John turned to Strubewell. “Have you ever heard of him?”
“I’ve read about him,” Strubewell said. “He was long before my time, but he was very famous in the twenties and thirties. He was a star of what they called horse operas.”
Burton wondered if it was likely that an agent would know that.
“We sometimes make movies on the Rex,” John said, smiling. “But we don’t have horses, as you know.”
“Do I ever!”
The monarch asked Frigate more about the adventure. The American said that at the same time they’d sighted the dirigible, they’d sprung a leak in an apparatus used to heat the hydrogen in the envelope. While trying to cover the leak in the pipe with some quick-setting glue, they’d vented gas from the bag so they could drop quickly into thicker and warmer air and thus open the ports of the gondola.
The leak had been fixed, but a wind started blowing them back and the batteries supplying fresh hydrogen had become dead. They decided to land. When they heard that John had sent a launch ahead to this place to announce that he was recruiting, they’d sailed down here as fast as they could.
“What were you on Earth?”
“A lot of things, like most people. In my middle age and old age, a writer of science-fiction and detective stories. I wasn’t exactly obscure, but I was never near as well known as him.”
He pointed at a medium-sized but muscular man with curly hair and a handsome Irish-looking face.
“He’s Jack London, a great early twentieth-century writer.”
“I’m not too fond of writers,” John said. “I’ve had some on my boat, and they’ve generally caused a lot of trouble. However… who is the Negro who knocked my sergeant on the head without my permission?”
“Umslopogaas, a Swazi, a native of South Africa of the nineteenth century. He is a great warrior, especially proficient with his axe, which he calls Woodpecker. He also is notable as providing the model for the great fictional Zulu hero of the same name created by another writer, H. Rider Haggard.”
“And he?”
John pointed at a brown-skinned black-haired man with a big nose. He stood a little over five feet and wore a large green cloth wrapped in turban fashion.
“That is Nur ed-Din el-Musafir, a much-traveled Iberian Moor, Your Majesty. He lived in your time and is a Sufi. He also happened to have met Your Majesty at your court in London.”
John said, “What?” and stood up. He looked closely at the little man, then shut his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “Yes, I remember him well!”
The monarch got up and strode around the table, his arms open, speaking the English of his time rapidly and smiling. The others were astonished to see him embrace the little man and kiss him on both cheeks.
“Jeeze, another Frenchy!” Mix said, but he was grinning.
After the two had gabbed for some time, John said, “All I have to know is that Nur el-Musafir has traveled far with you and still regards you as his friends. Strubewell, you sign them up and give them instructions. Sergeant Gwalchgwynn, you assign them their cabins. Well, my good friend and mentor, we will talk after I have completed the interviews.”
On the way down the corridor to their quarters, they ran into Loghu. She stopped, turned pale, then red, and screaming, “Peter, you bastard!” she hurled herself at Frigate. He went down with her hands clutching his throat. Laughing, the black and Mix pulled her off of him.
“You sure got a way with people,” Mix said to Frigate.
“Another case of mistaken identity,” Burton said. He explained to Loghu what had happened.
After he’d quit coughing and feeling his finger-marked neck, Frigate said, “I don’t know who this other Frigate was, but he sure must not be likable.”
Reluctantly, Loghu apologised. She was not fully convinced that this Frigate wasn’t her former lover.
Mix muttered, “She can grab me any time she wants to, but not around the neck.”
Loghu overheard him. She said, “If your whacker is as big as your hat, I might just grab it.”
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