The Price of Flight

by A.A. Pessimal

In which flight-minded Witch Olga Romanoff gets a very big challenge. Can she fly this? A spin-off from "Strandpiel"

35. Mellius and Gretalina

The Price of Flight –

New Developments – the Air Race2

Mellius und Gretalina

V0.02, et c et c, the inevitable

Some explanation: there actually is a latest chapter of Strandpiel 2 in process. I haven't forgotten. Going on holiday soon. I need to. Also nice to get this out of the way first so you all get a new chapter to read.

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The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork

Yelena Garianova raised a well-shaped eyebrow.

"I believe it's from Wotua Doinov's tone-poem Mellius and Gretalina. The main theme." she said, then went to answer the door. The room then filled with responsible Lieutenants and Sergeants. Technical Sergeant Gertrude Schilling had taken care to issue each with his or her own fold-down chair.

Olga Romanoff waited as everyone sorted themselves out and found places to unfold chairs and sit.

I've got to get a bigger office, she thought. Or maybe move things like this to a meeting room. Easier in the old days when there were only two or three of us. She edged her own chair sideways by a couple of feet as behind her, Gertrude Schilling set up the inevitable blackboard on its easel then waited, expectantly, chalk to hand.

Captain Angua von Überwald leant on the wall to one side, declining to sit. She and Olga exchanged knowing and slightly weary smiles.

"Mr Vimes sent me." Angua said. "He doesn't like surprises and he's never been keen on irony."

"Got it." Olga replied. "You're here to reassure him that we're on it and we can assure Vetinari we're aware."

Angua nodded.

"Suddenly, everybody wants an Air Force. Can't think why." she said, drily. "A big expensive drain on resources populated by strange people with pilot's wings."

"It keeps the lunatics occupied where everybody can see them." Olga replied, keeping a straight face. "There's no telling what people who think like that might get up to if they aren't supervised."

Angua scanned round a room full of lunatics with pilot's wings. She nodded, reflectively.

"I've been up with you often enough to get that it's addictive." she conceded.

That was true enough. People commented that werewolves didn't get altitude sickness. The only problem with taking Angua up as aircrew, people had reported, was that you had to compensate, as she tended to lean right over to one side so as to get her face right in the slipstream, let her hair stream out, and if she thought she could get away with it, howl with pleasure. Olga speculated that this was something deeply embedded in the canine mind.

"Business." she said, decisively, noting the room had settled down. She assessed her key people. Gertrude, of course. Over in the corner, pen and pad poised to minute the discussion, Yelena Garianova. Nadezhda Popova, stern, impassive, her new Lieutenant's rank badges looking fresh and awkward, with on each arm of her tunic, the unfaded chevron shapes where Sergeant's stripes had once been. People still called her Sergeant by long-learnt reflex.

She noted the gaggle of Teks, brought in to add their opinions. All Dwarfs; Willi Schmidt, Anton von Fokker, Mig Oyeff, people who'd added vital ground support since the beginning. All they lived for was flight engineering and Magitek, together with the opportunity to develop their ideas and have access to research funding and crazy people willing to test-fly the designs coming out of the Tek-hangars. They waited, expectantly, to hear about the interesting and exciting stuff coming off other peoples' workbenches.

Senior Lieutenant Irena Politek… Olga frowned, considering The Other Thing… then her attention moved to Sergeant Stacey Matlock, who for part of her week was the senior rank at the Lancre Air Station. The rest of the week she worked at the Group Steading in Escrow, with three other Witches in a joint practice. Stacey too was a recent promotion, after Syrrit.

And Senior Sergeant Hanna von Strafenburg. Olga tried not to be too obvious about scrutinising her. There was definitely something about Hanna right now; her edge appeared to have been dulled and every so often she looked worried and preoccupied, as if something was on her mind. Something big, to get to Hanna like that. I'll talk to her after this meeting, she decided. Ask her outright.

A thought crossed her mind.

"If we're all here, who's running Control at the moment?" she asked.

"Lance-Corporal Cronkhart, ma'am." Gertrude said, promptly.

Olga raised an eyebrow.

"Zemphis Al?"

"She's had a little training, ma'am." Gertrude reminded her. "And all she needs to do is keep things ticking over until we're done and someone can take over. Errr."

Olga considered this and nodded approval.

"Okay. Good thinking, Gertrude. Thanks."

"And she's been asked, ma'am. Only emergency messages relayed to you or Red Star or Mother Hen. Err."

Olga smiled slightly. Gertrude was a good organiser. Then she frowned again; Gertrude Schilling, and not Irena Politek, had organised cover for Control? Usually Irena could be counted on to attend to small details like this…

"Thanks, Penguin. Right, we're all here? Business. Foreign air forces, people. This is the latest Intelligence digest."

Olga raised the folder in the air. She looked stern. When she was sure she had everybody's full attention, she said

"Syrrit. Remember Syrrit? The Klatchians managed a full-scale invasion of a neighbouring country. We didn't notice. They'd managed to beef up their Air Force with those flying sheep. We didn't notice that, either. And I'll ignore whoever just muttered "Don't you mean muttoned up their Air Force?""

Olga glowered slightly.

"The first thing we knew about weaponised flying sheep was when they attacked two of us. They had the advantage of surprise that day, we walked right into it, and we nearly lost a Pegasus, two pilots, and a navigator."

Olga looked grave and studied her senior people, reading their expressions.

"I don't know about any of you, but I am not having anything like that happen again. Therefore, we keep our eyes open, and we monitor what other people are up to. This file" she brandished it again, "is made up of the latest intelligence information gathered by the Palace. I'm pretty sure we're already aware of what's going on. Or at least, I hope we are. Nobody in the room needs reminding we are this City's first line of defence in the air. Defending means being aware of what other people can put in the air. And right now there are three other countries out there who are on the way to being air-capable. Let's name them, shall we?"

Olga quickly ruled out the Zulu Empire and Agatea.

"We know about them. Both depend on were-birds to have any sort of air capacity at all. In Howondaland, the were-vultures of various sorts, including night-flying vampire birds, are largely under the control of the Colleges of Witch-Finders, the local analogue of Unseen University. You either need to be born to it…" she nodded at Angua, "… or else you need to be a magic-user. Either way, their usefulness is minimal even though they're outside the complete control of the Royal House. Minimal threat. We've reminded them, at least twice, of the universal counters. Fire and silver. They backed down.(1) Same for the were-cranes and were-owls in Agatea. Apparently, these are from reclusive and remote clans who do not seek publicity, although Meijokko-san tells me, now and again, one with a taste for adventure might sign up with a warlord belonging to one of the Noble Houses."

Nadezhda Popova frowned.

"Who in Pegasus Service does run to Agatea?" she asked.

"Emily Pargeter." Olga replied. "Although she usually takes Majokko-san as Second Pilot to be her local guide and interpreter."

Flying Officer Akuma Majokko-san was the one Agatean pilot in the Air Watch. She had travelled to Ankh-Morpork, found herself stranded here after the loss of her ship, asked what a foreign Witch with no money or contacts could do in this city to earn a living, and had signed up with the Air Watch, for the adventure. (2)

Nadezhda nodded.

"I know almost nothing of Agatea." she said. "But have heard of old legends. Thousands of years ago they had dragons. Big ones. People could ride on them, as pilots."

The unspoken spill words hung in the air. Such a dragon had appeared in Ankh-Morpork within living memory. Things thought lost or extinct had a habit of returning to the Discworld. And Agatean dragons, legendarily, added a new twist to an old story.

"Good point." Olga said. "I'll ask what Lady Sybil knows about Agatean dragons. I agree the possibility is remote, but if it isn't impossible, we should note it. Evaluate."

She looked across at Yelena Garianova, who was sitting inobtrusively in a corner of the room, taking the minutes.

Yelena looked up.

"I have minuted this, Captain." she said. "Lord Vetinari would be reassured to know we have considered the possibility. And it places a note on the file, dated for today, to confirm we are aware."

Olga acknowledged this. It was the essential Watch skill of covering your bottom. She marvelled that Yelena had grasped this instantly.

She added "Also, find me Majokko-san, later on? I'll ask her what she knows."

Angua von Überwald grinned.

"On this world, myths and legends do have a bad habit of popping up to bite you on the bum." she observed. "Just to point out nothing is ever that mythical or legendary. After all, everybody thought the Pegasus was extinct."

Angua looked serious for a moment.

"If Akuma can find an egg, we could give it to Lady Sybil to incubate?"

"She would, too." Stacey Matlock agreed.

Olga considered this appalling possibility and winced. She noted the discussion was going off at a tangent and sighed a deep resigned commanding officer sigh.

-They'd be immune to fireballs.

-But they'd be a really potent weapon if we could get them. Could you imagine flying on one?

-I don't give a bugger that they could devastate a city. All you need do, right, is lob a waterbomb spell down its throat. Or Hanna could use one of her ice-spells. Fifty gallons of water down a dragon's throat, boiler explosion, like on the Rail Ways when things go wrong, and boom! No more dragon. Pink mist. Lots of.

-It's a bit far-fetched, though.

-How, exactly? We've got flying horses. The Klatchians matched us with flying sheep. Then we got flying elephants. So great big fire-breathing lizards…

-Next step, really…

-Just out of interest, do dragons actually have blood, and what colour would it be? The mist could be any colour…

Olga reasserted control.

"We're getting off the point here." she said, loudly. "And, Stacey? Don't say things like that where Lady Sybil could hear you. I don't want another name on the memorial plaque, just yet."

She called the room to order, wondering why Hanna von Strafenburg was looking silent and abstracted. Usually Hanna could silence a room with a single "Achtung!" when a discussion got off track.

She waited for silence. There was nothing like a group of witches in a discussion. Even uniformed ones. This was one of those points where Witch could trump Watch. Olga had to step in firmly, so as to remind everyone.

She steepled her fingers, then realised. Just about everybody in a position of leadership and responsibility in Ankh-Morpork got into this habit sooner or later, then usually realised they weren't Vetinari, and hastily unsteepled them again. (3)

She unsteepled her fingers.

"First place of interest on the agenda." she said, firmly. "Llamedos."

She waited for expressions of disbelief and you have got to be kidding. Llamedos? to die down.

"Llamedos." she repeated, firmly. She nodded to Gertrude Schilling.

"Llamedos." Gertrude repeated. She cleared her throat. "Errr. Aviation in Llamedos. What do we know? Well. It's a Druidic society. It's no secret that Druids are flight-capable. They've been flight-capable for thousands of years."

Olga relaxed. Gertrude was on her own ground here. Flight magic and technomancy. She could be professional and very definite when discussing her expertise.

"Druid flight was born out of expediency." Gertrude said. "To move big heavy things. It spared on rollers, manpower and wear and tear on whips at ground level. It was simply a means of moving large pieces of rock quickly across a distance."

She went on to discuss the various classes of Druid air vehicle. There were menhirs, sarsens, trilithons, and the biggest, heaviest and most lumbering of all, the megaliths. Weighing, according to need, at between five and fifty tons. In theory there was no upper limit, although she imagined moving an actual mountain would take lots of Druids, lots of organisation, and drain the magical field for some miles around.

"Once up there, they're stable in flight, but as manoeuvrable as, well, big heavy rocks." she reported. "You can't stunt them and if you need to turn or bank in the air, they have a turning circle of a couple of miles. Besides, the flight-magic is Druidical and involves a brazier and a pendulum. If that falls off, you're in bother."

"So, no threat, then?" Irena Politek asked.

Gertrude shook her head.

"We can't assume that. Their carrying capacity is unknown, but it has been known for Druids doing delivery runs to make a bit on the side by carrying cargo. A big trilithon can apparently carry its own weight in bulk goods. They've certainly carried people, passengers. Now imagine a situation where ten or a dozen of those might fly over Ankh-Morpork each carrying, say, four tons of aerial bombs or with magical users primed to drop heavy spells. Or if a fanatic for some religion or other deliberately crashed one on top of the Patrician's Palace or the Tump Tower. Even shooting one down over the City would cause a big hole in the ground wherever it crashed. Lots of kinetic energy. Errr. "

After a brief silence, Olga said "Minute that, Yelena."

She thought quickly.

"Who's doing Llamedos now Nottie's been transferred out?"

"Me, ma'am, for now." Stacey Matlock said. "The Turnwise States run, to Lancre, Llamedos, Hyperllamedos, Hergen and Chimeria."

"Go more than once a week." Olga said. "I'll get you one of the unassigned pool pilots to go as your second pilot."

The meeting agreed that Druidism was not likely to be a religion that created fanatics, except for fifteen-a-side football. But a megalith in flight could be hijacked. So we needed to be able to display to the Palace that we have a contingency plan.

"And there's the other thing about Llamedos, ma'am." Gertrude said.

"Go on."

"Flight in that country has been static for thousands of years. They got to a certain level, then stopped. It was doing all they needed it to do. No incentive to change. But some of the younger Druids are experimenting. That's new."

Gertrude then sketched out the new development in Llamedosian flight. Everybody listened.

"Slate is…" she cleared her throat. "Slate is a fine-grained, foliated, homogeneous metamorphic rock, derived from an original shale-type sedimentary rock composed of clay or volcanic ash through low-grade regional metamorphism. Err."

She nervously looked round a room full of bemused faces.

"Gertrude." Olga said. "Assume most people in this room do not read geology books for pleasure. Please?"

"Oh, I know." Said Tek-Sergeant Mig Oyeff, cheerfully. "Makes wide thin trolls. They move, what is word, gingerly and carefully."

"And that's the point." Gertrude replied. "It forms natural layers and…"

"Splits along the critical inclination fault-line into thin slabs." Tek-Sergeant Anton van Fokker said, finishing her sentence. "Got loads of uses in building."

"It's a rock." Gertrude said, swiftly. Olga guessed she was getting in quickly before the Dwarfs in the room started talking about the fascination of rock and its many different kinds, and its myriad uses.

"Therefore Druid magic can enchant it. Persuade it. Charm it. To fly. So imagine a large thin sheet of slate with a pilot on board. It weighs lighter than granite or bluestone. A piece six foot long by four wide might weigh a quarter of a ton. Err."

Gertrude got to her point. "Look, imagine a rigid, fixed-plane, magic carpet, single seater?"

The room started paying attention.

"Yes, but you still can't stunt it." Irena Politek objected. "Or the brazier falls off."

Gertrude shook her head, patiently.

"Which leads me to the other thing." she said. "What if I told you advanced and possibly heretical thinking in modern Druidism believes you can do away with the brazier of glowing coals and mystical essences? Early days yet, but somebody's been thinking. About using the ley-lines. You know. To draw up earth-magic to power the flying slate. And it weighs lighter so you don't need as much magic and it can go faster. You might even be able to stunt it. All it needs is a pilot and a pendulum. No more brazier."

"And no more in-flight bacon and eggs." Irena said.

"Well, yes. But it can't stray too far away from the ley-line." Stacey pointed out. "That's thing, inverted square, or whatever."

"Inverse square law." Gertrude said, patiently. "The power of the magic diminishes the further away you get from the remote power-source."

"We need a reliable map of ley-lines." Olga said, decisively. She sighed and faced a horrible reality. "I'll ask the University."

"Besides." Stacey said, "These crazy buggers are experimenting with fighter air vehicles which are basically flying roof tiles. We all know what happens when you drop one of those. All we've got to do is get up underneath one, fire a percussion spell. You know, great big thump. Suddenly it's raining enough slate chips for a driveway."

Olga winced.

"And you want to shoot it down from directly underneath?" she asked, practically. Again she wondered why Hanna was silent. Usually she was the one who came up with efficiently aggressive combat solutions. And she'd also be expectantly perking up at the prospect of test-flying any unproven but exciting air vehicle. This is not Hanna. Is she ill and trying to brave it out?

"Okay. Where are they test-flying these things? The Palace has provided a couple of possible locations." Olga brandished the report again.

"I don't like it much when the Palace Secretariat gets there first. That's like a hint from Vetinari that we're not doing the job efficiently. I want patrols out."

She nodded across at the silent sergeant.

"Hanna? Organise that, will you. Forward patrols over Llamedos. This place with the totally impossible name which I am not even going to try to pronounce. Make it look like a Pegasus flight that's lost its bearings."

Hanna seemed to come to her usual self. She barked her acknowledgement.

"Just maybe." Irena Politek said, "Once we know where they're doing their test-flying, we can visit. You know, overfly their airbase and drop them our friendly best wishes and maybe half a dozen spare parachutes. With an instruction manual. Because it's got to be a dangerous job, and we feel sort of concerned for fellow pilots."

Olga considered this.

"Not a bad idea." she said. "It's a friendly gesture, but at the same time it tells them we know exactly what they're up to, exactly where to find them, and it focuses their minds on what else we might drop if we weren't disposed to be friendly. Good thinking, Irena."

She grinned.

Nobody else has anything to add about Llamedos? No? Okay, people. Let's now discuss Quirm. These Bongolfier Devices."

She nodded to Gertrude.

Rimwards Howondaland. In the sky above the Winelands of the Turnwise Caarp.

Rebecka Smith-Rhodes, Healthcare Practitioner, was on her way to a duty call. This was complicated by several pressing factors: not the least of which was that in this country, a Healthcare Practitioner could not commute between patients by broomstick. It tended to be noticed, by the wrong people and for the wrong reasons, as Witchcraft was illegal here. This was a legacy of sterner laws from several centuries ago, which immigrants from the Central Continent had brought here and had not bothered to repeal, as their former homes in Sto Kerrig and Ankh-Morpork had. (4)

Bekki also suspected that a conservative society like Rimwards Howondaland didn't like women exerting independence of thought and action too much. Kerk, Kinders, Kombuis summed up expectations. Church, children, cookery. And, she thought, that's only white women. They really don't like black people showing magical ability. The Government gets insecure about that. Flat-out illegal. The Bureau of the Interior and the Bureau of State Security have spies out looking.

She frowned, remembering a couple of tentative contacts she was making in the townships, especially Turfloop. Aunt Mariella had hinted that there were such things as Herbalists among the black natives, but that they didn't seek publicity for very obvious reasons. Bekki suspected she'd met at least one native Witch in Turfloop Township. There was a tacit understanding to keep each other's illegal secret.

She flew on, appreciating the great big open Howondalandian sky in front of her, about three-tenths cloud and glorious blue sky. It framed the seemingly endless big country in front of her, with the deep green of the vineyards now opening out with gaps between plantations, as the Sandrift hills flattened into the semi-aridity of the Little Kazoo. This was poor land, with limited natural water, of no use for grapes and, where farmed, sustaining populations of scrubby cattle and hardy sheep. People were few and far between, out here, and tended to be the most seriously hardened and taciturn Boers, men and women of few and largely monosyllabic words.

Still my people, though. Bekki told herself. My mother's people, anyway. Die Volk. And I'm their Healthcare Practitioner.

She looked down at the rust-red earth and the patchy growth of vegetation, noting grazing sheep, then turned to the sketch-map she'd made with the aid of her aunt. The destination, the huis of the van Williams family, should be coming into view now….

Wee Archie Aff the Midden, her Feegle navigator, looked down at the map from his perch in Boetjie's mane, and gave an expression of earnest concentration.

"Aye, Miss Rebecka. Ah reckon as ah has it now, aye. Judgin' from the flight-plan an' the map, aye, oor destination is over here…"

Bekki sighed, resignedly. She indicated the opposite direction.

"Almost right, Archie, but you're looking at the map upside-down." she reminded him. "Look, just fix the journey in your mind, please, and remember the landmarks, so in case we get a real emergency, you can craw-step us?"

She made a course correction, steering Boetjie a couple of points to the starboard.

Using her Pegasus for these duty visits around her Steading had been a no-brainer, really. The Turnwise Caarp wasn't Lancre. It was a big place. She was prohibited from using a broomstick. Boetjie was a big Pegasus stallion who needed regular daily exercise. Using him on home visits and for emergency call-outs allowed her to do both.

Also, she reflected, no magic at all was involved. Just normal flight on a horse with wings. And the Pegasus Service had a special arrangement in this country. Captain Verdraainer of BOSS might not like the fact she had Ankh-Morporkian citizenship and flew for part of her week with the Ankh-Morpork City Air Watch. It was probably in her file. Alongside the fact that he'd been over-ruled, from the highest levels. Which, she reflected, could not have done any good for his gastric ulcer. But nobody, anywhere, interfered with a Pegasus. This had been established.

She could see a lonely settlement about a mile away down on the flat, with a single dirt trail leading to it. It looked like a huis, with outbuildings and pens. Even from a thousand feet up she could see the white dots of grazing sheep, singly and in clusters. Her thoughts turned to the Chalk and what she'd learnt about sheep management. At least lambing season was in the past now, and very soon there'd be Tupping going on. She wondered if Shearing had happened yet. The sheep-farmer's calendar was different here, nearer to the Rim. Things tended to happen in their proper sequence a few months after the Chalk.

And then she looked up and blinked. That was not usual.

"Archie." she said. Her Navigator looked up too, and then became intent.

"Aye, well, Miss Rebecka." he said, thoughtfully. "If them are seeds, there'll be some gey big mushrooms growin', when they fall to earth".

"Spores, Archie." Bekki corrected him. "But usually so small you don't see them at all, except when some mushrooms blow them all out at once in a sort of cloud. And only a few are big enough to get windblown."

She looked again. There were three…four of them. They could be five or six miles away, although it was hard to tell. They looked like inverted teardrops, in a sort of pale beige or white colour. Each seemed to have a sort of brown rounded thing at the narrow pointy end, as if that was the actual seed attached to the sail, the vane, or whatever. Apricity Brabble back in Lancre would know.

A lot of lift so as to allow wind and airflow to transport the seed. So a very small seed on a very big sail.

She thought there was an occasional glimpse of colour, red and blue, in small flashes against the white. But it was hard to tell. She frowned. Whatever they were, they were just hanging there, and if they were moving at all, it was in slow lazy small circles. Another mystery.

She looked down to the ground beneath the things, trying again to assess distance. There seemed to be activity down there. Carts of some sort? Maybe also tents. Too far away to tell. But if the things were flying and there were people underneath…

Bekki sighed.

"Should we go and take a look, Miss Rebecka?" Wee Archie asked. She considered this.

"We should." she said. If it was in the air and unidentifiable, it was Air Watch business. Another thought came to her. The AMUFORA. What if just this once, just conceivably, they might be right? The Ankh-Morpork Unidentified Flying Object Research Association was usually thought of by the Air Witches in an "Oh, Gods, those loonies again" sort of way. They believed anything in the sky they couldn't identify was proof of aliens visiting the Discworld. And if anyone came up with an explanation, this was proof of Government Cover-Up and The Truth Being Concealed. Lord Vetinari appreciated them for their comedy value.

In the air over the Little Kazoo, Rebecka Smith-Rhodes considered several large sort-of-circular white somethings hovering in the air. This was the kind of thing AMUFORA would sell their souls to see.

Justnow she wished it was them and not her.

She sighed, noting they were just hanging there and not doing very much. There was a complete absence of laser death-rays, for instance, and on the ground, sheep grazed contentedly, with no sign of any animal mutilation.(5) No advanced alien magic or technomancy, hauling things into the air in defiance of gravity.

She shook her head.

"Justnow I'm not Air Watch, Archie." she said. "We've got a patient to attend to. I'm a Witch. The patient takes priority. If those things are still up here when we're done, then we take a look. And I can report it back to Olga. But only then."

She began steering Boetjie down. The things in the sky could bloody well wait.

The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork

"Bongolfier Devices." Gertrude said.

She sketched out a rough plan, white chalk against black background, which showed a very large inverted teardrop shape that had a square box fastened underneath.

"Basically, just enormous balloons. But with a twist. We've known about them for some time."

"How do they get up there?" Irena Politek asked. "And more to the point, stay up there? You blow a balloon up and you tie the end and, well, it flops around. Unless the wind catches it, it doesn't soar up and fly."

Gertrude grinned. It was the grin of a Tech Officer who has it all figured out.

"The secret's in the envelope." she said. "You can use canvas, provided you waterproof it. You can use oilskin. You can use silk. The time-consuming part is cutting out all those seriously big panels from whole cloth, sewing them together so they make the teardrop shape, and – here's the crucial thing – caulk them, so they're airtight. The only way air can get out is through the vent-holes in the sides and at the top, and they're controlled by the pilot in the basket underneath. Or one of the aircrew. We know the biggest ones can take up to four people. Generally, two, or at a push, three. The basket's got to be strong enough, though. Imagine it rising to two angels and the floor gives way under the weight? Early accidents, there."

"What makes it fly?" Irena repeated, patiently.

Gertrude sketched again.

"Simple physics." she said. "Hot air rises. Steam from a kettle, you know? The Compte de Bongolfier got the idea while he was watching his laundry dry. Err.6 (6) It's all very simple. Thrust, lift, Boiler's Law of gas expansion. That's an easy one…" she chalked quickly on the board, "PV = k, which you can also state as P1V1 = P2V2, and as I'm sure you all know, this leads directly to P Err." (7)

She looked around a room of largely blank faces.

"Got it, Miss Gertrude." Tek Sergeant van Fokker said, happily. "You heat up air. It swells. Therefore lower volume. So it rises."

"Da. Is easy. Simples." agreed Tek Sergeant Oyeff. "Is like rubber duck thing in bath. Hold it under water, it leaps up. Comes to surface, leaps up no more. Balloon is finding its own surface to rise to."

"The equation tells us how to calculate this". Gertrude said. She made a rapid re-assessment of the classroom and its average ability to comprehend the physics of expanding gases. "Look, ground level is the bottom of the bath. The Bongolfier device is the plastic duck. You let it go. It rises."

"Developed in Quirm." Olga said. "Out in the open. Where everyone can see it."

"A clever thing, but a toy." Nadezhda Popova said. "Has no propulsion, so cannot be steered. Is dependent on wind if it wishes to travel. People cannot command wind to blow. It can go anywhere. Therefore, must be tethered to ground with long cable."

"The other limiting factor is height." Gertrude said. "With heated air and two people on board, no more than three angels. Also, it has to be tethered to a winch on the ground." Gertrude said. "It is also hauling the weight of two or three thousand feet of cable. That length of rope weighs a lot. Without the cable it could get to five angels. But then it's at the mercy of the wind. And we all know if the wind on the ground is blowing Turnwise, it could be doing the complete opposite at five or six angels. You don't know till you're up there."

"Unless they use really lightweight rope." Stacey pointed out. "Like the stuff the Circus people and the Assassins use."

"There are people experimenting with how to break through the limitations." Gertrude pointed out. "Down in Überwald…"

"That's Part Three." Olga said. She noted the sudden change of expression on the face of Hanna von Strafenburg, and wondered. Her face had gone… different… she looked away, quickly, feeling uncomfortable and alarmed.

"Let's finish the discussion on Quirm first. Now it's no secret that they've been experimenting with Bongolfiers. No secret, we know their limitations, Vetinari said to let them carry on in the open where everybody can see. We did. We've been watching. But today."

Olga sighed again.

"We've been wrong-footed. There are two or three of the older model Bongolfiers still in Quirm City. Those original big gaudily-painted ones, the ones that make a wizard's robes look like a tasteful model of restraint. They stand out like a Hogswatch tree. Those are just taking paying customers up for joyrides. Summer tourist trade. But, and Vetinari has underlined this, everything to do with ongoing research and development has suddenly disappeared from Quirm. That's everything. Vetinari has pointed out it is not in the nature of experimenters to suddenly stop. People who are obsessed with ideas and making them real do not, in his opinion, behave like that."

She nodded towards the Teks. To a Dwarf, they were the walking embodiment of obsessive experimental minds. Ones who had found their own sort of Heaven in the Air Watch.

"I agree with him."

She smiled benevolently at her Teks.

"The reports say all work stopped suddenly and the experimental station outside Quirm City closed down and packed up." She said, reading from the report. "not long afterwards, a ship of interest, known to have been loaded by night, left Quirm and headed out into the Circle Sea. One of our ships was ordered to shadow it and see where it went."

Olga shook her head.

"And they didn't ask us? Nichevo. Unfortunately, the Quirmian vessel was one of the new Steam Ships. The only available Navy boat was one of the inshore coastal cutters. Sail-powered. And with a Captain of the old sort who doesn't like the idea of being, and I quote, a floating taxi service for those bloody flyers. He couldn't keep up, and all we know for sure is that the ship of interest passed through the Strait of Al-Kinte and out into the Turnwise Sea. Could have gone anywhere."

She looked sympathetically at the one male pilot in the room.

"Sorry, David. If it helps, it makes more of a case for the Fleet Air Arm."

"As you say, ma'am. Nichevo."

"Informality, please, David. I'm Olga, in this room." she said, encouraging him. He was from the first male intake into the Air Watch, he'd worked hard to get here, he'd been in the brief active fight over Syrrit, and he deserved the promotion to Corporal, with a third stripe not long in his future. This was the first flying Wizard who had got past the rank of Aircraftsman.

"But why weren't we instructed?" he asked, perplexed. "We've got a presence out there now."

Olga smiled.

"Office politics." she said. "The Navy thought they could handle this on their own and wanted to cut us out of the loop. Well, they were wrong. No doubt Vetinari's spoken to people at the Admiralty, and one older Captain might sit out the rest of his service before retirement piloting a harbour tug, or a dredger, or something."

She got back to business.

"Say I was in charge of a research project that I wanted to keep secret, but the proving ground is too near to Ankh-Morpork." she said. "If it involves high-altitude flight, it's also far too near to Cori Celesti. We know the Gods take an interest, and not necessarily a friendly one, if we go too high. We had to stop all our high-altitude testing for that reason."

"That, and the problems with the thinning air and the cold." Gertrude Schilling remarked. "Err. That Swommi pilot. Kiiki. She said everything went swimmy in her head and she said she was going a little bit crazy. Err."

"A little bit?" Stacey Matlock said. A general disbelieving muttering happened.

"I still think if we can trial the heated pilot suit and the bottles of condensed air delivered gradually through a breathing mask…"

"No, Gertrude." Olga said, kindly. "At least, not just yet."

She got back to the point.

"I might pack all my research kit and personnel aboard a ship and head for somewhere remote. Where there aren't many people. Out on the Rim, a long way away from the Gods, for instance. And Vetinari. And I might perhaps offer to share the Tek with an interested foreign government. Especially if, as notes on the Compte Étienne Bongolfier suggest, I'm running out of cash and backers. So the next question is where. Ideas, people?"

Rimwards Howondaland. In the sky above the Winelands of the Turnwise Caarp.

Bekki's home visit had been straightforward, in terms of healthcare delivered. What hadn't been so easy, and it never was, was the Dealing With People side. Healthcare had involved resetting, splinting, and plastering a broken leg. This was basic medicine. Practitionering(8) had involved trying to find a diplomatic way of telling an eighty-five year old mevrou, a gogo round here on the Caarp, that it was just possible she was no longer as nimble on her feet around sheep as, for instance, her thirteen-year old great-grand-daughter.

Surrounded by four generations of an anxious family, Bekki wondered how a seventeen year old Witch could convince the undisputed matriarch of the need to, well, step back and retire from the everyday business of managing a sheep station.

Finally, she changed the subject to talking about the plaas where she resided, and how the mevrou there, Hendrika Lensen, got about the place in her bakkie when she needed to travel long distances. She described the bakkie. (9)

"We've got an old chair out back, ma." her son, Gwynfor van Williams(10) said, tentatively. "Two really long poles nailed to the legs. Get two fellows to do the carrying. Reckon we can do this."

Beki smiled, having made the necessary breakthrough. She reflected on the shepherds' huts of the Chalk and wondered if she had just suggested the local variant. She also realised, remembering what she'd heard about Tiffany Aching's grandmother, that you couldn't tell an old shepherdess to retire for a trivial reason like being eighty-five and prone to falls. You just couldn't.

"I'll give it a try." Goga Maired van Williams said, grudgingly. She looked up at Bekki and there was a hint of a smile on the old lined face.

"You did well there, merch." she said. "More comfortable, feels like a leg , and barely twinges. Thank you."

Bekki wondered briefly why she'd become merchandise, but wondered if it had something to do with the small cash payment mr van Williams was offering her.

"Hear you collect for a local charity, miss." he said. "It isn't much, but Klippie Henderson would have taken ten times longer to get here, he wouldn't have done the same good job, and he'd have charged twice as much."

Bekki had heard this a lot about the outgoing local doctor. She knew he was a good man and could still be a good doctor, when he was sober. Being sole doctor in a very big practice area for so long had just overwhelmed him. Aunt Mariella had recruited a new doctor – a younger man who was actually married to a nurse - but it would take tome to establish him. In the meantime, Bekki was actually being called "The Flying Doctor" by locals. This embarrassed her. She flew, but she wasn't a doctor. Even though old Klippie Henderson, in a sober moment, had said she had the right stuff, she just needed training and experience.

"To defray expenses, menheer van Williams." Bekki said. "The cost of plaster bandages and splints, for instance. Everything else goes into the Township Relief Fund. My expenses are covered by working for the Lensen plaas."

"You're flying back soon?"

"Have to. There'll probably be new patients at the Surgery."

Mr van Williams nodded.

"Ag. Well, Take care up there. The sky's getting crowded all of a sudden. Things to collide into."

Bekki was interested.

"Describe them to me?"

After a while she rejoined Wee Archie, who was guarding Boetjie. He was placidly eating his way through a nosebag, with a loose gaggle of admiring people, not all of them children, studying him. He didn't need the nosebag; but Pegasus pilots had discovered this was a polite way of stopping people from offering treats. It could be hard to tell people it was strictly disallowed. A horsy type, whose first response to an interesting equine was to offer a treat and make friends, could get offended at the merest hint they might be trying to poison such a lovely animal. Children could get bewildered at a gentle "no".

The nosebag got around this, although Bekki, like several others, also tried to carry a small bag of pre-approved snacks that children could feed Boetjie, under her supervision. It all made for good PR, as Olga and Irena said.

She sighed and shook her head. Archie had been telling thrilling tales of adventure and derring-do to an appreciative audience. Okay, entertainment was at a premium out here. She got this. But Archie had a habit of exaggerating. And if there were details of Pegasus Service missions he'd been on that came under the heading of operational secret, he could get indiscreet, for the sake of a good story. Olga Romanoff had advised Bekki to rein him in, if she could.

Besides, a little blue man was a thing of interest in his own right, out here.

"Archie?" she said. "We're getting into the air again."

He came to attention in the mane and inexpertly saluted her.

"Aye, Mistress."

Bekki reassured several of the younger children that their grand-ouma was well, but she wouldn't be able to get up and walk for a few weeks and needed people to do things for her, you can all be helpful here.

A girl of about thirteen frowned.

"But if groot-ouma is confined to bed, and she will still be eating and drinking, that means…"

Bekki was pleased the girl didn't go "Ewww!" or recoil in disgust. She quickly took the girl aside. She looked sensible. And concerned for Goga.

"She will need help. With privy matters. Somebody has to offer it…"

Eventually they took off, watched by a surprisingly large audience. Bekki marvelled at how so many people had appeared out of seemingly nowhere in what seemed, at first glance, to be an unpromisingly arid land with not much by way of a human population. Then reflected that the farm below her had more space for human occupation than had seemed the case from the air; what could be taken for barns from above had turned out to be old-style Boer blockhouses, simple but liveable human homes designed for multi-occupancy. She guessed there'd be enough children here in the extended family to support some sort of basic schooling, even if it might need to be open-air. There were still illiterate Boers, but these days, less and less. People saw the value of at least a basic education.

And, she thought, a place where people treated each other right, with a lot of love in that extended family, even if they were relatively poor. A bit like a Vondalaans-speaking Lancre.

She gained height. And those big off-white teardrops were still in the air: this time she counted four of them.

"Now we're Air Watch, Archie." she said. Getting home to Wes Sandrift could wait a little while. Her navigator sprang to approximate attention and saluted. She steered Boetjie on a new course, towards the things that she now knew were man-made and directed by actual people, not little grey aliens from the planet Tralfamadore. (11)

The balloons in the sky drew nearer and she began to make out more details. That flash of red, white and blue on the plain off-white was the Quirmian tricolour. She frowned. Here, in Rimwards Howondaland? She saw the orange, white and blue horizontal stripes too. Her own country's flag. And looking down, that was definitively a military encampment of some sort. Tents, wagons, grazing oxen, horses. People were beginning to look up and point. She expected that: a Pegasus was not a stealth air vehicle. Anything but.

She focused on the balloons. That inverted teardrop shape was immense. A lot of cloth must have gone into that. The cloth envelope was retained in what looked like a net of tight-fitting ropes, which at the bottom supported a dangling basket, which looked like it was made from wicker, wood and a minimum of metal. There were two men in it, absurdly small compared to the size of their air vehicle. Every so often one reached up to make a careful small adjustment to something above his head that Bekki couldn't quite see, which appeared to be right at the very bottom extremity of the cloth envelope. A long trailing rope led downwards from the basket to the ground; it seemed to be attached to a large wheeled device on the back of a flat-bed wagon of the sort people called a bakkie.

She flew nearer, noting there were lots of people on the ground now, looking up and pointing. Uniforms. Some in red and dark blue, unfamiliar to her, others in very familiar Boer khaki. Some looked to be civilians.

She noted the men in the baskets were now aware she was in the sky as she closed nearer. There were shouted conversations going on, too indistinct to make out, and fingers were pointing at her.

She drew nearer. A guilty voice in her head was telling her that her Pegasus Service issue iconograph was not in its usual place in the forward-right pannier. She'd reported a fault in the shutter mechanism and had left it with the Teks at the Air Station for attention. With relief, she remembered there'd in fact been no replacement in Stores for her to sign for. Sergeant von Strafenburg had accepted that and had made a note.

What is it with Hanna justnow, Bekki wondered, almost irrelevantly. She looked preoccupied. Far away. Bekki sensed if she worried at it for long enough she'd realise why, get an intuition; but shrugged. Not her problem, and in any case Olga or Irena or Mother Hen were likely to be on it by now.

She pressed on towards the balloons, estimating sizes, counting numbers, memorising details. The one thing she was hazy on and couldn't for the moment work out at all was what was keeping them up there, allowing them to fly. It wasn't magic; she'd have tasted it by now. So something mechanical. People at the Air Station speculated about this. Flight was a monopoly of magic users and even though magic carpets could be flown by non-magical people primed with the right words of command, it still relied on magic and ultimately on magic-users. Pegasi and the newly-trained Osibisi could only be flown by Witches. Or Wizards.

But what would happen, people asked, if flight could be achieved purely by mechanical means? It was theoretically possible.

Bekki realised she might be looking at a breakthrough of some sort.

But she was also looking at a man leaning out of a basket about fifteen hundred feet up, who was pointing a tube in her general direction and frantically waving his free arm at her. She watched him: she realised only one nationality on the Disc would be that expressive with body language, waving arms, facial expressions, and shrugged shoulders.

Well, them and the Brindisians…

Body language also spilled. She got the spill-gestures:

Mademoiselle, please understand the situation constrains me to fire a warning shot to explain to you that you have come too close in a restricted area. I have heard about the Pegasus Service and the Air Watch and I know what happens if shots are fired directly at you and that the beautiful and most capable Captain Romanoff becomes distressed at this.

Therefore, if you would be so kind and so understanding as to fly in that direction, I will fire this warning rocket as far away from you as possible in this direction, so I can then report a warning shot was fired, but it cannot possibly be mistaken for any hostile intent nor as anything fired directly at your Pegasus. I thank you for your courtesy and I wish you a good day. But a good day spent somewhere else, peut-etre?

Bekki gave the Quirmian a thumbs-up to say she'd understood, and flew off. She wondered how she'd got all that from some frantic arm-waving and gesticulation, and decided she didn't want to put the poor man to any trouble of the sort that might invite a return visit from a larger number of Air Watch personnel. Deciding she'd seen all she could, she set a course for home. A thousand yards to her port side and well below her, the warning rocket exploded in red fire. She waved to the Quirmian balloon pilot again, and flew off.

The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork

"Places on the Rim." Olga said, summing it up. Remote. Isolated. With local backers, government agencies or interested private citizens, who want a share in the Tek. So far we've got Agatea. The far side of Fourecks or the Foggy Islands. Rimwards Howondaland. Krull."

"Perhaps the Krullians." Hanna von Strafenburg said. It was her first contribution. Olga got a sudden flash of intuition that Hanna wanted to delay the discussion from moving on to Überwald, and interesting things going on there, for as long as she could.

"Go on." she said.

"We know Krull is on the very edge. They are obsessed with finding out what is on the other side of the Rim. Therefore they send exploration vessels out. Which drop. They attempt to winch them back on again. Sometimes, they succeed. Most often, the cable snaps and they lose a vessel and crew. This is costly. They also find very few people wish to be Chelonauts."

Hanna looked grave.

"I would go on such an expedition as a pilot." she said. "If the risk was managed less wastefully, and there was a good chance I would return. But is it not possible that the Krullians may have been persuaded to think differently? What if, instead of a vessel made of metal that drops, they use one made of fabric and hot air, that rises, and which can more safely be recalled afterwards? They have very good winch technology, after all. It is not the fault of the winch that the cable snaps when fighting against gravity and hauling a very heavy load upwards. However, less effort is needed when drawing a light load downwards, especially one that can regulate its own speed of descent. I find this of interest."

"So they now have the potential for sending things up into space rather than down." Olga observed. "And on a long enough tether, it is possible a Bongolfier device right on the very Rim might go out far enough for the expedition to be of value. I agree."

Olga placed a tick against Krull? She also noted Hanna had revealed a previously hidden desire to go into space. That made sense; she was the Air Watch's resident test pilot and approached this with methodical sanity that bordered on craziness.

It was agreed that the Agateans, a nation mistrustful of new technology unless it was ornately presented, met the local aesthetic, and could be described poetically in short verses of seventeen syllables exactly, were going to be an unlikely test-bed, especially for tech devised by the accursed white ghost people from beyond the Wall. However, observational notes said that Agatean tourists in Quirm loved the gaudy and over-ornamented Bongolfier balloons still in Quirm for exactly those reasons and paid over the odds to ride in them, seeing them as a sort of exotic kite.

"Kites." said Senior Navigating Sergeant Wee Mad Arthur. "Ye should consider those, Mistress Olga. Is there nae reason why a kite cannot be scaled up tae carry a human, and nae a Feegle?"

"The hanging glider concept?" Olga said, interested. The Air Watch Feegle had their own ideas about flight, and had prevailed upon the Teks to add a Feegle-sized harness under a child's kite to see if the idea worked. It did.(12)

They looked at Gertrude Schilling.

"No reason why not, ma'am." She said. "A big enough kite to generate enough lift in the right sort of wind. Enough surface area for lift. Give me a few days to think about it and I might be able to come up with some sort of steering. Errr."

Olga noted this. Hanging gliders. She also noted Agatea was the home of kite-flying.

"We might have to launch from a high place. The top of a hill, or maybe a clifftop, or maybe…." Gertrude's eyes lit up. "Take the hanging glider and the pilot up in another air vehicle, and launch them from five or six angels up…"

"Thanks, Gertrude." Olga said, cutting her off. Interesting, but potentially lethally dangerous, and straying from the point again.

They discussed other possibilities for secret balloon research, and agreed as they all involved currently friendly countries who in one way or another were dependent on the goodwill of Ankh-Morpork, it wouldn't stay secret for very long. We'll look, anyway. Ask Darleen to put the word out in the Flying Igor Service, to tell us if they see anything odd going on in the Outback. Exploit our local contacts.

Eventually they got onto the third potentially dangerous place to watch.

"Überwald." Olga said, decisively. She noted Hanna von Strafenburg's shoulders slump slightly.

"Let us discuss the activities of the Graf von Bleiballon. What we know is that he is forty years old, owns extensive estates in Prussica, and has been watching the activities of the Compte de Bongolfier with great interest. These two noblemen, according to the Palace, have been in correspondence with each other. Which is of interest."

She nodded over.

"Gertrude, explain what we know about the Bleiballon Device?"

Gertrude Schilling beamed, twitched with excitement, and started talking, with occasional breaks so as to sketch ideas on the blackboard.

Olga watched Hanna. She was beginning to look very forlorn and miserable. Which was not Hanna von Strafenburg. Showing visible emotion of any sort was not Hanna von Strafenburg. She also noted that Nadezhda Popova, Mother Hen, had inobtrusively moved her seat nearer to Hanna, as if she was positioning herself to be close. In case she's needed? Needed for what? Something was wrong. Olga had a feeling that she was about to find out.

For now she watched Gertrude's presentation, and observed the reactions of the others. There was a sort of quiet excitement expressed by the Teks, and there was a sort of come on, you must be kidding! sceptical disbelief from the Air Witches. She noticed Corporal Taureman, the senior Wizard-Pilot, watching with quiet concentration, as if he was taking it in better than others. After a while he took out a notepad and started writing.

Wes Sandrift, Rimwards Howondaland.

The evening meal involved the immediate Lensen family only, plus Bekki, just four people, as opposed to maybe a dozen who had turned up for a working breakfast. It was a sign of the agricultural day winding down, with maybe a couple of hours for rest and reflection before the inevitable early bedtime. Bekki appreciated this and hoped no late emergency cases would turn up.

Mevrou Hendricka asked about her afternoon visit to the van Williams family and expressed concern that old Maired had slipped and broken her leg.

"Could be you, ma." Uncle Horst said. "In another thirty years."

His mother snorted. "I understand Maired. If I'm spared, I still want to walk my land when I'm eighty-five. I understand her completely."

Bekki shook her head. This was the bloody-minded self-reliance of the Boer people. You only asked for help if there was a real emergency. And sometimes not even then.

"We could do with the Clacks." Bekki said. "How many hours did it take for the message to get here for me. Three? Four?"

"That's the Bush Clacks." Aunt Mariella remarked. "Gwyn van Williams sends a fast runner to the Hartigan plaas with a written message. Brian Hartigan might be a Porkkie and not a Boer, but he respects that a neighbour is in trouble and sends a fast rider to the Freeman plaas with the message, who sends a fresh rider to the van Maastens, who send another fresh rider here, to find the clever girl who rides the flying white horse, as Ma van Williams has a badly crocked leg and she's eighty-five, and they need a doctor. I'd guess all things considered, it took two and a half and you were there in less than one."

"Clacks would be faster, though."

"Try getting them here. Costs money, meisie. People around here like to keep it in their pockets."

Bekki changed the subject, and asked about the things in the sky that turned out to be flying balloons with people in baskets hanging underneath. This aroused interest.

"Heard there was something going on out in the Kazoo." Hendricka Lensen remarked. "The military turned up and set up a camp there. They're not happy about people taking too close a look."

"Those things are massive." Bekki objected. "Hard to keep secret. I bet by now everybody knows."

"You should tell Olga." Aunt Mariella said. She played with her fork and a piece of carrot. "She'll want to know. If she doesn't already. Maybe she can tell you what makes them fly."

"When she visits next, we could fly over together." Bekki said, thoughtfully.

"I might ride over and take a look myself." Mariella said, thoughtfully. "Feel like a romantic walk in the moonlight, Horst?"

Bekki got it. It might be something of interest to report to the Guild. And Aunt Mariella had to keep her professional skills up to date. She also had recent experience of visiting air bases by night.

"Just don't set fire to anything." Hendricka said, tolerantly. "Remember this time they're on our side, please? I don't want a visit from Oskar."

At this point, Sanna the senior maid ran into the room, looking worried.

"Madam, there are visitors…"

"Ah. Famous last words." Hendricka sighed, recognising the man who had walked in behind Sanna without asking invitation. Three other men were with him, two in uniform, and one a civilian.

"Oskar, what do you want? As you can see, we are just finishing tea."

Aunt Mariella scowled at the visitor, with a this had better be good expression on her face.

Captain Oskar Verdraainer, the local BOSS commander, shaven-headed, tall and thin, had the usual expression of dyspeptic misanthropy on his face. He performed the minimal courtesy of taking his uniform cap off in front of the ladies, and said

"Forgive the intrusion, Mevrou Lensen, but I am here on a matter of some importance."

He smiled slightly at Bekki.

"State Security, in fact."

He turned to the other men and spoke to them in Morporkian.

"This is the young lady who overflew the testing ground on the winged horse earlier this afternoon. I believe the creature is stabled elsewhere on this plaas."

"It's not as if we bring him in here to eat." Bekki said, sharply. "Of course Boetjie is stabled elsewhere."

Verdraainer gave her the slightest ghost of a smile. Bekki folded her arms.

"What's this about, Oskar?" Hendricka Lensen asked, curtly. She scowled at him, a warning signal that even BOSS could walk on thin ice sometimes.

"We need to speak to the young lady, to Miss Smith-Rhodes, concerning a matter of state security." Verdraainer said. "Privately, if at all possible."

"Not a bloody chance." Aunt Mariella said, firmly. "I thought we'd been through this before, Captain Verdraainer. Bekki is seventeen. Until she turns eighteen, she is still legally a child, strange though it seems. I am her aunt and her legal guardian while she is resident in this country. Therefore any interview, official or unofficial, with Rebecka is done with ME present. That is the law, Captain!"

"And if Mariella is not present, I would insist on that right." Hendricka Lensen said, firmly. "As would my son, who by marriage to Mariella is her uncle. I would merely be a concerned older person, present to ensure the rules are followed."

"I repeat this is a matter of State security, Mevrou Lensen. The minimum number of people should be present." Verdraainer repeated.

Aunt Mariella scowled and stood up. "We can use the office." she said. "Just Rebecka and me. And what looks like the four of you."

Mariella nodded at the other men.

"And this had better be good. We were just about to have dessert. Melktert."

Bekki noted two of the men looked puzzled. They didn't speak Vondalaans. And that uniform, with the red trousers and dark blue tunic, was not a Howondalandian Army one.

Aunt Mariella appeared not to notice the odd uniform, but switched to Morporkian.

"This way, gentlemen." she said. "And keep it quick. We've got melktert for dessert."

The office was where the administrative business of the plaas was done. Files and folders ranked neatly on one wall. There was an inobtrusive safe in the corner. Mariella kept a tidy desk, with pens and writing equipment neatly to hand. An atmosphere of filing cabinet prevailed.

But the walls had lots of framed iconographs along with framed diplomas and awards. Mariella's Assassins' Guild credentials took pride of place, a subtle hint to visitors that she had certain qualifications. There were weapons displayed on another wall. That, Bekki had decided, was a trait her aunt shared with her mother. In a certain light and to a visitor with a guilty conscience, it could be described as a little bit intimidating.

It was working on the uniformed visitors, Bekki decided. Both looked uncomfortable. Especially when Mariella sat behind her desk and steepled her fingers, briefly.

"What's this about, then?"

Verdraainer stepped forward, looking annoyed that he'd been manoevred into a position where he looked like an errant underling being rebuked by a superior. Aunt Mariella had not offered him a chair.

"There is top secret military work being carried out in the region known as the Little Kazoo." he said. "As this falls within my administrative region, I have been asked to speak to Miss Smith-Rhodes concerning a security breach earlier today."

"Go on." Aunt Mariella said. "And aren't you going to introduce us to the others you've brought with you?"

She nodded to the man in Rimwards Howondalandian military uniform. He looked nervous and ill at ease.

"You." she said. "You're a captain in the Corps of Military Engineering. I recognise your distinctions. And you're looking at the iconographs on the wall, Captain. Seen the one of me in my military uniform yet?"

"err…" he said. "Captain Rogerson, ma'am. I understand you're a Major in the Selouis Scouts?"

"In the reserve, anyway." Mariella said. "But I get called up for active service now ands again, Captain. As I'm not in uniform justnow, I won't insist you salute. But you can still call me ma'am."

Bekki tried not to grin. Aunt Mariella was doing just fine.

Verdraainer tried to pull things back.

"Miss Smith-Rhodes." he said. He brought out a slim document file. "You are a citizen of the Confederated Republics of Rimwards Howondaland. Therefore you are fully bound by its laws and ordinances. Earlier today you strayed into a restricted military area and witnessed the testing of top secret military equipment. Therefore I am bound to instruct you that you are now legally required to sign the Official Secrets Act and be sworn to secrecy concerning what you saw. You are not to discuss this or talk about this with anybody. This especially includes accredited representatives of the government of Ankh-Morpork."

He passed a copy of the document over. Aunt Mariella took it from him and scanned it.

"In both languages, therefore official." she remarked. "And it specifically names Captain Olga Romanoff as a person with whom this is not to be discussed under any circumstances."

Mariella passed it to Bekki for her to read. She steepled her fingers again.

"As a loyal and law-abiding citizen, Miss Smith-Rhodes should be pleased to sign." Verdraainer said. "And just to be on the safe side, Mrs Lensen.."

He brought out another copy. Mariella scanned it.

"I'm not to talk about it either." she remarked. "Whatever it is."

Mariella turned to Bekki.

"You're not supposed to talk to your commanding officer." she said. "Could cause problems on those two days a week you work for her."

Bekki was about to remark "or whenever she visits here" then her Second Thoughts, speaking in her mother's voice as they always did, stopped her. Think about it, Rebecka. There is a way you can sign this, be compliant to the very letter of what it says, and still ensure Olga knows. Look at Mariella. She's just about to sign. She's worked it out too…

"It's a conflict of interests. You know that, Captain Verdraainer? Like it or not, I'm an Ankh-Morporkian citizen too."

Verdraainer shrugged.

"I am not asking you to betray or go against the interests of Ankh-Morpork, meisie. Merely to respect the interests of this nation. Where you are also a citizen. The nation where you live."

Bekki sighed. She looked at Mariella and they shared a nod.

"Looks like we have no choice, then." Mariella said. "Best we both sign." They shared a carefully almost-blank look of resignation.

Mariella picked up a pen and took the top off an inkwell. She poised it to sign, then looked up, thoughtfully.

"My commanding officer is General Hans Dreyer." she said. "Known as Crowbar because he has a habit of busting things wide open. People in high places often ask him to open things for them, in fact. I'm still free to talk to him? Dankie."

She signed. Bekki signed. Mariella countersigned Bekki's declaration, noting she was under eighteen years of age, and therefore not fully legally capable of signing legally bonding government documents for herself. Mariella made as if to hand them back to Verdraainer, then paused.

"Only one copy? Wait a moment.."

She brought out an iconographic machine, tapped on the box to wake up the imp and said "Date and time-stamp these. Dankie."

Verdraainer made to protest. Mariella smiled at him.

"Copies for our own records, Captain. We're allowed that under law. And all these record is that we signed the Official Secrets Act. They say nothing about the specific official secrets were are now obliged to keep."

She blotted and handed back the originals. Then smiled at the two other men in the room.

"Messieurs, bienvenue à Rimwards Howondaland. Vous avez fait un bon voyage ? Vous êtes peut-être un capitaine du Corps des Ingénieurs. Je reconnais l'uniforme. Et vous, monsieur..."

Bekki followed the conversation. Her aunt carried on speaking in Quirmian.

"Captain Verdraainer forgot to introduce you. And I apologise, Monsieur le Compte. I can place you now. You are of the de Bongolfier family, are you not? Your family own estates at Lechienne, near Quirm City. As for how I recognise you without having met you before, the Guild maintains extensive files on potential clients. At school, my teacher Monsieur le Balouard once had me memorise the names and salient details of a dozen different Quirmian potential clients, till I was word perfect in them, and could recognise iconographs of the clients taken from several different angles. He intended that as instructive punishment, I remember."

Their reluctantly accepted houseguests accepted a courtesy drink as a politeness, but got away as quickly as they could. Bekki added her own courtesy, asking Verdraainer if the medication for dyspepsia was working, and was it easing his gastric condition? Do let me know when you need any more.

"We can have that melktert now." Mariella decided. "And I might forgive you for healing his ailments."

"You'd inhume him."

"I'm an Assassin. It's what I do. If I'm paid enough."

Bekki shrugged.

"And I'm a Healthcare Practitioner. It's what I do. I don't get to choose my clients."

"Point taken." her aunt said.

They had their long-delayed dessert.

"So how are you going to tell Olga?" Mariella asked.

Bekki grinned.

"I thought about it. I can't tell any accredited representative of the Ankh-Morporkian government. Signed a disclaimer."

"Go on." Mariella invited her.

"I can talk to other Witches, though. And you know what Verdraainer got wrong?"

"I'm all ears."

Bekki grinned.

"He forgot about Wee Archie. He's completely free to tell Olga."

Mariella laughed, appreciatively.

"And there was me, feeling clever for realising the Guild of Assassins is not recognised as a formal part of the Ankh-Morporkian administration. Guild law is clear. If something of interest to the Guild happens where I live, I report it. If Lord Downey or Dame Joan decide the information I provide should be shared with Vetinari, that's their decision, and out of my hands."

They laughed together, and shared the melktert. It had been a long day.

The Air Station, Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork

"You have got to be joking! Something that size is never going to get off the ground!" Stacey Matlock objected.

Technical Sergeant Gertrude Schilling shook her head.

"The physics checks out." She said, as if this was an unanswerable argument. "Boiler's Law, remember? This fabric envelope is up to two hundred feet long, secured in a lightweight metal trellis sort of thing, and as it's sort of cigar shaped, it's aerodynamic."

She sighed and amended it to talking-to-pilots.

"It's shaped like a boat. Cuts air resistance. The long gondola it supports underneath, like the basket under a Bongolfier but far bigger, carries the weight of the crew and any passengers. With ease. All they need is a propulsion system. We know they're experimenting with the lightest possible steam engines. And once this is up and moving, once it has momentum, it won't take too much power to keep it moving. Therefore, smaller engine."

"Is it me?" Irena Politek asked. "Penguin, you're saying this isn't reliant on hot air. It uses a special gas which is derived when Wizards on the payroll run a thaumic charge through water. Which then obligingly splits into not two other liquids, but two gases. The lighter gas is drawn off, bottled, and used to fill these von Bleiballon balloons. And because the things are so big and this gas is so light, they can support a lot of weight."

"Got it exactly, Irena."

Irena frowned.

"But this gas is also explosive. It goes off with a big bang when it meets naked flame. So one good fireball. And you're telling me this Prussican nutcase, no offence, Hanna, is planning to use a steam engine to drive them?"

"Heavily shielded and protected at the back of the gondola, a long way away the gas envelope." Gertrude said. "And while I'm not sure on the details, he's aware of the fire risk with hydrogen. There's this family of gases which exist in the atmosphere in really small quantities. But with millions or billions of tons of air up there, that's a really small quantity of quite a lot. The Herr Graf is working on extracting them."

Gertrude noted the carefully blank faces again. Some of the Teks had got it, as had the Flight Wizard.

"Noble gases. Known as the snooty aloof bastards of alchemy, and they don't mix with the other elements. You get helium, neon, Venturium, Selachiium, Rustium…. Anyway. Helium is lightest of all and it's been calculated that filling one of these luftschiffs with helium – which is absolutely fireproof – makes it far safer. So a steam engine on one of those is also pretty safe. Err."

"The documents we've got say this Graf von Bleiballoon has designs, ultimately, on a Lufthansa of passenger and cargo vehicles, to make air travel accessible to all." Olga read. "That's an Airfleet, yes? But this other one line here. He hasn't ruled out the other thing. A military air force, the Prussican Imperial Luftwaffe. An Air Army."

Hanna von Strafenburg suddenly gulped.

"Frau Hauptmann. At this point I am forced to make a declaration to you. I am sorry. I should have volunteered this information sooner and I will accept, without complaint, any punishment you choose to hand out."

She drew breath.

"The Herr Graf Ferdinand von Bleiballoon has approached me to propose that I resign from the Ankh-Morpork City Air Watch and take a position as the Commanding Officer of what will become the Imperial Prussican Luftwaffe."

All eyes turned to her.

Hanna, who looked deeply distressed and unhappy, then dropped the other shoe.

"He has also proposed marriage to me. And I do not know what to do!"

Olga cleared the office quickly, asking for Irena Politek and Nadezhda Popova to remain. A Hanna von Strafenburg in helpless sobbing tears was something she had never seen before. But a friend of long standing was showing a human side. She took a deep long breath and wondered how to deal with this.

On this cliffhanger, to be continued – I've wanted to do a Hanna in Love storyline for a while now, just stuck as to how. Sorry this took so long. But lots of govno coming down over the last few weeks needed to be dealt with.

Part three – soon!

And now – back to Strandpiel 2!

(1) On those occasions, Witches like Irena Politek and Sophe Rawlinson had folded their arms, scowled back, and had said, in as many words "You're Witch-Finders. Congratulations, you've just found a Witch. Your move."

(2) Early days yet. But the backstory to a stranded Agatean ending up in the Air Watch is something that will parody Blackthorne the pilot in "Shogun", only going the other way, from "Japan" to "England". Akuma loses her ship in a uniquely Ankh-Morporkian form of shipwreck – maybe the captain uses it as a last-ditch stake in a game of Cripple Mr Onion….

(2) The ones that didn't realise at this point had a special ward set aside for them at the Lady Sybil. Knowing this was another incentive to unsteeple your fingers. It would be the eyebrow thing next.

(4) Witchcraft was still technically illegal in Ankh-Morpork. It was in the Laws and Ordinances somewhere. But as with things like the right to slay, by longbow and bodkin arrow, any Llamedosian caught within the city limits after the City gates closed, saving it be Octeday and the Llamedosian having claimed sanctuary in a church or temple by firmly gripping an altar cloth(4a), nobody bothered any more. And the City Watch employed Witches these days. Lord Vetinari took the point of view that if anyone really wanted to try to burn a Witch at the stake, it remained a theoretical possibility and he would not attempt to prevent any law-abiding citizen from making the attempt. He considered the result would be instructive and educative to all concerned.

(4a) Challenged in the Year of the Dormant Stickleback by Mr Rhodri ap Howell, who pointed out that by common folk lore, and general knowledge, my body is a temple. And this here suit is made out of an altar cloth from the Tabernacle of Herne the Hunted. Therefore wherever I go I'm covered, boyo.

(5) any alien trying this on in the Chalk would soon meet Tiffany Aching and then wonder why he bothered to leave the security of the Homeworld.

(6) Truth. Étienne de Montgolfier was watching laundry drying on a line nearby to the kitchen fire. He saw some of the lighter garments on the line beginning to lift upwards, in defiance of gravity, and realised the hot air from the fire, meeting the fabric and unable to disperse any further, was exerting a force. He did some thinking and wondered how much lift hot air could exert inside a completely enclosed fabric envelope. A few experiments later, the hot air balloon was born.

(7) Gertrude Schilling had been likened to a distaff version of Ponder Stibbons. People who had met them both speculated on their being twins who had been separated at birth.

(8) Practitionering: Something that might be mistaken for Witchcraft

(9) Bakkie is a generic South African expression for a flat-bed cargo truck or utility vehicle. The Discworld version Bekki is referring to is a home-made lash-up, like a stripped-down sedan chair, propelled by two bearers with Hendricka sitting in state between them.

(10) Some explanation. The original Williams had been in a Llamedosian regiment sent from Ankh-Morpork to fight in what it later called the Boor War. Increasingly annoyed at the results of being led by people called Rust or Venturi, and like many comrades, demoralised by news from Home about unrest in Llamedos and Hergen against Morporkian rule, he had joined the dots and realised the enemy here were people he had a lot in common with – people actively fighting against rule by Ankh-Morpork. He had also surreptitiously picked up one of the leaflets that somehow appeared among Ankh-Morporkian soldiers, pointing this out, and offering fair treatment if you crossed to the Boer lines and deserted. Williams had also been swayed later by the offer of an actual stake in this country if he, as a Llamedosian who also had a grievance with Ankh-Morpork, elected to join the Boers in their just fight. After the war he married a Boer widow – by then there were lots of widows – and over time, the van Williams family became Boers with a hint of ultimate origin somewhere else, and an eccentric habit of giving their children strange foreign names like Gwyneth, Cerys, Eira, Rhodri or Gwynfor.

(11) There was a long tradition of "shooting a line" in the Air Watch. A long-gone pilot called Tatiana Grigorenko had started it when she had bet another pilot called Kiiki Pekisaalen that if she invented a completely made-up story, however ridiculous and up to eleven it was, if she said it with enough conviction and added enough detail, those loonies at AMUFORA would believe it completely. Losing the initial bet, Kiiki had then started adding details of her own.

(12) Although test-Feegle Wee Crazy Stuart had reported afterwards that it was best done on an empty stomach, ye ken, all you swooping and dipping in the air.

---

Notes dump

Weird imaginings from a parallel world linked to ours by strange eldritch connections of wot it would do no good for Man (or other gendered sentient being of choice) to explore.

Wotua Doinov's tone-poem Mellius and Gretalina.

Some explanation; this is a throwaway joke in one of the earlier Discworld books about the legendary romance between a man and a woman born on two separate continents two hundred years apart from each other. They did not give up on their star-crossed doomed love, and this lasted until the Gods were merciful and turned one of them into a small brass bollard and the other into an ironing board.

As Terry Pratchett pointed out, the Gods do not obliged to give reasons.

The Roundworld parallel, of course, consists of all the iterations of the Romeo and Juliet story. Shakespeare wrote the play; three centuries later, Tchaikovsky set it to music. It seems reasonable that on the Discworld, Hwel the Dwarf wrote the play, and that great composer of indeterminate Far Überwaldean ethnicity, Wotua Doinov, would have written the musical version.

Listening to the soaring love theme from Romeo and Juliet – the kind of thing real classical music buffs get sneery about and consider a musical cliché as this is "far too accessible to the common person and therefore cannot be considered to be great music of any merit" – my mind started to consider the whole Mellius and Gretalina thing. I know Terry meant it as an absurd one-off not to be considered or critically examined in any depth.

Cue musicians I've written into the Discworld. Young orchestrally-trained Yulia Vizhinsky might shrug and say "I like it. But the thing with popular pieces like this. After the thirty-seventh performance, you long to do something else. You know, like the minstrel, who is required to play his one great favourite song everywhere he goes, who asks why are people not interested in anything else I've done since that was a hit?(13) Well, same feeling for us."

Miss Ethylene Glynnie (considering the question) "Doinov always writes strong pieces for percussionists. But all this one appears to have is bass drum and cymbals and timpani at the end playing very, very, loudly. Hardly something I can use to emphasise restraint and subtlety in drumming to my pupils. Although I do like this piece. There is always something satisfying in being able to hit the drums very loudly indeed."

But. A man and a woman, Two hundred years of time separated them. And on two separate continents. How did it work? And which two continents? There's the Central Continent, a big place on its own. Then there's Agatea. Fourecks/the Foggy Islands. Howondaland. And… that's it. The rest are lots of outlying islands, a sort of Oceania.

I came to the conclusion that the only way to make it work would be meddling by History Monks. And of course in the Romeo and Juliet story, there's the larger-than-life character of Friar Lawrence.

I am now plotting the Discworld version of Romeo and Juliet, Mellius and Gretalina. This may arrive on FanFiction sometime. The idea intrigues me…. Friar Lawrence being a History Monk who inadvertently introduces romantic complications on his trips up and down the timeline, which, perhaps, Lu-Tze has to unstitch and resew. And Qu, the gadgeteer, might have an experimental machine designed to do the ironing for a busy Monk on the move who can't make time to get the wrong sort of creases out of his own saffron robe. With an internal mechanism based on heavy, heated, rolling brass bollards. This may malfunction.

Ideas are in progress.

From a Facebook discussion on modern flat-earth believers and the crazier end of Christianity, I wrote:

CS Lewis was pretty blatant about it, though: Aslan the Saviour Lion gives himself up to death, dies, and is reborn... I can't imagine an editor advising him that "that's a bit obscure as a metaphor, maybe you could make it more obvious?"

And his mate JRR Tolkein at least dressed it up a bit more, although every female character in LOTR (all three of them) has something of the Blessed Virgin Mary about her. Galadriel is a sort of passive spectator who enables other male characters to fulfil the action; Arwen through her marriage and son restores the dying sin-ridden kingdom of Gondor... Eowyn's symbolic death and rebirth (in defence of her a "son", her hobbit) wins a battle and her marriage/family line brings new vigour to Gondor.

Middle-Earth is also a Christian metaphor, although not as in-your-face. The undying One God creates a world. immediately Satan falls dragging the angelic order down with him, then creates demons (orcs et c). Middle-Earth is originally a flat world until God intervenes and rebuilds it as a globe.

And of course Gandalf, one sent from Heaven to save us, dies and is reborn... three days later. His Second Coming heralds Armageddon, at least for the bad guys.

You could create a religion out of Tolkein. The story is a lot more internally consistent and rather more entertaining. And nobody believes it's more than just fictional!

13 You know. Why Bill Haley was doomed, forty years later, to still be playing Rock Around The Clock to audiences, and why Hawkwind go "Oh, God…" when demands go up to do Silver Machine fifty years after it was a hit in 1972.