Read Online A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist by Ron Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron Miller
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and beard . . . with eyes like beads of lapis behind his gold-rimmed glasses. The professor introduces his guests and Bronwyn learns that the grey-bearded man is General Noorvik, who is the engineer in charge of the institute’s aeronautical research.
“Would you care to inspect the Albatross?” he asks.
“How’s it coming along?” replies Wittenoom, who seems to be on far friendlier terms with the general than any of his scientist colleagues. Does aerostatics have something to do with palæocochlæology? Bronwyn wonders.
“Fine! Fine! We should be ready for a test flight in a week or so. We’ve just inflated the envelope for the first time. Come on in and see!”
The princess follows the others into the voluminous shadow. Her eyes adjust to the darkness and as they did they reveal, like a latent photograph developing, the swelling grey shape she had seen earlier. It is an enormously fat spindle, as large as the hull of a boat, three or four times larger than the aerostat, fish-shaped, as sleek as a tuna. As she approaches, its curve expands over her head, as a planet must appear to a descending meteorite. Beneath, and attached to the undersurface of the envelope, is what at first appears to be a miniature railroad passenger car. Outriggers to either side of this support large fans or propellers with broad, paddle-like blades.
“And what does her Highness think of the airship Albatross?” the jovial general asks the princess.
“It’s just wonderful,” she replies; then the tears she had been trying so hard to restrain burst forth.
“Princess! What’s the matter?” cries the baron, instantly concerned.
“Can we go?”
“You want to leave?”
“Yes. General. Professor Wittenoom. Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind. Believe me when I tell you that I can’t express what this day has meant to me. Baron, please, take me back to the palace.”
“Of course,” he says, puzzled and worried, but the princess says nothing to allay his concern, neither then nor on the way back to the palace. As they return, Bronwyn refuses to look out the coach’s windows, instead keeping her head low, staring at her clasped hands.
Waiting for them when they reenter the palace is one of the king’s ministers.
“Ah!” he cries. “It’s fortunate that your Highness has returned so early!”
“And why is that?” replies the princess.
“Someone has arrived from Blavek.”
“Who? Surely not my brother?”
“No, he sent a representative.”
“A representative? Who?”
“An envoy plenipotentiary named Lord Bugarach.”
“Bugarach? I remember an ambassador named Bugarach, but that was an awfully long time ago. He must be a very old man by now.”
“Lord Bugarach appears to be quite young.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“His Majesty has arranged for a reception in Lord Bugarach’s honor and he expects your Highness to be there.”
“Oh, Musrum! A reception? When?”
“Tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SURPRISED PARTIES
“Oh Baron! I can’t wear this!” cries Bronwyn, in distraught embarrassment.
“You look lovely, my dear,” soothes Milnikov, thinking that he had not based his reputation on making such extreme understatements. Far from being merely lovely, the thought continues, the princess is unexpectedly disturbing.
“I feel naked ,” she complains.
“Not at all,” lies the baron, who actually could not have agreed with the princess more. The dress that is causing Bronwyn so much anxiety is of a luminous black velvet that makes her shimmer as sleekly as a wet otter. Flaring from hips to heels, the extent to which it covers the remaining part of her body, to the princess’s great distress, is not as much as she would have liked.
“You can see the tops of my bosom,” she argues, keeping her arms demurely and firmly crossed over that contested area, though not more than four or five inches separate either of her collarbones from the heart-shaped
“Would you care to inspect the Albatross?” he asks.
“How’s it coming along?” replies Wittenoom, who seems to be on far friendlier terms with the general than any of his scientist colleagues. Does aerostatics have something to do with palæocochlæology? Bronwyn wonders.
“Fine! Fine! We should be ready for a test flight in a week or so. We’ve just inflated the envelope for the first time. Come on in and see!”
The princess follows the others into the voluminous shadow. Her eyes adjust to the darkness and as they did they reveal, like a latent photograph developing, the swelling grey shape she had seen earlier. It is an enormously fat spindle, as large as the hull of a boat, three or four times larger than the aerostat, fish-shaped, as sleek as a tuna. As she approaches, its curve expands over her head, as a planet must appear to a descending meteorite. Beneath, and attached to the undersurface of the envelope, is what at first appears to be a miniature railroad passenger car. Outriggers to either side of this support large fans or propellers with broad, paddle-like blades.
“And what does her Highness think of the airship Albatross?” the jovial general asks the princess.
“It’s just wonderful,” she replies; then the tears she had been trying so hard to restrain burst forth.
“Princess! What’s the matter?” cries the baron, instantly concerned.
“Can we go?”
“You want to leave?”
“Yes. General. Professor Wittenoom. Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind. Believe me when I tell you that I can’t express what this day has meant to me. Baron, please, take me back to the palace.”
“Of course,” he says, puzzled and worried, but the princess says nothing to allay his concern, neither then nor on the way back to the palace. As they return, Bronwyn refuses to look out the coach’s windows, instead keeping her head low, staring at her clasped hands.
Waiting for them when they reenter the palace is one of the king’s ministers.
“Ah!” he cries. “It’s fortunate that your Highness has returned so early!”
“And why is that?” replies the princess.
“Someone has arrived from Blavek.”
“Who? Surely not my brother?”
“No, he sent a representative.”
“A representative? Who?”
“An envoy plenipotentiary named Lord Bugarach.”
“Bugarach? I remember an ambassador named Bugarach, but that was an awfully long time ago. He must be a very old man by now.”
“Lord Bugarach appears to be quite young.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“His Majesty has arranged for a reception in Lord Bugarach’s honor and he expects your Highness to be there.”
“Oh, Musrum! A reception? When?”
“Tonight.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SURPRISED PARTIES
“Oh Baron! I can’t wear this!” cries Bronwyn, in distraught embarrassment.
“You look lovely, my dear,” soothes Milnikov, thinking that he had not based his reputation on making such extreme understatements. Far from being merely lovely, the thought continues, the princess is unexpectedly disturbing.
“I feel naked ,” she complains.
“Not at all,” lies the baron, who actually could not have agreed with the princess more. The dress that is causing Bronwyn so much anxiety is of a luminous black velvet that makes her shimmer as sleekly as a wet otter. Flaring from hips to heels, the extent to which it covers the remaining part of her body, to the princess’s great distress, is not as much as she would have liked.
“You can see the tops of my bosom,” she argues, keeping her arms demurely and firmly crossed over that contested area, though not more than four or five inches separate either of her collarbones from the heart-shaped
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