Far above this scene, Procul held his dull, brass compass, his eyes perfectly affixed on the horizon. He snapped his compass shut and walked into his cabin. The spectregraph was out on his desk, and he began to crank it. As the components began to whir softly, he saw a central dot. He continued to crank, until finally a blip appeared on the upper left corner of the screen. Another appeared. And another. Three more. He snatched his hand from the crank and walked to the deck with uncharacteristic briskness.

“Fire starboard,” he uttered. No reply. “I said fire starboard.” Still no reply. This time he raised his voice: “For God sakes, who is my first crewman?” Still no reply. Procul yelled: “Fire the aft cannon!”

A pause. Moments later, a roar sounded and the ship rocked back and forth. Procul grabbed the yolk to steady himself. Then, silence. The ship's wood creaked. No activity sounded from below the deck. Brutal tension rose through the cracks in the wood: Procul could smell it. It was crisper than the damp steam he had grown-- or was born? He had forgotten-- accustomed to over his years of service. It was welcome.

A small red and green oval appeared a few hundred feet from Procul. He trotted into his room, snatched his telescope and returned briskly to the deck. He expanded it, and aimed it at his new target. It was a green bottle with a large, red balloon tied to the neck, and it floated softly up towards the heavens. Soon, another appeared, and another, and another. All around the ship, tiny bottles of all different shapes and sizes: round-bottomed decanters and long-necked wine bottles, flew up into the skies, lingering like hawks in the wind. Procul hurried into his cabin and began to spin his spectregraph again. Now, many tiny dots speckled the screen. The unnamed ship was hidden.