Journey to the Heart of Luna - Andy Frankham-Allen [33]
“Very well,” Folkard said, looking at Dinnick. “Bosun, instruct Boswell to deploy the air screws.”
“Aye, sir!”
“I hope you are right, Professor.”
“I am,” Nathanial said, standing up straight despite the buffering. Folkard just watched him, and slowly a smile plagued his lips. For sure the captain was getting to like his guest. Nathanial positively glowed at this thought; he wanted to ensure his own worth with the crew. He may not have been an expert on aether travel, or indeed any kind of aerial travel, but he had an amazing deductive brain and it was an asset to the mission. As, indeed, was he after all.
For a while they waited in anticipation, as the bridge continued to be buffeted by the coxswain’s best efforts with the aether propeller. Then it happened. The aether wheel froze up as the propeller was disengaged and the air screws were activated. The rocking subsided. Nathanial looked to the viewing window, and was relieved to see the rocky wall of the gorge moving away from them.
“Well done, Professor,” Folkard said, patting him on the back. “Coxswain, take over at the air wheel and continue our descent.”
“Yes, sir,” the coxswain said, and moved to more traditional looking wheel.
“If she survived the crash, remind me to thank Miss Somerset for her letters, Professor,” Folkard said, bearing his biggest smile yet.
Nathanial wanted to return the captain’s smile, but the image of Annabelle’s corpse filled his mind once more. He certainly hoped the rescue team found her.
4.
“LIEUTENANT BEDFORD, sir!”
Stevenson looked up with a start. Loud and clear was an understatement! He had been trained in the use of atmosphere suits, but the practical use of the telephonic cable was something he had not been prepared for. It was like having people talking directly into your ear or, as in the case of Miller, shouting.
Just at the rear of the small bridge, to the starboard, was the airlock, the most secure and structurally intact section of the flyer still. Miller had been sent to that room to check for extra oxygen canisters; even with the possibility of caverns with atmosphere, Bedford still insisted they locate extra supplies of oxygen. Stevenson agreed that was prudent. They only had about half an hour of oxygen left at best. The inner iron door of the airlock was open, and Miller was calling from inside it.
Bedford looked up from the station on the opposite side of the bridge, glanced at Stevenson, and indicated that he should respond to Miller instead. Without a second thought Stevenson moved from the navigator’s station and crossed the bridge. Once again it was his turn to be the star pupil.
“What is it, Miller?” he asked, as he stepped into the airlock. “Oxygen canisters not viab…” He stopped abruptly, both in speech and in actuality.
Miller stood at the far end of the airlock, by the still secure exterior door, next to a supply of more compact oxygen cylinders. They looked similar to the one resting on Stevenson’s back, although much smaller. If he had to guess, he would have estimated no more than half an hour’s worth in each. It was not, however, the discovery of the cylinders that had caused Miller to call for his commanding officer, but rather the body laying next to them.
A slender female, thin but not tiny by any means. Something like a see-through neckerchief covered her mouth and nose, a small tube protruding from it and running to a much larger oxygen canister by her side. This one, five times as large as that worn by the men, was no doubt the primary source from which the smaller cylinders were filled. A design of Doctor Grant’s Stevenson would wager, and one that could be of great benefit to the Navy.
“Sir, Miller has found Miss Somerset,” Stevenson said, making full use of the telephonic cable. As long as they were connected, Bedford would hear every word.
With a hand from Miller, Stevenson crouched to his knees and knelt beside the woman. She