Authors: Chris James
Pilot had cut out his burner almost immediately after takeoff, and several minutes later
Blitzen
stabilised at around three hundred feet. Bonappe in
Donner
was still climbing and thereby ran the risk of reaching the prevailing westerlies higher up and being swept on to France.
The gap between the two balloons soon grew to half a mile and even from that distance Pilot could see that
Donner’s
burner was still at full blast, sending the balloon higher still.
“Is that us, or them?” Lavery said.
Pilot followed her line of sight to a large shadow chasing them across the ground.
“Us. Donner’s the smaller one behind.”
“But they’re ahead of us.” In seconds, Jane figured out that it was Bonappe’s greater altitude that placed his shadow behind theirs. “Nevermind. I get it.”
“It’s like orbiting the moon,” Maryburg said to no one in particular. Below them, only occasional sediment-filled depressions relieved the bland sameness of the landscape. Maryburg wasn’t alone in finding the island’s topography oppressive. But, according to their botanist, it wasn’t a scene that would endure for much longer. Citing what had happened on Surtsey, the volcanic island that had emerged off Iceland in 1963, he predicted that Eydos would likewise be green within a year, even without the benefit of fertile volcanic ash. As if to reinforce the theory, the fliers could detect a musty, fungal aroma in the air. Even so, the vision of their silver sliver of an island one day wearing a furry green fleece was difficult to imagine.
For the next two and a half hours, the balloonists talked about a future none could see. But in the valley of the blind, the one-eyed Jack is King, and Lonnie Pilot, alone of all of them, could at least see the corners ahead, even if he were unable as yet to see around them. Jane Lavery, for her part, was beginning to see their rangy, silver-flecked pilot in a brand new light, and she liked what she saw.
Bonappe had timed his run to perfection. From his initial climb to two and a half thousand feet, he had cruised the fifty miles with no further application of heat and was now, through deft use of the deflation port, coming down for a landing barely a mile short of the gently lapping waves of the shallow northeast coast. There was no chance of the wagon reaching them in time for the ground crew to assist
Donner
, but Bonappe was a master of landings and fired the burner with perfect timin
g−
just long enough to arrest the descent without reversing i
t−
and set his basket down with the lightest touch. Within seconds, he was pulling the cord to collapse
Donner’s
canopy.
Half a mile to the south, the wagon pulled by Nirpal Banda and seven other volunteers found itself directly below the descending
Blitzen
. So close were they that the trailing line Pilot had thrown out nearly parted the Indian’s hair. He made a grab for it, but missed. “Drop your traces. Run for the rope,” Banda shouted to his fellow huskies as he sprinted after the elusive line. “Slow down, Lonnie.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Pilot called back from the basket above. “We’ll come down eventually.”
Before a further exchange could be made, the man from Mumbai leapt gazelle-like into the air, grabbed the line with one hand and, while making a half turn in mid-air, threw his other hand around to join it on the rope.
“Hold his legs,” Pilot shouted to the other runners below. He pulled the deflation line to speed their descent, but before anyone could reach Banda’s thrashing legs, a gust of wind kicked in underneath the balloon, pitching it upwards and forwards.
In the confusion, no one saw two crew drop their traces on the third wagon, which was downwind from Pilot’s balloon, position themselves along
Blitzen’s
line of flight and grab hold of the Indian’s legs as he passed them. The sudden braking action nearly pitched Pilot over the side.
Seconds later, with the weight of the three men pulling it down, the basket crashed to the ground, impacting one corner of the compartment and causing Lavery to faint. Pilot was beside her in seconds, caressing her face and gently squeezing her hand. She came to quickly. Pilot watched her eyes dart around the basket and finally land on his hand, which was still holding hers. She clasped it tight and the fear in her face melted away. “That was quite a whallop,” she said.
“Can you stand up?” Pilot raised her to her feet and helped her out of the basket. Four layers of clothing did nothing to dampen the electricity flowing between her body and his hands. He walked her to the wagon and sat down next to her; put his arm around her waist; placed her head on his shoulder; inhaled her hair…
At five o’clock, with the light failing and the caravan having covered ten of the thirty miles back to Nillin, a halt was called for the night. Tents were erected on a suitable sheltered sediment pit and dinner prepared for twenty-four.
Late that night, with the camp sleeping, Pilot left his tent and crept to the third one from the left. She had left her flap unzipped…
Two days later Lonnie Pilot was lying awake in Nillin’s dawning light carrying out a post mortem on his relationship with Dubi Horvat. The physical side of it had been blissful, but the language barrier, though unable to stop her acid rantings, had prevented a deeper connection. Conflicts with outsiders he could handle. He didn’t want to sleep with them. With Jane the bond was all-encompassing, and if he weren’t mistaken this time, promised calmer sailing ahead. The sound of the helicopter’s arrival ten minutes earlier had gone unnoticed. A rap at the door pulled Pilot from his thoughts.
Leidar Dahl poked his head around the door. “Austin Palmer came in with the mail and wants a word with you, Lonnie.” Pulling on a wool jumper and windbreaker, Pilot followed the Norwegian out of the cabin and into the crisp morning air to greet Palmer.
“Lonnie. Good to see you.” They shook hands. “I’ll be flying back in a minute, so I haven’t much time. I’ve got a proposition to make to you.” Before Palmer could begin, Josiah Billy appeared from around the corner.
“We’re ready, Lonnie.”
“Thanks, Josia
h−
I won’t be long. What’s your proposition, Austin?”
“It concerns the Fishing Wars. We’re running a News Briefing Special in light of the latest sinkings and I’d like to have you on as part of the wider debate about over-fishing, stock depletions, pollution of the seas and so on. We’ve got representatives from all the EU countries, plus Iceland and Norway, and we’d like to have you, too.”
“But we don’t fish.”
“Doesn’t matter. I know you’ve got things to say and this would be a great vehicle for you. We’d record in London next Monday for a Tuesday airing. It can only strengthen your posi – “
“The short answer is
no
. I think it would be approaching the problems from the wrong sid
e−
locking the doors of empty stables. The problem wasn’t the bullet in Abraham Lincoln’s head, it was the intent in John Wilkes Booth’s. Until the intent of the world’s fishing industries changes, the problem of continuing stock depletions will worsen.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing you should be out there saying,” Palmer said. “You’ve got the advantage of having no vested interest. You’re independent in the true sense of the word and can be impartial. So, anything
you
say, people will listen to in a different spirit altogether.”
Pilot shrugged. “You’re giving us more credence than we’ve got at the moment, Austin. Do you really believe the world’s going to listen to what people like us think about their fishing feuds or their population problems or their chemical waste? This is a long-term project and we might not be able to even get into first gear for another five or ten years. Until then, we have to be involved by being uninvolved. As soon as an outsider gets caught up in specific issues, it’s impossible for him to be fair to everyone. If we get up on a pulpit now, well short of our critical mass, we’ll become as impotent as all the thousands of voices already out there. They’re fine, saying all the right things, but they’re powerless. It’s a frustrating problem, but the pulpit we’re building will be unlike any that’s gone before. It’ll take as long as it takes.”
“You’ve just torn up the winning lottery ticket,” Palmer said, still trying to change Pilot’s mind.
“Look at it as a rollover,” Pilot answered. “Just think what it’ll be worth in five or ten years’ time.”
As Austin Palmer flew out of Nillin surrounded by empty mail sacks, final preparations were being made for the second of seven planned balloon outings over the island. Since the last trip, the weather had been unfavourable for any useful ballooning, but the day before, perfect conditions and a moderate westerly wind had been guaranteed for forty-eight hours at least. So, wagons had been sent off towards the projected landing site and a draw made for the twelve places aboard the balloons.
This time, all three were to be used. Pilot would fly
Rudolf
, Bonnape would fly
Donner
and Jack Highbell the slightly damaged
Blitzen
.
Pilot changed into his flying clothes, then led Highbell and Bonappe to the balloon pad where the winners of the draw were waiting. The three inflation fans were at maximum blow.
Rudolf
was already three-quarters spherical. The other two balloons were lying on the pad like giant quivering parathas. When the burners were lit to complete the inflation, Pilot took rookie balloonist Highbell aside for a few last-minute instructions.
It was a beautiful sight to behold – three magnificent egg-shaped envelopes, shimmering like satin in the sunlight, their gay colours set off to perfection by the somber grey-green rock all around them. As lift-off approached, the passengers readied themselves beside their respective baskets, which were now nearly upright.
“AU REVOIR,” Bonappe shouted over the blast of Donner’s burners. As he and his four passengers floated away, those on the ground gave a rousing cheer.
A minute later,
Rudolf
took to the air.
The temperature differential in
Blitzen
, whose burner had been at work for much longer, was so great that five extra crew were required to hold her down. The strain on their arms and shoulders as they pushed down on the basket’s rim was visible in their faces.
“EVERYBODY IN,” Highbell shouted above the rush of the gas. “WE’RE TAKING OFF IN TEN SECONDS.” When all Blitzen’s passengers were aboard, he raised his arm to signal.
“What are they waiting for?” Bart Maryburg mumbled. “WHAT TH
E−
” The shocked surprise in Maryburg’s cry was shared by most, but not all, of those present as the strange scene unfolded before them.
Three of Blitzen’s passengers vaulted over the rim to the ground four feet below, closely followed by their pilot, Jack Highbell. Simultaneous with his feet hitting the rock, the ground crew let go of their hold. With nothing left to restrain her, the richly-coloured
Blitzen
flew off like a startled pheasant and was level with
Rudolf
in seconds. As it shot past his own basket, Pilot flicked the switch on his megaphone. “FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS IN THE GREEN RUCKSACK AND YOU’LL BE OKAY.”
Mirko Soldo, cowering on Blitzen’s floor, heard Pilot’s amplified voice under the roar of his burners, but the words didn’t register. He pulled himself up to peer over the edge of the basket, then lowered himself back down again, fearful that any sudden movement might snap the lines attaching his basket to the collar above. The image printed on his mind in that split-second peek made him feel nauseou
s−
Pilot’s balloon, far away below and getting farther; the people scurrying around like beetles on the hide of an elephant; the ever-broadening horizon...
After several minutes, he had calmed down sufficiently to apply himself to the problem at hand. He looked around the baske
t−
at the burners still at full blast; at the sundry dials, tanks and other mechanical details that oppressed him by their unfamiliarity; at the hamper containing the life jackets and inflatable raft; at the rucksack in the corner.
Remembering the disembodied voice and its simple instruction, Soldo pulled the backpack over and began to fumble with the flap. Inside, resting atop a silver foil zip suit, was a plastic wallet containing several typewritten sheets. He pulled them out in a sudden rash of ill-humour and began to read.
‘We
have
worked
out
this
procedure
very
carefully
so
as
to
avoid
your
coming
down
in
the
sea
,
in
remote
mountain
areas
,
forests
,
big
towns
or
cities
.
Follow
our
instructions
to the letter
and
you
will
have
a
safe
landing
. Deviate at your own peril.
All
timings
are
calculated
from
your
time
of
lift
-
off
,
so
please
check
your
watch
now
and
write
down
the
time
.
’