“What’s going on here?” The speaker was Vorndal Sisstt, chief of the station, who had appeared in the main entrance of the supervisors’ building. He was middle-aged, with a round balding head and the severely upright posture of a man who was self conscious about being below average in height. His neat sun-tanned features bore an expression of mingled annoyance and apprehension.

Toller pointed at the descending airship. “Some idiot has travelled all this distance to commit suicide.”

“Have we sent a warning?”

“Yes, but I think it was too late,” Toller said. “There were ptertha all round the ship a minute ago.”

“This is terrible,” Sisstt quavered, pressing the back of a hand to his forehead. “I’ll give word for the screens to be hoisted.”

“There’s no need — the cloud base isn’t getting any lower and the globes won’t come at us across open ground in broad daylight.”

“I’m not going to take the risk. Who knows what the…?” Sisstt broke off and glared up at Toller, grateful for a safe outlet for his emotions. “Exactly when did you become empowered to make executive decisions here? In what I believe to be my station? Has Lord Glo elevated you without informing me?”

“Nobody needs elevation where you’re concerned,” Toller said, reacting badly to the chiefs sarcasm, his gaze fixed on the airship which was now dipping towards the shore.

Sisstt’s jaw sagged and his eyes narrowed as he tried to decide whether the comment had referred to his physical stature or abilities. “That was insolence,” he accused. “Insolence and insubordination, and I’m going to see that certain people get to hear about it.”

“Don’t bleat,” Toller said, turning away.

He ran down the shallow slope of the beach to where a group of workers had gathered to assist in the landing.