Arabella of Mars(72)
“Assuming your family plantation has not been overrun by the natives.”
Arabella’s eyes stung with tears at the suggestion, but she firmed her jaw and refused them. “That is a risk we would have to take anywhere. But if we land here”—she tapped the site on the map—“we will, at least, find sufficient coal and an owner willing to sell it for a reasonable price.”
She could not, she realized, absolutely guarantee any such thing. But she knew well that Michael could deny his beloved sister nothing.
If he still lived.
Arabella held her breath, filled with fear and doubt, as she watched the captain consider her suggestion. Plainly he was torn—a deep furrow had appeared between his eyes, and his whole demeanor showed how difficult was the decision he faced. Finally his gaze, which had been directed inward, returned to Arabella. “I must … perform some calculations,” he said. “Please leave us alone.”
“Of course, sir.” She nodded and let herself out.
As the hatch closed behind her, she heard the whir and click of Aadim’s gears and the captain’s low, muttered voice.
*
Some hours later, another knock came at Arabella’s cabin door. This time it was the captain himself. “I have consulted with Aadim and my officers,” he said, “and have determined that a landing at your family plantation offers the best hope of success. If you would, please work with Aadim to plot out a course for a landing there. Once that is done, I would appreciate it if you would consult with Mr. Stross upon the specifics of your drying-sheds and coal-stores.” He fixed her with an expression of profound seriousness. “If some method cannot be arranged to fill the envelopes, Diana may well find herself a permanent fixture of your plantation.”
“I understand, sir.”
*
Calculating the sailing order for a planetary landing was a task Arabella had never performed before, and in order to do so she found herself leafing through thick manuals kept stowed behind the stores of aerial charts. As she read, hammering and curses sounded from without the hull as the carpenter and his mates fitted Diana with sand-legs for her landing on the open plain behind the manor house, while the majority of the crew worked to haul out and erect the envelopes.
Landing at Mars, she learned, was usually performed by a local pilot, sent up from Fort Augusta by balloon. As difficult as navigation through the vast empty spaces of the interplanetary atmosphere might be, the last few miles—drifting slowly downward under cooling envelopes while being blown across the face of the planet by fickle surface breezes—were even more so, and the pilot’s unique knowledge of local conditions was invaluable. But with the port closed, as the captain had explained, they could not depend upon the availability of this assistance.
“I do not know if I am capable of this,” she admitted to Aadim in a whisper. Manuals and charts lay open all about the cabin, with detailed maps of the Fort Augusta area unfolded on Aadim’s desk. She moved his wooden finger, which ticked and thrummed slightly with the motions of his clockworks, from Diana’s point of entry to Mars’s planetary atmosphere to the location of Woodthrush Woods. “It is such a short distance,” she said, “but if we get it wrong, by even a few miles, we will be stranded, and perhaps in the middle of a native rebellion.”
She didn’t remember when she’d started talking to Aadim. It was something the captain did sometimes, she knew, especially when performing difficult navigational calculations. He claimed that talking the problem through helped him focus his mind upon the task at hand and not forget any of the levers or settings. But it certainly seemed that he sometimes waited for an answer from the patient, sturdy automaton.
As she moved Aadim’s finger along Diana’s curving path, she noticed that the motion was not smooth as it should be, though she kept her hand upon Aadim’s wooden one as gentle and firm as before. Pausing, she checked that his shoulder joint and follower-cams were properly adjusted and oiled, which they proved to be. But still the pointing finger seemed to resist the path the manuals dictated.
“You’re trying to tell me something,” she said. But the automaton’s green glass eyes only stared back at her, as rigid and impassive as ever.
Again she returned Aadim’s finger to the beginning of its path, the entry point to the planetary atmosphere. But as she moved it gently to that point, she paid careful attention to the slight jerks and tugs the navigator’s wooden hand gave to her own as the gears and mechanisms within his desk ticked and whirred away.
Was there a slight tendency to the southeast?
Closing her eyes, gentling her breath, Arabella gave the automaton’s hand free rein, as though trusting a horse to return to the stable on its own.
The slight tug she felt steadied, pulling gently but firmly in a southeasterly direction. She allowed the finger to drift as it seemed to wish, until with a slight distinct click it came to a trembling halt. A slight nudge in any direction from that point met resistance.
Arabella opened her eyes. Aadim’s finger had come to rest at a node on the chart where three prevailing winds of Mars’s planetary atmosphere came together. From there, the combined wind current would carry Diana directly to Arabella’s family plantation. Assuming, of course, that the charts were accurate, which the manuals had warned might not be the case in all seasons of the year.
She would certainly never have noticed the node if she’d followed the path dictated by the manuals. It was well outside the area authorized for atmospheric entry by all the charts and tables.