Dazzling pink bands of clouds, stretched high in the sky like giant strands of yarn, hung from east to west, coloring the morning in unearthly, pastel tones. The air was clean, cold, and tremulous. And in these blue-pink clearings, now appearing, now vanishing behind banks of fog, a flying ship descended, bathed in the first rays of the sun.
At first glance, it struck one with its anachronism. Its main hull, long and streamlined, resembled the skeleton of an ancient galley, carved from matte, gray-steel alloy. But instead of oars or sails, three pairs of wings extended from the sides of the hull. They were complex, kinetic constructions of many membranous sections, resembling dragonfly wings, but hundreds of times larger. The sections shimmered in the light like mica and curved slightly in time with gusts of wind, as if catching the air. Above the hull rose three intricate, latticed pylons of the same alloy, atop which vertical rotors roared as they spun, holding the unwieldy mass aloft.
The ship, cutting through the last layer of clouds, wet from high-altitude moisture, sparkling in the sun with thousands of streaming droplets, hovered over the cactus field. Its rotors roared furiously, whipping up whirlwinds of orange dust from the loose soil. Light, latticework accordion ladders swung down from the sides with a pneumatic hiss, touched the ground, and took the vessel's weight. The rotors stilled. In the sudden silence that followed, only the thin ringing of cooling metal could be heard.
Slight figures hurriedly descended these ladders as if running down strings. There were about a dozen of them. They were clad in identical uniforms: form-fitting jumpsuits of dull silver, over which were thrown short, wide jackets with massive, raised collars that almost completely concealed the lower part of their faces. Their heads were protected by egg-shaped, smooth helmets without visors, only a narrow dark strip at eye level. In their hands, each carried a weapon. It was short, with a disc-shaped thickening in the middle of a cylindrical body, and most resembled a hybrid of a crossbow and a scientific instrument. The barrels were pointed not at the newcomers, but at the ground, resting on the soldiers' bent arms—a strange, non-combative stance.
Lewis, frowning, stood leaning against the house wall, one hand with a pistol tucked behind his back. His gaze, cold and appraising, slid over the soldiers formed in two ranks.
"Hold their weapons like recruits, the bastards," he muttered under his breath, not taking his eyes off the nearest barrel. "Like they're out for a walk… or a parade."
John stood nearby, his arms calmly folded across his chest. A slight smile played on his lips. He examined the weapons, the joints in the armor, the material of the jackets (resembling woven metallic fabric), and the construction of the helmets, in which the contours of built-in devices could be discerned, with undisguised interest. As an engineer, he understood that perhaps the soldiers were not as simple as they seemed to the carefree Lewis.
The last to descend from the ship was a Rosanian in different attire. His figure was clad in a long, black robe of heavy, almost liquid material, falling in large, distinct folds like a monk or scholar of antiquity. His head was uncovered. It was completely bald, and the skin on his skull was not smooth but bumpy, covered with regular, small protrusions, as if some nodes were implanted beneath it. His beardless face, narrow and elongated, had a bluish tint, like a man who had been in the cold for a long time. But what was most striking were his eyes—large, bulging, the color of pale ice, completely opaque, as if filled with a milky, phosphorescent light.
At his belt hung a sword—long, narrow, almost predatorily elongated. Strange electrical impulses ran along the blade from time to time. Bluish flashes slid from the hilt to the tip and disappeared, leaving behind a barely audible crackle.
He walked past the impeccable ranks of soldiers, his robe trailing over the loose soil. The Rosanian's icy gaze slid over Lewis, lingered for a moment, assessing the threat, and then finally settled on John. It seemed he immediately understood which of them was the scholar. Approaching, he raised his tiny, almost childlike hand in a wide sleeve and spoke a single word. The sound was thin, high-pitched, with avian modulations, but distinct:
"Haelir Ga'ali, vaelor."
His already large eyes seemed to grow even wider, and in their milky depths, points of cold, restrained excitement flared. He repeated the word and, with an imperious gesture—smooth and precise—pointed upward, at the sky where the blood-red star was already fading.
John shook his head negatively and spoke slowly and clearly.
"Earth," he said loudly and distinctly.
"Zem-lya..." With immense effort, breaking the word into syllables, the Rosanian repeated. The skin on his sloping forehead tightened; the bumps beneath it darkened and began to take on a violet hue. Lewis, seeing that conversation had begun, stuck his leg forward, coughed importantly, and declared in an angry but, as he thought, friendly tone:
"From America, we're Americans. We, you know, come to you, on an exchange," he touched an imaginary military cap visor. "We won't hurt you, and you don't hurt us… Ah, he, John, doesn't understand a damn word of your language."
The bluish, intelligent face of the Rosanian remained impenetrably still. Only on his forehead, exactly in the center between his brows, a reddish, glowing spot slowly began to swell, as if a lightbulb was turning on under the skin. Then he made a light, graceful movement with his hand, pointed at the sun, and uttered a new sound, strangely familiar to the ear:
"Saelor."
Then he touched the soil with his finger, made a broad gesture as if embracing a sphere:
"Tumael."
His finger moved to one of the soldiers, then to Lewis, to himself, to John:
"Shaelor."
Thus, methodically and patiently, he named several objects around them with words, listening intently and nodding when John spoke their earthly equivalents. Then he approached John closely and, with unexpected gravity, touched his forehead with his ring finger, exactly at that same point where the red spot glowed on his own. John, understanding the gesture as ritualistic or diagnostic, inclined his head in a respectful response. Lewis was also "scanned" with a finger. But he, after the touch, only jerked his head indignantly.
"Treating us like savages. Hypnosis, or what?"
Then the Rosanian began to peer long and intently into John's face. At first, he looked with restrained, almost bewildered surprise. Then, apparently having mentally reached some conclusion, understanding dawned. His face transformed. He threw up his hands, turned to the soldiers, and spoke very rapidly, his glassy voice sounding piercing and agitated. He pointed at John, then at the sky, and clenched and unclenched his fists.
"Aiu," the soldiers answered in chorus, their voices merging into a low, wailing, almost ritualistic sound.
The detachment commander (or scholar) placed his palm on his forehead, inhaled deeply and noisily, calming himself. When he turned back to John, his eyes were already different—not icy, but darkened, moist with an incomprehensible emotion. He looked John straight in the eyes and spoke slowly, pouring all his meaning into the sounds:
"Aiu… Aiu utara Shaelor, dacia Tumael ra Saelor Ga'ali."
Following this, he covered his eyes with his palm—a gesture full of either reverence or sorrow—and bowed so low that the folds of his black robe touched the ground. Straightening up, he summoned one of the soldiers, took from him a narrow, stylus-like instrument with a sharp tip, and began scratching it into the loose soil of Rosana. Beneath his hand, one after another, appeared schematic but understandable drawings: the house in which John and Lewis had taken refuge that night, and above it—an arched roof, and to the side—a figurine of a soldier with a weapon.
Lewis, watching over his shoulder, immediately translated:
"He's suggesting we leave our things here, and have a guard posted near the house. Only, John, what if they pilfer our things? The house has no doors or locks."
"Stop playing the fool, Lewis," John cut him off, but there was no irritation in his voice, only weariness.
"But he's suggesting we leave all our stuff!" Lewis insisted, lowering his voice to a whisper and nodding towards one of the soldiers. "And I exchanged glances with one, that soldier there—he has the most unreliable face. Shifty eyes."
The Rosanian in black listened to this incomprehensible exchange of remarks with an air of deep attention and respectful curiosity, like a scholar listening to the chirping of unknown birds. John, with gestures—a nod and a broad sweep of his hand—indicated that he agreed to leave the belongings under guard.
Then the Rosanian brought a small silver cylinder to his thin lips and drew from it a quiet but piercing, multi-tonal sound. The ship answered with the same. After this, he began to whistle an entire series of signals—trills, clicks, whistles. And on the summit of the central, tallest pylon of the ship, a fan of the finest, antenna-like wires rose. Between them, miniature blue sparks immediately began to leap with a dry crackle, and the air filled with a faint smell of ozone—a primitive but effective antenna was working.
Then the Rosanian, with a gesture, invited John and Lewis to the ship. The soldiers softly but unmistakably closed ranks around them. Lewis looked them over and grinned wryly—a gesture full of bitterness and acceptance of the inevitable. He waved his hand, walked over to the house, opened his backpack, and pulled out a small shoulder bag with the bare necessities, then closed his backpack tightly again. Then, pointing at it to the soldiers, he distinctly patted the grip of the pistol on his thigh, then shook his index finger threateningly, deliberately making a ferocious grimace. The Rosanians watched this pantomime with undisguised amazement, and some even recoiled.
"Well, Lewis, whether we're prisoners or guests—in any case, we have no choice," John said with a bitter smile. "It seems we're being invited to visit. With all the formalities observed."
They headed towards the ship. On its masts, with a growing, resonant, mechanical roar, the vertical rotors began to spin again, lifting a cloud of dust into the air. The long, flexible wings descended with a soft rustle, preparing for a stroke. From the bow and stern, propellers howled as they gained speed. The guests, or perhaps—honored captives, ascended the fragile-looking but sturdy latticework ladder onto the deck of the flying galley, carrying them into the unknown of this strange, cruel, and beautiful world.