cable until I was at the same level as the gondola, not six feet away.
I felt no fear. If someone had put an ear to my chest, he’d find it beating no faster than it had in the crow’s nest. It was not bravery on my part, simply a fact of nature, for I was born in the air, and so it seemed the most natural place in the world to me. I was slim as a sapling and light on my feet. The crew all joked I had seagull bones, hollow in the center to allow for easy flight. To swing across this little gap, four hundred feet aloft, was no more to me than skipping a crack in the pavement. Because deep in my heart, I felt that if I were ever to fall, the air would support me, hold me aloft, just as surely as it did a bird with spread wings.
There was a bit of a breeze building now, twirling me some at the end of the cable. I grabbed both my safety lines and started pumping my legs, a youngster on a playground swing. Back and forth, back and forth. At the forward end of my arc, when I looked down, I figured I was almost over the rim of the gondola. Just a little more. Back I went, legs folded tight.
Then: that moment when you’re almost motionless, just hanging there for a split second before you start swinging forward again.
“Let run the line!” I shouted. I kicked forward, body flat, legs shooting out, and felt myself drop suddenly—and keep dropping. I sat up quickly as the cable paid out, and I was slanting down toward the gondola fast but—
Falling short.
I flung myself forward, stretching, and just hooked my forearms over the gondola’s lip. My body slammed into the side, scratching my face against the wicker and knocking all my breath out. It took a moment to suck some air into me. My arms sang with pain. I heard the crew above in the Aurora , cheering me. I heaved myself up, scrabbling with my feet for purchase, and then crashed over into the gondola.
Beside the man.
But there was not time to tend to him. I stood, grabbed hold of the davit’s hook, and unshackled my two safety lines. Then I cast about for somewhere secure to attach the hook—it had to be something strong, for it would be bearing the gondola’s entire weight once I cut the balloon free. Above my head was a metal frame that supported the burners. The frame had four metal struts that were welded to the gondola’s iron rim. It all seemed a little rickety, but it would have to be good enough; I saw nothing better. I curled the hook around the burner frame, as close to its center as I could manage.
“Reel her in!” I bellowed up at the Aurora. I saw the line quickly swing up and become taut. The hook grabbed. The gondola shuddered. A long, nasty squeal came from the burner frame. I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I stared, breath stoppered in my throat, at those four bits of metal that tethered the burner frame to the gondola. They were never supposed to support the gondola’s entire weight. That’s what the balloon was meant to do.
But now the balloon was coming down, slowly collapsing toward the gondola—and the burner. The whole lot might go up in flames, with me and the pilot caught beneath.
Flight lines. Flight lines.
I’d never sailed a balloon, and the rigging was unfamiliar to me.
There were eight lines holding the balloon to the gondola, two stretching up from each corner.
“Take care, Mr. Cruse!” I heard the captain shout down at me.
I glanced overhead. Despite being hooked to the davit, the gondola was dragging the great balloon ever closer to the Aurora ’s hull and engines. In a few minutes they’d collide. I had to be quicker.
The knife glinted in the starlight as I sawed away at the first flight line. It was thick braid, and my heart sank when I began, but the captain’s sharp knife bit deep and kept going. Snap went that first line, and the gondola didn’t even shift. I did the line opposite, not wanting the gondola to start hanging crooked.
The balloon was sagging now almost to the burner. I didn’t have
I felt no fear. If someone had put an ear to my chest, he’d find it beating no faster than it had in the crow’s nest. It was not bravery on my part, simply a fact of nature, for I was born in the air, and so it seemed the most natural place in the world to me. I was slim as a sapling and light on my feet. The crew all joked I had seagull bones, hollow in the center to allow for easy flight. To swing across this little gap, four hundred feet aloft, was no more to me than skipping a crack in the pavement. Because deep in my heart, I felt that if I were ever to fall, the air would support me, hold me aloft, just as surely as it did a bird with spread wings.
There was a bit of a breeze building now, twirling me some at the end of the cable. I grabbed both my safety lines and started pumping my legs, a youngster on a playground swing. Back and forth, back and forth. At the forward end of my arc, when I looked down, I figured I was almost over the rim of the gondola. Just a little more. Back I went, legs folded tight.
Then: that moment when you’re almost motionless, just hanging there for a split second before you start swinging forward again.
“Let run the line!” I shouted. I kicked forward, body flat, legs shooting out, and felt myself drop suddenly—and keep dropping. I sat up quickly as the cable paid out, and I was slanting down toward the gondola fast but—
Falling short.
I flung myself forward, stretching, and just hooked my forearms over the gondola’s lip. My body slammed into the side, scratching my face against the wicker and knocking all my breath out. It took a moment to suck some air into me. My arms sang with pain. I heard the crew above in the Aurora , cheering me. I heaved myself up, scrabbling with my feet for purchase, and then crashed over into the gondola.
Beside the man.
But there was not time to tend to him. I stood, grabbed hold of the davit’s hook, and unshackled my two safety lines. Then I cast about for somewhere secure to attach the hook—it had to be something strong, for it would be bearing the gondola’s entire weight once I cut the balloon free. Above my head was a metal frame that supported the burners. The frame had four metal struts that were welded to the gondola’s iron rim. It all seemed a little rickety, but it would have to be good enough; I saw nothing better. I curled the hook around the burner frame, as close to its center as I could manage.
“Reel her in!” I bellowed up at the Aurora. I saw the line quickly swing up and become taut. The hook grabbed. The gondola shuddered. A long, nasty squeal came from the burner frame. I didn’t like the sound of that at all. I stared, breath stoppered in my throat, at those four bits of metal that tethered the burner frame to the gondola. They were never supposed to support the gondola’s entire weight. That’s what the balloon was meant to do.
But now the balloon was coming down, slowly collapsing toward the gondola—and the burner. The whole lot might go up in flames, with me and the pilot caught beneath.
Flight lines. Flight lines.
I’d never sailed a balloon, and the rigging was unfamiliar to me.
There were eight lines holding the balloon to the gondola, two stretching up from each corner.
“Take care, Mr. Cruse!” I heard the captain shout down at me.
I glanced overhead. Despite being hooked to the davit, the gondola was dragging the great balloon ever closer to the Aurora ’s hull and engines. In a few minutes they’d collide. I had to be quicker.
The knife glinted in the starlight as I sawed away at the first flight line. It was thick braid, and my heart sank when I began, but the captain’s sharp knife bit deep and kept going. Snap went that first line, and the gondola didn’t even shift. I did the line opposite, not wanting the gondola to start hanging crooked.
The balloon was sagging now almost to the burner. I didn’t have
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