Bram Möller's Arc

Chapter 3 of 63

The lantern on the mast grew from a spark to a steady flame. Bram trimmed the orchid's valves and let the wind push him the last half mile. The envelope creaked. Ice fed on the seams. He needed the mooring before the gasbag stiffened past use. The inn crouched on a shelf of rock, low roof heavy with snow, a single mast bolted to the ridge behind it. Two ground hands stumbled out with hooks and caught his trailing line on the third throw. The gondola scraped stone. Bram killed the orchid. The petals folded. The ship settled and stayed. He climbed down onto ice. His legs were shaking. The owl clicked from the console, then hopped to his shoulder, vents puffing warm against his neck. He walked past the ground hands without speaking and pushed through the inn door. The common room smelled of wet wool and coal. A pot-bellied stove burned in the corner. Six or seven pilots looked up from their cups, then looked back down. He knew what they saw. A courier who had run for shelter. He went to the bar and asked for the weather board. The keeper jerked his chin at a slate nailed by the stove. Bram read it. Wind readings from the last three hours. Nothing from the pass itself. The line marked HOLLOWPASS was blank. "No one's been up?" he asked. "No one's come down," the keeper said. "Whiteout since noon. Two didn't make it back yesterday." Bram stared at the blank line. He could not fly the pass without a read on the wind inside it. Blind flight would tear his patched envelope open in the first hard gust. He needed eyes he did not have. He looked at the owl on his shoulder. Steam curled from its vents. The bird was built for cargo notes and short hops, not storms. Its plating was thin. Its gears would seize in that cold. He unlatched the manifest tube on its leg and emptied it. He pulled a strip of oiled paper from his jacket and clipped it to the ring. Then he carried the owl to the door. "Fly the pass," he said. "Wind and ceiling. Come back." The owl blinked its glass eye. He threw it into the dark. The wings caught, steam trailed, and it climbed toward the ridge. In four beats it was gone. Bram shut the door and leaned against it. The pilots watched him now. He did not look back at them. He counted seconds by the stove. An hour later the door thumped. He opened it. The owl was on the step, one wing bent, plating scored by ice. The paper strip was still clipped to its leg. He unrolled it. Wind readings in a shaking hand. Ceiling. A gap between gusts, two hours wide, starting at dawn. He had his window.