A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist by Ron Miller Page A

black bulk of the balloon. Beneath it the grass is hidden by shifting tendrils of mist rising from the cool, dank earth; the sphere looks as though it was already hovering above the clouds. Beyond is the enormous domed structure that holds the airship Albatross. To its left is a smaller building. No lights show in any of its windows. Bronwyn draws the baron’s ear near her mouth and says quietly, “Those are barracks and workshops.”
    “Are there any guards?”
    “I don’t think so, but let’s not take any chances.”
    Circling the perimeter of the field, staying close against the background of trees, they eventually arrive, after what seems an interminable passage of time, behind the pyramidal pile of cylinders that had held the gas that inflated the balloon.
    They still have seen no one.
    “All right,” says Bronwyn, gathering her followers near to her. “Baron, you, Thud and Gyven get into the basket. Take this . . .” she shifts the bag she has been carrying from her shoulder and hand it to Milnikov, “ . . . and wait for me.”
    “Wait for you? Where’re you going?”
    “I have an idea.”
    “It’s going to be dawn soon; there’ll be people showing up any minute!”
    “I know it, so hurry up and get into the basket, you’re wasting time!”
    She ends the discussion by turning her back on the baron and striding rapidly away, toward the airship hangar. The others are left with little choice but to follow her directions.
    To keep from being too obvious, Bronwyn follows the line of debris that occupies the space between the gas cylinders and the airship hangar and the confusion of empty cylinders, barrels, tanks, carts, empty crates, coils of hose and pipe, and metal scraps effectively camouflage her. She has taken the precaution of dressing in dark colors, and wears a practical outfit of corduroy plus-fours and belted jacket, wool stockings, heavy high-buttoned boots, flannel shirt and a cap.
    Only a few minutes suffice to take her to the nearest corner of the hangar, its black, curving sides swooping up and away from her like an enormous wave. The front of the building is a vertical wall with a pair of tall doors that stood partially open. There has not been a sign of anyone else, the aerodrome is as quiet and dark as when she had arrived, yet her heart is pounding like a bilge pump and her breathing comes in piscine gulps and gasps.
    Gluing herself to the doors, she sidle along them until she reaches the opening. Peering around its edge, into the cavernous interior, she at first can see nothing and for a terrible moment thinks that the aeronef is no longer there. Then she realizes that it is above her, its spindle-shaped nose directly over her head. Slipping into the hangar, she keeps her back to the open door to allow her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.
    Just above her is the underside of the gondola, a complex and vaguely insubstantial-looking structure of spidery metal, wickerwork and wood, with innumerable braces and projections. To her dismay, she realizes that it is all just out of her reach, even the nearest part of the gondola is still two or three feet beyond her grasp.
    All of her resolve drains from her at that moment, as though someone has just opened a stopcock in her foot; more than anything she can imagine, she want to retreat to the waiting balloon. Added to her fears is the increasing danger of hyperventilation.
    Nevertheless, she searches the darkness for anything that looks useful . . . how in the world do the aeronauts get into the thing? There must be a way. Fortunately, the dim glow that comes in through the open door, and which is increasing at a disturbing rate as the moment of dawn creeps nearer, allows her to resolve some of the shadowy shapes that litter the floor around her. Almost immediately she spies a squat stepladder. Dragging it beneath the rear of the gondola, ignoring the chattering noise its legs made on the hard floor, she clambers to its top step. This