Granite Fields

by George Right

Watch the trailer

What can we govern with our controls?
Just granite fields, birds of ash and crystal balls.
Whereon we went, there is only sky and land,
But when wind comes up, you will not pity us.

Aquarium

The plateau ended abruptly. Throughout many and many miles lasted this sad, flat as a table, gray stone plain scraped out by winds of countless millennia--without a single tree or bush, even without a single scrap of green moss, and only rare cracks, mostly narrow and depthless, broke its eternal monotony at least somehow--and suddenly, as if being unable to bear its own extent in space and time anymore, the plateau plunged upright across all its width from horizon to horizon. Further was nothing--only vertical granite precipice falling downwards to abyss, curling whitish clouds below and indifferent cold blue emptiness. If a person from ancient centuries had appeared here and dared to approach the edge, he probably would have decided that here was the notorious world's end.

However, if he had ventured not just to approach but to lay down on the edge and to look downward, he would have seen something else. Dozen meters below, a long balcony fenced with a graceful metal balustrade clung to the vertical granite wall. That morning two persons stood on the balcony: a slender tall girl in a long dress of red wine color, with a fitting bodice and a wide skirt--retro style was in fashion again in the Terran high society--and a young officer in a black fleet uniform with silver trimmings. The magnificent hair of the girl fell on her shoulders as a dense and heavy wave of dark gold; her gracefully chiseled neck seemed even too fragile for such a load. Big cornflower-blue eyes with long eyelashes, ideally clean opaque skin, straight, only slightly hitched-up nose, accurately outlined mouth which needed no cosmetics--everything in her was faultless as, actually, it always should be with class A genotype. However, the trim lieutenant looked rather good near his companion, in spite of the fact that his parents were much poorer and could afford only class C genetic correction for their son--so he owed his advantages mostly to nature than to high technologies. But the girl was not looking at the officer. Having rested her hands with long slender fingers on a round glossy handrail, she stood semi-turned to the opposite side and observed how a vacuum airship was securing to the latticed mooring framework pushed away from the rock, neatly guided in by propellers.

"... Actually, Ms. Desmond, on this planet there are only two natural zones," the lieutenant was spieling over her ear. "Selva beneath and plateaus above. The latitude doesn't really matter here especially as poles are covered by oceans anyway and all land is concentrated in a continental belt along the equator, within approximate borders at thirty degrees each side... But the main thing is, of course, the greenhouse effect. It levels everything there, beneath--even daily temperature fluctuations in the selva aren't too big though days here, as you probably know, Ms. Desmond, are approximately equal to a Terran month. Selva is indeed a huge greenhouse... such biodiversity," the lieutenant uttered with pleasure the term unrelated to his specialty and thus showing his erudition, "cannot be found even in the Terran jungle--where they still remain... But from our point of view it is a pure hell. Inferno. The daytime temperature overshoots +70 centigrade, plus hundred-per-cent humidity. A human without a space suit, even with the best genotype, won't survive there even several hours. Therefore we have only automatic stations and robots there. Humans on Hephaestus can live only on the plateaus which rise over clouds--and, thus, over the greenhouse effect."

"More exactly--in the plateaus," the girl noticed, showing that she after all was listening to him; however, she still didn't turn her head towards him. "Why all premises of the base are in the thickness of granite, instead of on the surface?"

"The wind," the lieutenant simply answered.

"Wind? A simple wind can impede the technical might of Earthlings?"

"Jet currents, Ms. Desmond," the officer specified. "They constantly blow in the top troposphere. By the way, on the Earth at the corresponding altitude you and me would have already frozen and suffocated to death. But Hephaestus is smaller and at the same time denser--both the planet and its atmosphere... thus both the gradient of temperatures and the density of air streams are bigger. At this latitude the jet currents are mainly east. In the morning--I mean the local morning, near the western terminator--the wind abates, or even turns the opposite direction, but in the evening, at the eastern terminator, it can reach two hundred knots, sometimes even more."

"So that's why nothing grows on plateaus?"

"Yes. Unlike Terran rocks where some sprouts manage to nestle in cracks, here the winds blow away everything. Forget about sprouts! Do you know, Ms. Desmond, where all this plateaus came from? The huge table rocks sticking out above the clouds to approximately the same altitude?"

"You want to say," she said without any special surprise in her voice, still looking at the airship which, at last, reached the magnetic catches, "that it is due to the wind, too?"

"Exactly! The jet currents blowing at this altitude simply cut off everything that was higher."

"The wind blew off granite mountains?" in her voice irony appeared.

"But after all it occurs even on the Earth, Ms. Desmond. Only slower and without such a drastic difference on altitude. On the Earth, the troposphere is higher, so jet currents blow where no mountains reach. By the way, the local granite differs from Terran, too. Some orthodox geologists even claim that it is incorrect to call it granite, but everybody calls... The local one is firmer, denser and heavier. But during hundreds thousands years... you surely know what two hundred knots are, Ms. Desmond?"

"Two hundred fifty nautical miles per hour," the girl answered in a tone of a child who is compelled to recite a rhyme once again.

"Exactly correct. It is, by the way, the speed limit for a pod."

"A pod?" Ms. Desmond asked with her former intonation--rather of a genteel politeness than of a real interest.

"So we call vacuum dirigibles," the lieutenant willingly continued to educate her, having nodded towards the airship which has already stuck to catches and switched its engines off; the propellers still rotated by inertia, but the mooring farm was already folding back, dragging the ship to a huge round mouth opened in the granite wall. "Do you know why, Ms. Desmond?"

"No".

"It is all about their design. You see, nothing can be lighter than vacuum, therefore it is, in some way, an ideal 'filler' for aerostats. But any balloon with vacuum inside has to withstand the external atmospheric pressure. For a long time the weight of walls required for it overcame any benefit, until light and firm enough composites appeared... But even for them, the optimum form to resist the pressure is spherical. While an optimal streamline shape for an airship is ellipsoidal or spindle-shaped. Therefore several spheres with vacuum inside are rowed in the common fairing. Like peas in a pod."

"And they are your main local transport, aren't they?"

"Yes, Ms. Desmond. It is almost the only way of traveling between plateaus. We all here are, actually, islanders. And 'pods' are our ships which ply the air sea. There are also jetcrafts, of course, but they are for the most extreme cases only. They guzzle a lot of fuel which is expensive to produce from local resources. But the electric motors of pods are fed by free solar energy. Whatever else, but the sun is what we have more than enough here, above the clouds. Well, not at night, of course..."

"And nights last half-month here," the girl took up the topic. "Moreover, these winds... you said, an airship can't go against them?" she definitely did not like the slangy "pod."

"Well, in a forced mode it can crawl at a turtle speed... for some time," the lieutenant acknowledged, "but usually they don't do it. Either descend in the clouds where there are no strong winds and fly by a radar, or don't fly at evening at all."

"Your life here is not too cheerful," Ms. Desmond noticed. "I imagine as I would like to fly, say, to Australia, and would be told--'wait several weeks until it dawns!'"

"We fly at night too, on accumulators," the lieutenant objected, "but only at a serious need."

"Yes, yes... and in general, you sit here on bare rocks where there is nothing at all... more precisely, inside them, as in a medieval dungeon..."

"What could be done, Ms. Desmond," the officer shrugged. "Hephaestus maybe not a very hospitable world for Earthlings, but it is the only inhabited planet known to us outside the Solar system. Well, except for Phrygia."

"Oh yes!" the girl sniffed. "I need only Phrygia to cap it all! What's the temperature on its surface-- minus hundred?"

"At night--down to minus hundred forty centigrade. And almost no atmosphere. Life exists there only in the ocean depths, under a kilometer layer of ice. No light, naturally, can get there, so life exists in the very bottom, under a pressure about one thousand atmospheres, due to heat emitting from the mantle..."

"Ugh!" Ms. Desmond cringed. "I just don't understand, what all these flights to such places are for."

"Well, but you flew here," the lieutenant smiled crookedly.

"It was an idea of my friends." The pod disappeared in the huge hatch, and the girl, at last, awarded the young man with a short look. "'Alison, let's fly to stars, Alison, it's cool!' Yeah, what can be cooler!" she was obviously bored by keeping the genteel tone. "To waste such a heap of money just to admire naked stones sticking out of clouds... Well, at least I filmed the airship mooring." The lieutenant didn't see any film-making device, but that didn't surprise him: he knew that it is now in fashion among Terran elite to implant recording equipment directly into eyes and other sensory organs; by playing such record anew, it is possible to recreate completely either own or someone's else earlier experience. "What else is it still possible to look here at? Seems, some picturesque mountains yet remained after all?"

"Yes, the Equatorial Ridge. It was cut off not from top but from sides, making such a sharp-toothed saw which ranges along the equator for several tens of miles. A fragile structure, unlike the plateaus. New pieces break off and fall everytime. But the highest peaks still rise above the pods' ceiling."

"Cabin ceiling?" the girl asked.

"Ceiling, Ms. Desmond," the lieutenant smiled patronizing, "is the maximal altitude at which the aircraft can fly. For aerostats it is defined by air density which, as we know, decreases with altitude. Actually that density defines ceiling for all aircrafts--except for jetcrafts which can achieve an orbit in boosted mode. And a pod, strictly speaking, has two ceilings--static and dynamic. The static one is that maximal altitude at which it can drift with the motors turned off, due to Archimedean force only. The dynamic ceiling is slightly higher: it is top altitude which can be reached at maximal speed with maximal upward elevator deflection, which adds an aerodynamic component to aerostatic lift. I believe, you noticed these control surfaces on the tail?"

"Yes, Rupert," the girl said. At the first moment the lieutenant wanted to answer that his name was Ronald (actually, he repeated "Ms. Desmond" so often hoping that she would eventually response "just Alison"), but he avoided getting into a scrape, having understood in time that she was speaking with someone else. She simply answered a call in her ear implant.

"... here on an observation platform," Ms. Desmond continued. "I saw how you were mooring. No, here's nothing interesting. You should have seen everything yourself when you flew in. Wait for me at the left exit, I'll be right now,"--and she, having finally turned away from the officer, easily ran along the balcony to the left, loudly clinking with her high heels. The man gloomily watched her run. As if having felt his look, for an instant she stopped and turned back.

"By the way, lieutenant," she smiled broadly, "I know what 'ceiling' is. I even know what 'gradient' is. However, you are amusing. The last bore who tried to impress me told me about stock exchange and shares. Probably, he thought that as I am the daughter of the head of the largest investment fund in the Solar system, that stuff should be interesting to me. Bye bye!" she coquettishly winked to him and ran further without looking back any more.

"Bitch," Ronald thought, looking how the wide hem of her dress fluttered on the run. "Beautiful rich pampered doll. I would like to look at her there where there's no access to her daddy's bank accounts. She herself, probably, didn't earn a single cent for all her life... " He, certainly, didn't claim on anything serious, perfectly understanding who she was and who he was--an ordinary junior officer without any contacts and prospects, doomed to vegetation in these space hole, with an annual salary less than Alexander Desmond's five-minutes income--but after all she still might not show it so clearly... He sighed and stared right ahead him, to the blueness of the empty sky surrounding the plateau.

At the left exit from the hangar, a company of five young people was waiting for Alison. Four young men--all tall, well-shaped, broad-shouldered, with showboard faces--though not resembling each other (genotype A, matter of course) and a girl who mismatched the overall picture not only because of her sex. She was rather low, but sturdy and strongly-built, wide-boned, with a face which was rounder than classical canons of beauty ordered but at the same time she had some peculiar, though wildish, charm which wasn't spoiled even by her short "boyish" hairstyle. Her clothing was a total antithesis to as if intended for balls and social functions Alison's vestments: a practical tourist checked shirt with patchpockets (obviously not empty), shorts which left bare her smooth brawny legs, and sports boots with geckonit soles which allowed, due to Van der Waals's forces, to walk even on ceiling.

"Hi everybody!" Alison waved to them, approaching, and began to personally greet each one: "Rupert..." she made for the tallest though not to most broad-shouldered of guys, who had curly nutbrown hair and white skin and blue eyes same as her own, and kissed air in a centimeter from his cheek ("Hello, sis", Rupert responded); "Paul... " (the dark-haired young man with a classical Roman profile, to whom both patrician's toga and legionary armor would fit equally, tried to turn a virtual kiss into a real one, but Alison evaded with a coquettish smile); "Hans "... (the snowwhite-haired Viking inclined his head with dignity); "Miguel..." (the swarthy raven-head, the only one in the company who had moustaches and carefully worked-out bristle on his chin--for that he had to re-activate sleeping genes which are by default turned off by A-correction--ostentatiously opened his arms for a hug, but immediately got the same ostentatious side punch from the sturdy girl); "and this is, I guess, Magda?"

"C'rrection, friendie," objected the new-arrived girl and firmly, like a man, shook Alison's hand. "I'm Gerda."

"Yes, of course," Alison almost avoided flounder, "this is what I..."

"Let you don't pretend that you simply mixed the name, and I won't ask Miguel who's Magda," the new acquaintance smiled broadly.

"Magda is irrelevant already," Miguel murmured, imitating confusion.

"I understand pretty well that I'm not the first girl in your life," Gerda turned to him. "And that doesn't bother me. Actually, there's nothing worth in being someone's first girl. What's more important is to become his last one."

"O-oh!" Rupert drawled with laughter, "you have ambitious plans! Nobody yet managed to keep our Miguel more than half a year."

"Well, why not," Miguel objected straight-faced and raised his eyes to the vaulted ceiling as if trying to recall, "with Louisa, if I remember correct, we were together for whole... "--but he received the second punch from Gerda and broke off.

"Okay," Rupert clapped, resolutely turning to business tone, "the whole team gathered at last, and we can discuss our further plans."

"The Equatorial Ridge," Alison immediately answered. "As I understand, there is nothing else to look at on the whole planet. Not these foolish plateaus to stare at after all."

"Well, in my opinion, plateaus are quite picturesque," Paul disagreed. "Huge stone islands steeply rising up over the clouds..."

"Didn't see them enough still? " Alison wasn't inspired. "Maybe you will also suggest to admire selva? Keep in mind--I hate to put on space suits."

"A human being has nothing to do in selva even in a space suit," Hans noticed. "The local selva is, in fact, such a rotten broth... hot viscous dirt forming as a result of accelerated decay of millions of organisms, from which impassable, densely tangled thickets grow several tens meters up. In these thickets actively creep and gorges each other manifold creatures--worms with teeth, millepedes with claws, acid-spitting snakes and so on. Mostly eyeless ones--visibility there is all the same close to zero: permanent hot fog, and also the sun light, even that which manages to penetrate the clouds, simply doesn't reach the bottom layers of the jungle. Well, also something is flying above... devours the creepers of the top layers... or sometimes vice versa, as there are such creatures there which shoot up poisonous catching nets, like webs but much larger..."

"Thanks, you pleased me so much," Alison nodded. "I won't be able to eat now."

"I just want to say that there are no excursions into selva. Not at any price. It is just physically impossible--in order to pass though several meters, it is necessary first to cut a corridor by a laser, then to pave the road. And all the same you will see nothing. Over the oceans there is nothing to look at, too--only continuous steam."

"That's it," Alison agreed. "I after all don't understand why on earth we dragged ourselves that far. Just to make casual remarks at future parties 'when I was on Hephaestus... ?'"

"On Earth there aren't much people capable to afford such vacation," Paul noticed.

"I have chattered with some locals here. They do not look like billionaires to me."

"I meant, at their own expense, not at the state one."

"And what's, eventually, the difference? There is even no normal tourist service here! On the entire planet--not a single hotel of luxury class, so we have to cabin in the same barracks as locals. There is even no pool in my apartment! Only a standard plastic bathtub. Pla-as-tic," repeated Alison with disgust. "With simple tap water. Neither mineralization, nor aeration, nor even a simplest thermostat. Not to speak of a bed without any massage functions, like in the Stone Age..."

"In the Stone Age it probably would have been a heap of branches on a cave floor," Hans noticed. "At the best--covered by a stinky skin."

"Oh, don't pretend that you don't understand what I mean!"

"And water here has to be pumped several kilometers up from the surface," Hans wasn't appeased. "There are no bodies of water on the plateaus. Therefore for the local personnel, water is strictly limited; it's only we who purchased the right of unlimited use..."

"Well, sis, don't whine," Rupert said conciliatory. "Certainly, the simple and rough life of the frontier has its inconveniences, but imagine what it would be here with all up and running infrastructure. Everywhere--crowds of tourists, moms with kids... ugh," he fastidiously frowned. "We would have, of course, booked the entire hotel to keep them away--but we wouldn't sit indoors all the time, would we? And as soon as you get outside, it begins... all entertainment--according to the standard program scheduled for a month ahead; every stone has a plate screwed on; at the left sits a guide muttering the boned up phrases and on the right stands a security guard watching that none of tourists makes a single step aside from the prescribed route. On the one hand--'for the sake of our safety,' as though we were little kids, on the other hand--for the sake of the precious local ecology. While now we are a law unto ourselves. We may rent a pod from local command and fly where we want, waiting for nobody and asking nobody."

"You already picked up the local slang," Alison frowned. "It is so vulgar!"

"I don't see anything vulgar in the word 'pod,'" noticed Miguel, whose ribald smile testified just the opposite.

To rent a vacuum dirigible appeared to be really easy--at least for the owners of the surnames which have become a synonym of wealth within and beyond the Solar system borders. After a dinner the whole company appeared again in the hangar where the rented airship was already waiting for them. A flight to the Equatorial Ridge in calm morning conditions took about six hours; considering the duration of local days, it was quite possible to postpone the travel until the next Terran-time morning, but Alison wanted to take off as soon as possible and the others didn't object.

"It's so huge after all," Ms. Desmond noticed not without respect, looking close at the rising up roundish side of the airship envelope covered with small scales of photo cells. "From a balcony it seemed smaller."

"This is not the largest yet," responded Rupert in an expert tone. "Just the standard passenger option-- twenty four seats in the cabin, an observation deck aft and two galleries on each side. A cargo ship may be several times bigger. It can carry, for example, a broken jetcraft as an external load..."

"Only twenty four? " Alison said disappointedly as if she personally needed, at least, one hundred.

"It's not the Earth," Paul smiled. "The population of the whole Hephaestus is probably about twenty thousand ..."

"Twelve thousand three hundred," Hans specified. "And yes, usually pods fly half-empty. That's why we rented it so easy."

"By the way, I ordered to remove excess chairs from cabin," Rupert bragged. "It will be spacious enough even to dance. Well, let's go inside!" He the first went to the oval door which opened at his approach.

"Welcome aboard!" heard Alison, stepping in after him, and then she made out a figure in black uniform waiting for them inside.

"Lieutenant? " she was astonished. "What are you doing here? You are what--our guide? Rupert, we after all did not..."

"I am your pilot, Ms. Desmond," Ronald chilly interrupted.

"Pi-i-lot? Isn't all commercial traffic computer-operated?"

"Not on Hephaestus."

"Why?"

"Because people should have a chance to earn for living!" nearly wrenched from lieutenant's mouth, but he only said coldly: "I am certified for piloting passenger aircrafts. But if anything doesn't suit you, address to my commanders."

"Alison..." Rupert turned back to her, probably ready to assure her in the perfect security and to ask her again not to whine.

"Well, I, generally, don't object," she murmured. "A live pilot is so... mm... romantic... isn't it, Paul?" she turned back, giving "the patrician" an arch look .

"Certainly, Allie," the latter answered, putting a hand on her shoulder. This time she didn't try to evade.

"Don't you, by chance, also have live stewardesses?" Miguel popped his head in the hatch.

"One more word, and you'll need a live nurse," responded Gerda.

"Oh, yes! Nurses in white are so sexual!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, pass in the cabin and take your seats," the lieutenant interrupted their tomfooleries. "We depart in five minutes."

"Yes, captain! " Alison saluted, and the whole company, laughing and jostling, proceeded through a narrow entrance to the cabin while Ronald disappeared in the cockpit.

"O-oh!" Paul appreciated, observing the room. Rupert not just "ordered to remove excess chairs." What was quite recently a standard passenger compartment with rows of seats, looking the same either in a monorail train or in an airship or in a space shuttle, now turned into a spacious parlor with a carpet on a floor and freely placed cozy leather chairs and sofas. The leather, of course, was synthetic and the furniture was the most casual, without all this heap of built-in functions which distinguish the luxury class sets--but nothing better could be obtained on this planet anyway. All the same, the changes organized by Rupert were impressive. "When did you have time for this?"

"To make the order and to pay for it? Well, it's a matter of several minutes. And robots, as you see, coped with everything in time."

"Are you sure they were robots? " Alison inquired.

"You don't want to say they even drag the chairs manually here!" Rupert sniffed.

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"I hope, you didn't forget about the bar, too?" Miguel inquired.

"Jammed to the top. Would suffice for a round-the-world travel."

As soon as all took their seats (Paul was still embracing Alison with one arm, while Miguel pulled Gerda, and she flopped on his lap), a melodious tone sounded and, reminding them that they were after all in an aircraft, the annunciators "Fasten seat belts" lit on. It caused a new burst of laughter--naturally, there were no belts on the furniture installed in the cabin.

"Hmm," Hans hemmed, addressing to Rupert, "but are you sure all this is safe? All these chairs and sofas aren't even attached to the floor."

"Come on," Rupert jerked his eyebrow, "we flew already on such a thing this morning. These airships are damned smooth in flight; you can fill a wineglass, and it won't spill out til the end of the journey. We haven't even noticed how we put off, remember?"

"For some reason we still don't put off now. Didn't he say 'five minutes?' We should have been pulled out already."

"Well--five, ten, who cares? Not everyone is such a pedant as you."

"Alas."

At this moment the forward door opened, and Ronald entered the cabin. At first nobody noticed him so he had to raise his voice, blocking conversations and laughter:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am afraid we have an unforeseen problem."

"What now?" six dissatisfied looks turned at once to the lieutenant.

"Just came an urgent message of the astro-weather service. A large solar flare."

"Is it dangerous?" Alison turned pale.

"For people, no. But there will be a strong magnetic storm. Strong and long. Such things happen here time to time."

"So what?" Ms. Desmond exactingly asked.

"Communication loss and failures of navigation equipment are possible."

"You want to say we cannot fly?!" Alison aggressively exclaimed. "Because of some crummy flash?"

"To the Equatorial Ridge, no. Forbidden by FAR."

"Who is this F.A.R. and why he thinks he may order us?!"

"FAR are Federal Aviation Regulations," explained Paul who was competent in the subject. The pilot shortly nodded and continued:

"If you want, we can fly around our plateau. It'll take approximately an hour and a half. We can remain airborne longer, of course, but without leaving Romeo zone."

"Oh, lieutenant, it is so kind of you! We still didn't admire your cobblestone enough, for sure!"

"How long do usually such storms last? " Rupert interrupted her sarcasm.

"It varies," Ronald shrugged his shoulders. "Not less than two or three Terran days. Maybe more if the sun doesn't calm down. Once after such a flash the repeated phenomena occurred for nearly a month."

"A month, did you hear it?!" there was no limit to Alison's indignation. "Listen here, lieutenant: hence you are a real pilot, prove it in practice. You were paid for bringing us to the Ridge--so do it. And leave obeying all regulations to computers."

"Indeed," Paul backed her up. "Physically this flash doesn't threaten us. Sky clear, visibility unlimited... however, after all it's always so over the clouds... even if anything happens, won't you really be able to orient by sun? I did it in a scout camp when I wasn't even ten yet. As for communication... why should we bother? Personally I don't need any calls before returning to Earth."

"But I may not," the pilot objected.

"We honestly paid you and we want to get what we paid for," Miguel resolutely interposed. "To hell with FAR! Right, darling?"

"In the 20th century Charles Lindberg flew over the ocean alone, having neither radio nor any electronic instruments," Gerda demonstrated her knowledge. "On a shaky small single-engine plane incomparable to your pod."

"I will face, at the best, a serious penalty," the lieutenant shook his head. "Or even will be grounded at all."

"But who will know?" Rupert said.

"What do you mean?"

"We chartered this airship for our private purposes. We aren't obliged to report anybody where and why we fly. And you put yourself under our orders. You may conceive that for the period of flight we redeemed you from your command, and you are answerable to us, not to them."

"But... it is not allowed..."

"Drop it, lieutenant," Rupert frowned, "who will investigate? Your command? Is it necessary to them? Especially after that money they have received..."

"Stop," interrupted Hans. "I don't like this idea, too. After all, rules exist not without a reason."

"You want to vegetate a month more on this foolish rock?" Alison attacked him.

"No, I don't. But I also don't want an excess risk."

"And who wants it? Well, maybe only Miguel, as he is the known fan of adventures," grinned Rupert. "Lieutenant, tell us honestly: if as a result of this storm everything which can fail really fails, won't you indeed be able to deliver us forth and back?"

"Well... generally, of course, I will be able. That's a usual visual flight; it is learned even earlier than flying by instruments... of course, land is not visible here, but the plateaus are noticeable from many miles, plus, certainly, the sun almost doesn't move in the sky during a flight... On Earth there could be doubts, but not here."

"You said it. So I don't understand why we argue. Let's go."

"Come on, Charles!" now Alison's blue eyes looked at the officer not derisively but pleading. And, by the way, she somehow managed to slip out of Paul's arm.

"My name is Ronald," the lieutenant murmured. And, though he couldn't misunderstand how primitive was this flattery, a comparison with the great pilot of the past was still pleasant. Especially pronounced by this voice... The voice of the rich pampered bitch, yes. Whom he now can easily spoil the entire pleasure, proving that all her money mean nothing. And to do this, he just has to follow the regulations...

"I see that you can't be fastened," he muttered, "but at least don't stand up until we move away from the wall. Near a plateau, it can be a bit bumpy because of bending-around air streams."

"I go to air myself," said Alison, letting Paul know that he shouldn't accompany her, and, having risen from a sofa, walked towards the tail. Paul, with a half-empty wineglass in his hand, silently admired her graceful gait.

She couldn't be aired in literal sense, of course--on the airship gaining at two hundred knots there were no open observation decks, and there was no need for them, as climate control in the cabin worked faultlessly. But her words also weren't an euphemism for visiting a toilet. She just wanted to rest from the noisy company, and especially from Paul who sometimes became too persuasive. Alison left the cabin (the door automatically closed behind her), passed by the bar, then by the toilet booths, going to the transparent stern--but at this moment the door of the right booth opened, letting out Gerda. Alison, certainly, delicately pretended that she didn't notice a person coming out of such a place, but she immediately heard from behind: "Friendie, may I 'xchange a few words with you?"

She turned back, having instantly pulled a hospitable smile on her face:

"Certainly, Gerda."

They came to the stern observation deck. Here only the floor and the ceiling (which was the bottom part of the envelope) were opaque; walls, on all their height made of colorless quasiglass, created almost an ideal illusion of open space--it was impossible to notice them unless by approaching very closely. So an impressionable person with a fear of heights, standing at the edge of the deck and looking at the continuous sea of white curling clouds below, could probably feel discomfort. But this was obviously not applicable to Gerda.

"You see, I'm new in your company," she got straight to the point, "still don't orientate well enough. And it's sometimes awkwardly to ask fellas. Unless Miguel, but he always laughs the matter off. Good that a girl appeared at last."

"I am glad to help you, Gerda," Alison smiled again. "So what do you want to know?"

"Well... who's who here, what are the relations 'tween each other, maybe some rules I don't know... you got it. Paul, for example--who's he?"

"The grandson of the director general of 'Solar Genetics.'"

"No, I'm not about that... I didn't understand, he's your boyfriend?"

"He wants to think so," Ms. Desmond laughed. "And I allow him time to time to hope for it. But why are you asking? Claim to him?"

"No, Miguel's enough for me," Gerda smiled. "He's, of course, a slacker, but in his heart he's good. And not at all such a prurient macho as he pretends to seem."

Alison diplomatically hemmed.

"I understand what you mean," Gerda weren't confused. "There were lots of girls like me in your company already, huh?"

"Like you--no," Alison assured her. It was the truth. Usually Miguel nevertheless found for himself somebody among equals. Well, he, of course, could pick up for a night or two a waitress or a dancer --but he didn't bring waitresses and dancers in the decent society.

"So you and Paul, well... had something?"

"If you mean sex, only virtu[future slang meaning virtual reality, both noun and adj.]," answered Alison without a slightest confusion. "But he still doesn't lose hope for a real. I cannot understand, why it is necessary for them. Virtu gives the same pleasure, or even stronger if to adjust the equalizer right way--and at the same time it is much purer! In all meanings. But no, boys for some reason by all means want to possess you physically. After all, despite all progress, they still remain animals," Ms. Desmond sighed. "But why are you still asking about Paul--did he make a pass at you?"

"No, I just..."

"If he tries, keep in mind--it is not serious. It is only to make me jealous. Though more likely he will get that from Miguel," Alison sniffed.

"And Rupert?" Gerda hastened to change the subject. "As I understood, he's your brother. But why do you have different last names?"

"Actually, he is my cousin. But we really grew as a brother and a sister. My father adopted him when Rupert's parents perished."

"Perished?" Gerda was surprised.

"You thought that never happens with rich ones? They were on Miranda. The most magnificent of cruise spaceships..."

"I watched about it[they use "watch" the same way we use "read"]," nodded Gerda. "The most terrible accident in the history of passenger fleet."

"And, the main thing, those who arranged that explosion were never found. There were too many powerful people onboard. And such people have the corresponding enemies. So rich have their own problems... "Alison forcedly smiled. "Rupert was seven years old then. He was lucky that his parents wanted to rest from him and left him at home."

"Yeah, a sad story," Gerda nodded sympathetically. "Rupert has no girl, right? And Hans too. They both mostly converse with each other. Aren't they, by any chance... well, you know..."

"No," Alison burst out laughing; Gerda's confusion amused her even more than her lack of information. "Gene correction of class A excludes homosexuality. They are just friends since their childhood. Rupert has a bride, but... it will be a purely dynastic marriage. And our Hans is not interested in such matters at all. Neither with girls, nor with boys. He is, supposedly, above it."

"You are not very fond of him," noticed Gerda.

"Well... he is a bore," Alison simply said. "A clever, certainly. But--computers are clever, too..."

"Hard to please you, friendie," Gerda laughed. "Now animals, then computers..."

"By the way, as you ask for my advices--don't call me 'friendie.' This Martian slang is vulgar. Especially as we got acquainted only this morning."

"But," Gerda forcedly smiled, "how then to call you? 'Ms. Desmond?'"

"Just Alison," old friends often called her "Allie", but, certainly, such honor should be yet deserved. "And one more. As you are with us now, you should dress more stylishly. Not like a girl scout in a summer camp."

"But..." said Gerda even more embarrassedly, "we are not on a cer'monial occasion after all? We just travel for our own pleasure!"

"All the same. People of our range should always maintain their reputation."

"But not indeed to climb on mountains in high heels! By the way, I hate them."

"Mountains?"

"High heels! Mountains I do like. I, by the way, ascended to Olympus," bragged Gerda.

"What Olympus?"

"Martian, of course. The highest mountain in the Solar system."

"And so low-sloped that it is possible to ride there on a horse," Rupert's voice sounded behind them. "If, of course, to dress a horse in a space suit."

"The most part of the cone--yes, but not the top! " hotly objected Gerda, turning around. "And by the way, have you ever tried mountaineering in a space suit?"

"Nobody doubts your sporting achievements," Rupert smiled broadly. "But they'll hardly be necessary for you here. It is impossible to land on the Equatorial Ridge; we will simply look at it from the airship."

"I know; Miguel told me... All right, I'll go check on him--he's, probably, already missing me."

"Oh, yes. He sinks his melancholy in beer--finishing the third can already. If you don't hurry, all of us are threatened to die of thirst!"

"So, what do you think of her?" Rupert inquired when the door closed behind Gerda.

"Oh, quite a charming little thing," Alison laughed. "Such a... childish spontaneity... Where did Miguel pick her up?"

"Somewhere on Mars."

"One can see. And what happened to Magda?"

"I don't know. They somehow suddenly squabbled. He presented Gerda to us right before our departure."

"Seems, he wanted to avoid flying alone at any cost... I suppose, her surname will all the same tell me nothing? Well, what is at least her class of correction?" generally it was considered an indecent question, but Alison didn't doubt that Miguel have already shared it with friends.

"None."

"How could it be?" Alison swung opened her big eyes even wider. "Where was she born--in a ditch? There are charitable programs allowing to make class D correction even to children of the poor..."

"Well, actually, she is not such poor," Rupert objected. "Her mother is a quite noticeable figure in Martian business... though you, of course, understand what all Martian business is."

"Oh yes," Ms. Desmond contemptuously frowned. "But, I suppose, even a Martian businesswoman could scrape up for class B for her daughter."

"Her father was against it," Rupert explained. "He was one of those religious fanatics who reject any intervention in the genotype. Eventually his wife ran away from him... ran as far as Mars, because such public don't accept divorces, too. But the girl was already in her sixth year, so..."

"I see... So, it turns out--she is not fixed at all? She even has," Alison involuntarily lowered her voice, "periods?"

"Well... looks like she does."

"But it is... so... " Ms. Desmond couldn't constrain a fastidious grimace, "disgusting!"

"Well, so it goes. She cannot be blamed for being born this way."

"But to drag such thing in our company! Miguel after all overstepped the mark in his play of brutality. We what--must smell her egestas?!"

"Actually nothing is so terrible," Rupert smiled. "There are hygienic means for people like her. After all, billions of women lived this way for centuries... including queens, princesses and even the first female president of the World Bank."

"Today since morning everyone tries to dampen my appetite," Alison complained.

At the stern Paul appeared. He went out not from of the cabin but from the left lateral gallery.

"The Ridge is already in sight ahead," he reported. "Let's go, I'll show you--from here it is not visible yet."

"We'll have more than enough time to look at it," Rupert lazily responded. "Half hundred miles to fly along it."

"I want to film everything, and the view from afar, too!" Alison objected and followed Paul.

At that moment, however, the Ridge was visible yet only as a gray dash vertically thrust in the white horizon; nearly half an hour passed until it spread along the port in all its magnificence.

The first peaks lay deep below, protruding from the cloudy mess with their tips only, but the Ridge gradually became higher. The pod, following the will of its pilot, gained altitude, too; thanks to the low loading--only six passengers without luggage, while, however, with furniture heavier than the standard seats--it could climb over its usual static ceiling, but, nevertheless, the highest of stone apexes still pierced the sky much above the airship's course. Passengers, lined up on the left gallery, admired the view.

Rupert was right--it was impossible to land on the Ridge, and nobody ever tried to do it. There just wasn't a single spot which a human being could step on. The peaks which have been cut off from sides, sometimes almost to knife-like sharpness of their front and rear edges, seemed now the ruins of a horrific Gothic cathedral erected by the mad architect, then chipped swords of prostrated titans which were still threatening to heaven, then fangs, horns and the back crest of a giant dead dragon, and even, indeed, simply a large-teethed saw increased a million times. Near the most picturesque places the pilot reduced speed, sometimes even braked, reversing the pitch of propellers' blades, and the airship slowly and stately floated by a steep granite teeth of unbelievable height, which, as it seemed, by its very existence challenged the gravity. However, judging by wide gaps with chippy edges appearing here and there, the gravity periodically took the challenge.

Alison twisted her head, striving to shoot more scenes; she stood the most close to the nose and periodically shouted to the pilot--who heard her through open doors of gallery and the cockpit--to change altitude or speed or even to make a new approach, in order to provide her the necessary perspective. Gerda took pictures, too, but, for the lack of an eye implant, she used a camera of her pocket computer. The others generally just lazily watched, knowing that if they wanted to enjoy the panorama later, they always would be able to buy a professionally made interactive 3D-movie. Hans thereat frowned discontentedly when due to Alison's whims the pod dangled on one place for too long. At last he lost his patience:

"Listen, do you know how far this Ridge still stretches? If we keep twiddling around every granite splinter..."

"You hurry somewhere so strong? " Alison gave him a look intended to snub males.

"I just don't like to waste time."

"Oh-oh, poor little Hans! The busiest man outside of the Solar system! Should I remind how in the Alps I nearly frostbit my nose waiting until you ski enough?"

"Mountain skiing is quite another matter," Hans objected. "No movies can replace doing it yourself. And, by the way, you couldn't frostbite anything. First, you were in a thermal regulated suit, second, with our genotype..."

"Hans!" Alison expressively squinted her eyes towards Gerda. To mention directly the genetic superiority in the presence of those who didn't have it was considered an inexcusable tactlessness for a a socialite.

"And in general, nobody forced you to go there if you don't like to ski," Hans finished.

"And did anybody force you to go here?"

"I have nothing against our current journey. I only suggest not to turn it into infinite video session. Especially as you are far not a professional cameraman anyway."

Alison indignantly pumped air into her lungs, but here they were interrupted by Rupert:

"Guys, don't quarrel. Look better right there," he pointed forward and up.

The view opened before them was really remarkable. In a solid stone wall rising over the airship, gaped a high and narrow hole, similar in its shape to a vertical eye--the pass through the Ridge pierced by weathering. It was more than one hundred meters in height, though horizontally in its widest place it didn't reach even thirty meters from edge to edge. However, the gap between these edges wasn't continuous: in its middle a rock pillar tapered upwards like a huge bayonet of an ancient rifle. Its height reached about two thirds of the height of the hole. Over this "bayonet," like a stalactite over a stalagmite, its overturned resemblance hung; however, it was much shorter. Unlike stalactites and stalagmites which gradually grow towards each other to finally unite in a stalagnate, these columns had already been a single whole formerly, until erosion destroyed the middle part which connected them--and now, of course, it continued to corrode them further.

"Oh!" joyfully exclaimed Alison. "This is what I definitely must shoot from all angles."

The pod was already gaining altitude, but a simple ascend, apparently, didn't satisfy Ms. Desmond, and she resolutely clattered her heels to the cockpit.

Ronald sat in his chair with a high back; a thin wire of neurointerface reached from a head restraint to a socket in his temple usually hidden by hair. When safety of the ship and the passengers is on stake, old good optical fiber is still more reliable than any wireless technologies; Alison, however, frowned for an instant behind his back--in her opinion, a wire sticking out of a human's head looked unaesthetic. Despite the neurointerface, however, if front of the pilot there still was a vertical control panel with several round needle indicators as if removed from an airship three hundred years old, and below it there also were a yoke and engines control levers: emergency backup for extremely improbable cases of power loss or inability of direct connection to pilot's nervous system. Now, however, Ronald's hands rested on armrests instead of levers, and he was looking at the Ridge behind the transparent walls of the cockpit, not at the unnecessary dials; the brain of the human and the control systems of the airship formed a unified whole, and the pilot operated the massive and at the same time weightless machine as easily and naturally as his own body.

"Lieutenant," Alison declared resolutely, "do you see this arch? We must fly there."

"Climbing already, Ms. Desmond," Ronald nodded. "However, even with our low loading, aerostatic lift alone won't be enough for reaching such altitude, so make your choice: to pass by it slightly below at a low speed, or at its level or even slightly above, but at high speed."

"No, you didn't understand me. I don't mean 'by.' We should fly through it."

The lieutenant turned to her together with his chair. A single look at her face was enough for the unasked question "Are you kidding?" to remain unasked.

"It will be one of my best clips," the girl pensively said, looking over the head of the pilot. "For the sake of this, perhaps, it was indeed worth to fly to your Hephaestus."

"This is out of the question, Ms. Desmond," Ronald firmly shook his head. "Such flat-hatting is strictly forbidden."

"Lieutenant," Alison's beautiful face screwed up as if she bit a very sour berry, "do you ever know any other words except for 'forbidden' and 'not allowed?' It was forbidden to fly here, too--nevertheless, we are here."

"And, by the way, radios don't work just as I warned. The storm is in full play."

"That's only wonderful. So, what happens onboard, stays onboard," she modified the old Vegas slogan.

"It's not the same," patiently explained the pilot. "Maybe, prohibiting flights away from a plateau zone during a magnetic storm is really an excessive precaution, but that thing you want now... Do you realize, what our dimensions are--and what the width of this crack is?"

"I do. I have a good eye." (Any owner of genotype A has.) "We will be able to pass both between the top and bottom teeth and alongside of the bottom one. The clearance there is even bigger than the diameter of hangar entrance."

"Into a hangar we are dragged by a mooring farm."

"Yes, but at first you dock to it."

"Outside. Being not limited in time and space for maneuver. And in a hole like this there is no room for maneuvering. Moreover, I told you already that it is higher than our static ceiling. Means, it's possible to slip through it only at high speed. A slight mistake in approach planning--and there will be no time either to correct the course or to brake. No, it's an absolutely mad idea."

"Paul once gave me a ride on a jet under Golden Gate Bridge," said Alison. "On a jet! Its speed is twice higher than of your... 'pod,'" she put plenty of contempt in the last word. "Then, however, there was a little scandal--his license was suspended for three months..."

"And mine will be, even at the best..."

"But nobody will know! This is not the Earth! Or... " Alison narrowed her eyes, "or they will? It is still not too late to inform your command or whomever else that you went out to this flight violating the regulations. So, as you started disobeying your FAR, you have no choice but go all the way."

"I can't believe it!" Ronald exhaled angrily, having realized only now, what trap he forced himself into.

Alison felt that she went too far, and stepped closer to him.

"Relax, lieutenant, I was just kidding. Could you really believe that I was going to report on you?" her long slender fingers laid on his shoulder, and ideal (class A, subclass F1!) hemispheres of her breasts, tightly fitted by thin dark red fabric, appeared just in front of the pilot's face. "And don't think, please, that I have a death wish. But after all you are actually able to do it, aren't you? I feel that you are."

"Well..." he murmured, "purely theoretically, such maneuver is, of course, possible... and... " He nearly confessed that, flying by this place before, he himself thought at times that it would be interesting to try it--especially when he flew north or south bound, having to go about the Ridge. Certainly, it was only a theoretical thought...

"And then, what is this your FAR--the Holy Writ? Does it say 'Commandment so-and-so: Thou shalt not fly through an arch of the Equatorial Ridge on a planet Hephaestus?'"

"It says 'no aircraft may be operated in hazardous proximity with moving and unmoving objects,'" Ronald forced himself to tear his eyes away from her breasts and looked above. Now he saw her full half-open lips and the imploring look of her cornflower-blue eyes.

"And what does 'hazardous proximity' mean? Is there an exact definition?" cooed Alison.

"The exact one--no, because in depends on many factors... relative speeds, the wind, the loading... the form of, mm, the body..."

"And the skill of the pilot, isn't that, Ron?"

"Whore," the lieutenant helplessly thought, feeling how her soft fingers were touching his cheek.

"Allie, what are you whispering about with our pilot?"

In a quick and easy movement Alison slipped apart. At the next instant she was already looking with bright eyes at Paul who was standing in the cockpit doorway.

"Nothing," she said with emphasized indifference while her sly smile contradicted the tone of her words, "Ronald just explained me what 'hazardous proximity' is."

"Already 'Ronald?'" Paul raised his eyebrow.

"Are you what--jealous?" Alison astonished very sincerely.

Paul didn't reward her with an answer; instead, he addressed to the pilot in a dissatisfied tone:

"Lieutenant, why are we turning? My girlfriend got some mad idea again?"

"She wants to fly through the Ridge via the arch," Ronald honestly recognized, continuing to change course. "A through aperture which we just passed by."

"Hmm! An interesting thought. To tell the truth, it flashed in my mind, too. But only," skepticism sharply amplified in Paul's voice, "are you sure that you can make it?"

Ronald felt that he simply physically could not answer "No."

"In principle, it isn't too difficult," he said. "Though it is against the regulations."

"If you feel a slightest uncertainty, then, of course, you shouldn't risk. I think, I could make it myself. I am certified to pilot thirteen types of flying vehicles, including air, space, stratospheric and aerospace crafts."

"Airships, too?" Ronald didn't hide a poison in his voice.

"No, in the Solar system they are almost not used, but, I think, there is nothing too difficult in it, with my experience. Several rounds to feel the machine, and..."

"No way, that is absolutely excluded. You don't know what you are speaking about."

"And you," Paul darkened, and threat sounded in his voice, "you don't know, whom you are speaking to."

"Paul! Do you want to spoil to me the whole adventure? Allow the lieutenant to do his work," now her eyes looked imploringly at "the patrician," and continuation could be clearly read in them: "Could you really think that I might want this blockhead in uniform even for a second? He is simply a cabbie. Let him soothe his vanity and give us an entertainment."

"What an abnormal zone is in the cockpit? " this time on the threshold Rupert appeared. "Everyone goes in and nobody comes back."

Alison let him into her plans, now presenting them as if it were almost a sole initiative of the lieutenant.

"Hmm..." Rupert drawled, looking how the arch was moving into position straight ahead and above the course. From here, from a starting point of the approach, it seemed a tiny chink through which it would be difficult to fly even for a bird, let alone for an airship. Besides it was still necessary to gain altitude, while now the pod started accelerating with its nose pointed to the granite wall. "Is this safe?"

"Quite safe," Ronald confidently confirmed, adding nothing already about the regulations. "But, please, don't distract me while I carry out the maneuver."

"Well, watch out, lieutenant," smiled Rupert, "if we crash--no tips."

The face of the officer didn't show any pleasure at all about this joke.

"Okay," Rupert said, "let's go indeed and not disturb the pilot."

"Should I leave, too? " Alison radiantly smiled.

"It is desirable," Ronald firmly answered.

"Alright. Only tell me where we will pass--to the left of the central tooth, to the right or over it? I want to take the optimum position for shooting."

At the beginning of approach the lieutenant himself didn't know that precisely, going to correct the course at closer point, but he was demanded an immediate answer, and in a confident tone he stated: "To the right."

The three went out to the left gallery, having nearly collided with the other three in the doorway.

"What's going on?" Hans exclaimed. "Where does he fly? He is what--going to ram the wall?!"

Rupert explained. Gerda and Miguel, as fans of adventures, accepted the idea with delight, but Hans looked like he didn't believe his ears:

"You all went crazy? We will crash!"

"The pilot says that it is absolutely safe," Rupert objected. "We should trust professionals. After all, he is not a suicide himself."

"And if you are scared, Hans," Alison added, "screw up your eyes. I will tell you when you may open them."

"Damn, that's outrageous!" Hans resolutely stepped towards the cockpit, but the others blocked his way. "I'll tell him to turn away immediately!"

"Well, Hans, don't be such a pest," Miguel frowned. "We flew here to disport or what? Relax and enjoy. Eventually, we have five pro and only one contra. Including the pilot, even six. We have democracy or what?"

"I have right of veto," "the Viking" bellowed, making a new attempt to enter the cockpit, but they again didn't allow him to pass.

"I am afraid, it's too late already, Hans," said Rupert in an apologizing tone. "The pilot won't have enough time to decelerate. So to distract him now is not the best idea."

Hans looked forward, estimating the speed and the distance to the Ridge--and had to agree.

The arch was rapidly approaching. The airship, accelerating, raised the nose, but its vector of speed didn't coincide with its longitudinal axis neither horizontally, nor vertically, and at first it seemed that the airship will smash into the wall somewhere very away from the pass. However, increasing speed increased the lift--created not only by tail elevators, but also by the flat belly of the wide gondola--so the altitude also began to increase quicker, as if hurrying to make up for lost time. It became at the same time noticeable that the pilot had to make quite essential wind correction; till this moment the passengers didn't suspect at all about the wind outside.

The hole was already very close, but it still seemed devilishly narrow. It was now distinctly visible how little space it had for passing of such a large-size vessel: both atop and beneath the distance between the central teeth and the right edge was too little (however, to the left it was even less, so here Ronald happened to be right), and only closer to the center the gap looked more or less encouraging while its vastly chipped edges still raised doubts. The pass between the top and bottom "bayonets" was, of course, the broadest one, but here the fear was caused by the vertical clearance, and also flying there required gaining even more altitude, which was probably impossible in the time remaining. Though passengers' nervous systems were not connected to the pod instruments, they, it seemed, physically felt the impressive size of the airship. Even Alison wasn't sure any more that her idea was so good. But it was already too late to try to turn back.

Practically no distance remained to the aperture when the pod suddenly turned to the right, towards the wall. Alison and someone of the men scaredly screamed. But at the instant when the collision seemed already inevitable, the airship wagged its control surfaces like a big fish--its tail, and its nose smoothly, but quickly moved to the left, so that the people on the gallery hardly kept standing. The sharp edge of the rock flew in just a couple of meters from the right gallery, almost rubbing the pod's envelope in its widest part. And meanwhile from the left the huge granite edge of the bottom "bayonet" rapidly approached; it seemed to be just about to tear off the whole portside like a peel from a potato. One more desperate wave of rudders, a high-pitched sound of the electric motors howling on their very limit--and the airship, having once again changed its direction, slipped out from the stone mouth to the other side of the Ridge; the sharp edge of the "bayonet" seemed to hack right behind the tail, having only slightly missed its prey (though actually, of course, the stone bulk remained motionless--it was the airship which sharply moved aside).

"Wow, that was cool!" exhaled Alison, having forgotten for an instant about her refined manners; only now she understood that for the last forty seconds she was not breathing. "Hurray for our pilot!"

All other, including even Paul and Hans, loudly hurrayed, venting adrenaline, and then, having ascertained that the pod continued moving safely away from the Ridge, piled to the cockpit.

Ronald accepted praises and congratulations, presenting an indifferent and indulgent look.

"Can you tell me, lieutenant," Alison again called him by a rank, but now she pronounced it in such a tone as if it were, at least, a count title of old times when the high finance hadn't yet forced out the nobility, "this one..." she represented a waving movement by her hand, "was it necessary? Or you did it, so to say, for the dramatic effect?"

"Wind," the lieutenant explained. "With no wind, we would have easily passed straight, perpendicular to the Ridge. But I had to turn the nose into the wind to keep on course, and this way, partly sideways, we could not pass. It was necessary to maneuver and corkscrew, letting the wind to move us back on a course at the time of alignment, but not to strike us against the central pillar."

"But where the wind appeared from?" Alison was surprised. "That's far not evening yet--I mean, not the local one. " (In a Terran way-- more precisely, by the Romeo plateau time--it was exactly pretty late evening.)

"If it were evening now, an attempt to fly there would be a guaranteed suicide," the pilot grinned. "Currently the wind is still low."

"Oh really, low," Ms. Desmond sighed. "To tell the truth, for a instant I thought we would not pass."

"Me too," mentally said the lieutenant. During two infinitely long seconds he was sure that they were gone. But, while his consciousness shrank in horror waiting for the blow, his reflexes worked out by incalculable hours of trainings continued to operate rudders and motors--and, as it became clear now, did everything faultlessly. However, he didn't give out these thoughts.

"... the most tremendous impression in my life," Alison continued to spiel. "Even then, under Golden Gate Bridge..."

"You'd better check your recording," Hans sneered. "Maybe, at the midpoint it was you who screwed up eyes with fear?"

Alison didn't think about this danger. She didn't remember herself doing this, but could she really trust her memory about these seconds? So she closed her eyes and gave a mental order to her implants to display the record on her retina.

Fortunately, she found out that she has not blinked and has shot the culmination scene in all details. But after the first wave of pleasure, she still felt that she was not quite satisfied. Yes, the flight alongside the "bayonet" was recorded rather good, but nevertheless it was not the most advantageous perspective-- especially considering that the keen top remained hidden by the airship body... She peevishly looked towards the Ridge (the pod has already turned along it, continuing to descend smoothly to its static ceiling), and the faultless skin of her forehead was cut by one more wrinkle of discontent.

"It comes out, we will fly further in the shade?"

"Yes," the lieutenant nodded, "at least, until we pass by the highest part of the Ridge."

"But I don't want to stay on the shady side! The rocks shined by the sun are much more picturesque!"

"But you aspired to this side so much," Ronald dared to grin.

"I did, but... now I aspire back. And also, the perspective for shooting will be much better if this time we pass through precisely over the tip of the bottom tooth."

"What?!" Ronald's affected indulgent tranquility disappeared in trice. "You want... again?!"

"Allie," Rupert softly said, "in my opinion, it's not the best idea."

Paul has actually the same opinion, despite of his own feats (the clearance under the bridge was much bigger), but for nothing in the world he would admit it, exposing himself to her as a coward. As for Hans, he, seemingly, was simply struck dump with such impudence.

"But what's wrong?" Alison innocently flapped her long eyelashes. "Our pilot already proved his great skills. And this time the task is much simpler. If we pass between the teeth, the clearance on width will be three times more..."

"Well, not exactly three," Ronald objected, but Alison didn't listen:

"... on height, of course, it is less, but what's the matter? After all, the main complexity comes from the wind, but it will not move us vertically!"

"That's true," the lieutenant agreed. "But to pass there, we should climb higher, so we would have to do it at a higher speed."

"But we are after all able do it?"

"We are, of course... but..."

"But to slip through a small gap between two granite spikes at a high speed is an absolutely idiotic risk," Hans finished for him. "And, I suppose, there is nothing more to discuss."

"Your mountain skiing is way more dangerous!" Alison exclaimed.

"It depends on how to ski," Hans objected judiciously. "I would definitely never try to rush between two trees standing one meter from each other."

"We already did it," Ms. Desmond waved him off, "and now it is necessary only to... Well, pleeease, Hans!" she suddenly changed her tone. "Let's have a deal: you won't prevent me to fulfill my wish, and I will fulfill yours?"

"Which one?" "the Viking" inquired.

"Any!" Alison feelingly assured him, but, having caught a savage look of Paul, specified: "Within limits of reasonable." However, all in their company knew that Hans' wish won't include sex, though Paul actually didn't fully believe in Hans' asexuality--as well as in the existence of asexuals in general. He couldn't deny the fact that there are people who for some reasons incomprehensible for him abstain from any sex, even the virtual one via neurointerface--but he was sure that at the back of their mind they want 'the same, as all others.' And, like everyone who always judges the others basing on himself, he couldn't be brought round by anything.

"Ghm," Ronald suddenly gave voice, "actually I know how to make it safely."

"So how?" Rupert inquired.

"To pass exactly between the teeth is, of course, beautiful. But, as in this case we'll really have a room for a horizontal maneuver, in case of slightest doubts I will be able to turn and pass left or right of the gap between the teeth. At that altitude there it is enough space there on both dimensions."

"Well, perhaps you are right," Rupert agreed. "Hans, in my opinion, it's a quite reasonable plan. And the Ridge is indeed more picturesque from the sunny side."

Miguel also broke in with a demand "not to vex," and Hans unwillingly agreed.

"I hope, lieutenant, you won't play a hero just to make an impression on Ms. Desmond," he added, gazing at Ronald. "And you, Alison, keep in mind--if you aren't satisfied this time, too, there will be no third try!"

"As you say," Alison obediently lowered her eyelashes. "And why would I want the third one--to appear again in the shade?"

The airship began a new turn, and the passengers returned to the galleries. This time, on the pilot's advice, they stood by three each board to exclude the slightest imbalance: Alison, Paul and Rupert at the nose part of the right gallery, while Gerda, Miguel and Hans--of the left one.

Six motors of the pod carried it again towards the huge stone wall which from its shady side seemed black and thus even more ominous. At first the airship itself remained in the sun light, but then the sun disappeared behind the jagged crest of the Ridge, and only the hole--narrow, split in the middle by two almost occluding teeth--shone straight ahead.

This time aggressive maneuvers at the last moment were not required. The pilot gained altitude even with a small reserve, and then smoothly lowered the nose to pass through an opening strictly leveled. The pod was aiming accurately between the teeth, obviously with no intention to turn either left or right. Alison was happy. It seemed like a huge mouth gaped towards the airship, parting its two teeth. The lower one was extremely close, seeming just about to pierce the gondola bottom... Alison involuntarily seized the thin handrail stretched along the gallery, but continued to look forward with wide opened eyes--and to record. For an instant she saw the huge granite bayonet in all its height, aimed from below, as it seemed, exact at her, as if going to impale her body--and she felt how her abdomen muscles reflectory contracted, tormentingly and at the same time sweetly; at the next moment the stone spike already disappeared under the floor. The top tooth disappeared behind the fairing a fraction of a second earlier. Left and right, the walls of the aperture rapidly rolled back--comparing to the previous time, far and safe.

"We passed," Rupert wanted to state with satisfaction, but had no time.

The pilot planned the course and flew it really perfectly. The pod passed through the hole center, without touching any obstacle anywhere. However, not for nothing the wind, millennium after millennium, eroded the basis of the heavy granite tooth which was hanging from above. And, probably, wave turbulence caused by six multi-blade propellers and the body of the airship became the last straw. Or perhaps it was just one of that surprising coincidences in which it is so difficult to believe until it happens to you. Anyway, when the pod already almost slipped out of the stone jaws, the sharp edged granite biface weighting a good hundred tons fell on the airship's stern.

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