that: a grassy field. Ljiikljilk drove off the road. As
far as Park could tell, he didn't slow down a bit, though everyone in the car
rattled around like dried peas in a gourd. When Ljiikljiik slammed on the
brakes, Park almost went over the front seat and through the windshield. The
driver spoke his only words of the journey: "We're here."
"Praise to Hallow Ailbe for that!" Dunedin gasped. He jumped out of the wain
before Ljiikljiik could even think about changing his mind. Park followed with
equal alacrity. Still grinning, Ankowaljuu tipped the trunk out after them,
then got out himself. Ljiikljiik sped away.
Only one airwain, presumably the one at Ankowaljuu's beck and call, sat
waiting on the field. Next to a
DC-3 from Park's world, even next to a Ford Trimotor, the machine would have
been unimpressive.
With its square-sectioned body hung from a flat slab of a wing, it rather
reminded him of a scaled-down version of a Trimotor. It had no nose prop,
though, and the steam engines on either side of the wing were far bigger and
bulkier than the power plants a plane of his world would have used.
The pilot opened a cockpit window, stuck out his head, and spat a wad of coca
leaves onto the grass.
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That did nothing to increase Park's confidence in him, but Ankowaljuu seemed
unperturbed. "Hail, Waipaljkoon," he called to the man. "Can we still fly with
another man" he pointed at Dunedin "and this big cursed box?"
Waipaljkoon paused to stick another wad in his cheek. "Is the box much heavier
than a man?" he asked when he was done.
"Not much, no," Ankowaljuu said with a sidelong look at Park, who resolutely
ignored him.
"We'll manage, then," Waipaljkoon said. "One of my boilers has been giving me
a little trouble, but we'll manage."
Hearing that, Park thought hard about mutiny, but found himself helping his
thane manhandle the trunk into the airwain. Monkey-face was chattering
excitedly; Park decided he hadn't picked up enough
Ketjwa to understand what the pilot had said. He did not enlighten him.
Takeoff procedures were of the simplest sort. The airfield did not boast a
control tower. When everyone was aboard and seated, Waipaljkoon started
building steam pressure in his engines. The props began to spin, faster and
faster. After a while, Waipaljkoon released the brake. The airwain bumped over
the itjuu-
grass.Just when Park wondered if it really could get off the ground, it gave
an ungainly leap and lumbered into the air.
Used to the roar of his world's planes, Park found the quiet inside the
cramped cabin eerie, almost as if he weren't flying at all. That was Kuuskoo
flowing by beneath him, though. He wished he had a camera.
"Best you and your thane don your sourstuff masks now, Judge Scoglund,"
Ankowaljuu said, returning to English so Park and Dunedin could not
misunderstand him. "You're lowlanders, and the air will only get thinner as we
climb over the Antiis." He showed the two men from Vinland how to fit the
rubber masks over their noses. "Bethink you to outbreathe through your mouths,
and you'll be fine."
The enriched air felt almost thick in Park's lungs, which had grown used to a
rarer mix. Before long, at [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]