The cataract of Saint-Jean-les-Eaux plunged between pinnacles of rock at the eastern end of a spur of the Alps, and the geing station g to the side of the mountain above it. It was a wild region, a bleak and battered wilderness, and no one would have built anything there at all had it not been for the promise of driving great anbarierators with the power of the thousands of tons of water that roared through the ge.
It was the night following Mrs. Coulters arrest, and the weather was stormy. he sheer stone front of the geing station, a zeppelin slowed to a hover in the buffeting wind. The searchlights below the craft made it look as if it were standing on several legs of light and gradually l itself to lie down.
But the pilot wasnt satisfied; the wind was swept into eddies and cross-gusts by the edges of the mountain. Besides, the cables, the pylons, the transformers were too close: to be swept in among them, with a zeppelin full of inflammable gas, would be instantly fatal. Sleet drummed slantwise at the great rigid envelope of the craft, making a hat almost drowhe clatter and howl of the straining engines, and obsg the view of the ground.
"Not here," the pilot shouted over the noise. "Well go around the spur."
Father MacPhail watched fiercely as the pilot moved the throttle forward and adjusted the trim of the ehe zeppelin rose with a lurd moved over the rim of the mountain. Those legs of light suddenly lengthened and seemed to feel their way down the ridge, their lower ends lost in the whirl of sleet and rain.
"You t get closer to the station than this?" said the President, leaning forward to let his voice carry to the pilot.
"Not if you want to land," the pilot said.
"Yes, we want to land. Very well, put us down below the ridge."
The pilot gave orders for the crew to prepare to moor. Sihe equipment they were going to unload was heavy as well as delicate, it was important to make the craft secure. The Presideled back, tapping his fingers on the arm of his seat, gnawing his lip, but saying nothing aing the pilot work unflustered.
From his hiding pla the transverse bulkheads at the rear of the , Lord Roke watched. Several times during the flight his little shadowy form had passed along behind the metal mesh, clearly visible to anyone who might have looked, if only they had turheir heads; but in order to hear what was happening, he had to e to a place where they could see him. The risk was unavoidable.
He edged forward, listening hard through the roar of the ehe thunder of the hail and sleet, the high-pitched singing of the wind in the wires, and the clatter of booted feet oal walkways. The flight engineer called some figures to the pilot, who firmed them, and Lord Roke sank bato the shadows, holding tight to the struts and beams as the airship plunged and tilted.
Finally, sensing from the movement that the craft was nearly anchored, he made his way back through the skin of the to the seats oarboard side.
There were men passing through in both dires: crew members, teis, priests. Many of their daemons were dogs, brimming with curiosity. Oher side of the aisle, Mrs. Coulter sat awake and silent, her golden daemon watg everything from her lap and exuding malice.
Lord Roke waited for the d then darted across to Mrs. Coulters seat, and in the shadow of her shoulder in a moment.
"What are they doing?" she murmured.
"Landing. Were he geing station."