Emperor of Gondwanaland Read Online Free

southern Carambriole is only three weeks away. Your troubles will be over as soon as you land. Let others try the voyage again, if they will.”
    Merino parted his sensualist’s lips, and for a moment I was convinced he wanted—longed—to accept. Then the indigo eyes of the Fanzoy—Tess—seemed almost to spark, its upper lip fluting in that obscene fashion. A visible twinge went through Merino, whose back was to the native.
    “No, I am afraid that is impossible. You must do whatever you can to refit my ship, so I may continue. Spare sails, cells, bots—whatever you can lend.”
    I balked. “It seems like helping to send you to your doom. The Fanzoii are not experienced. You yourself are debilitated by your woes.”
    Merino assumed a sudden absurd gaiety, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “We are prattling out here under the blazing sun like savages. This is not the treatment I should be extending to a guest—nay, a rescuer. Let’s adjourn to my cabin for a meal—it’s past noon—and discuss things further.”
    I considered. It seemed allowable. I might learn more if Merino felt more relaxed.
    “Done. Provided we can send my man Belgrano something at his watch.”
    “Certainly,” said Merino. “Come with me.”
    We reversed our course. As we were passing a large plastic water butt, full of a stagnant algae soup, I chanced to see the crouching figure of Purslen Monteagle behind it. Merino did not notice him, his eyes focused rather on some private landscape.
    The Sanctus, knowing he had my attention, worked his wrinkled lips silently, over and over again, mouthing a single word which I at last interpreted as a name.
    “Sadler.”
     
    IV. A Meal, and Its Consequences
     
    Back in front of the aft deckhouse we encountered the twelve seated Fanzoii. Their demeanor was obscure and unfathomable. Still in the positions we had left them in—ophidian limbs neatly coiled, truncheons laid across the valleys of their robes—they emanated a curious sensation of mental communion with each other, for all that their ianthine eyes followed our movements precisely.
    Merino ignored—or truly failed—to see them.
    The Fanzoy named Tess exchanged, I thought, a brief glance with her kin.
    The captain of the Cockerel laid his bejeweled fingers on the door handle to his cabin. I noticed the smashed security keypad above the handle, and wondered how the storm had done that damage.
    “You must,” said Merino, “excuse the condition of my cabin. At home, I was overused to servants, I fear, and have consequently never gotten accustomed to tidying up after myself. And with the trouble and all …”
    I dismissed his concerns—as always, seeking to make myself agreeable to him, and so bring down the barrier I felt he was maintaining between us. “I am not overnice,” I said. “Life at sea is not for the fastidious. A moderate cleanliness suffices.”
    “Not for the fastidious,” he mused somberly. “How true.”
    He swung the invalid door open and we entered.
    Besmudged windows excluded much light. My eyes were some time in adjusting. Merino failed to turn on any luminescents, and only then did the ship’s complete lack of power hit home. Suddenly, I had a vivid image of Merino sitting in this stuffy cave on a black night, his ship drifting helplessly, the insidious Tess his only companion. I experienced a deep sympathy for the man, tinged with revulsion.
    My eyes could see at last. If I had thought the deck full of detritus, it had only just prepared me for Merino’s quarters.
    More logbook pages lay like a snowy blanket. Organic rubbish bred unhealthy odors. Two large wooden chairs flanked an intricately carved table, whose top was heaped with miscellaneous objects: a broken clock, a ceremonial dagger, glasses, a bottle of yellow wine, redolent cigar stubs. A bunk bore dirty, sweat-reeking sheets in a tangle. A door led inward to what I surmised was a private galley or head.
    “Take a seat,” said Merino debonairly, as