A foul stench alerted Procul of Smithen's return. Procul locked the yolk and turned to his crewman. Smithen looked almost comical: his already hefty build was exaggerated with the courdory jumpsuit, and the large rucksack he bore gave him the appearance of a hunchback. Procul, however, simply gave his crewman a solemn salute. Smithen saluted back, raising his small, round head proudly. Procul turned silently back to the yolk, gracefully unlocking it, as Procul ran off the edge off the starboard edge of the airship. His figure became increasingly smaller until it blossomed into a British flag and slowly descended to the farmland below.

One minute and thirty five seconds later, Smithen was crashing with surprising momentum into the ground. Smithen was not normally graceful, and his landing was anything but out of character: he ran a few meters, stumbled, and fell heavily on his side, his dully-colored parachute flapping over his face. After a few seconds of struggle, he feed himself from his parachute's grip, clawing and gasping his way out of his trap. He unbuckled the straps and hoisted himself to his feet. He looked around. A small, wooden cabin was to the southwest. Smoke was rising from the chimney. He cracked his neck, dusted off his pants, and began to walk.

A few hundred yards higher and a few hundred yards to the southwest, Procul began to slow the airship. The great engines let a soft "put put" of protest before shutting off. A second passed, and a sharp hiss of steam came from Procul's left, and slowly subsided. Procul stood still for a second, then, a yell:

"All crew to conflict positions!" The unnamed ship turned in a flurry of pit-pats, of clinks and clanks, of clicking and creaking. Whispers of confusion and mutters of dissent leaked from the gaps in the wood and twirled like steam but did not condense. Inside Procul's head there was nothing. There was the moment after a flash of lightening when one is waiting for the thunder. There was the blankness of an inevitable event. There was the sky, there was the ground, and there was the unsustainable layer in between; only mankind could ever dream of this layer: this layer which requires constant effort to not plummet to earth, this layer in which the wealth of nations are lost or secured, this layer in which life is not destined to go. This, Procul thought, is home.

Back on earth, a rotten-smelling, unshaven man was bursting into the home of a husband and a wife enjoying a shepard's pie next to a fire. As soon as the door burst open, they wiped their faces with their napkins and jumped to their feet. The husband was about to reach for his pitchfork when he saw the RAF insignia on Smithen's uniform. He stops, straightens, and salutes. Awkwardly, his wife follows suit. Smithen, again demonstrating his lack of grace, nodded his head and reached into his breast pocket, producing a letter. He broke the seal, took the letter out, and squinted to read Procul's handwriting. He cleared his throat and began to read.

"Dear stranger,

"In all probability, we have not met. My request is unusual, and, as my dearest friend--" (Smithen tripped only slightly on his words at this-- "will tell you, I would not leave it in the hands of strangers were it not of the utmost urgency.

"The nation of Spain has developed a technology which detects airship and displays a specters of these ships on a phosphoric screen. This technology has fallen into friendly hands; however, even if our engineers were able to mimic its function, it would be far too late to prevent the impending Spanish attack on our central, (and, before a certain commander's strategic blunder, secret) RAF airdock. Due to both conscience and coincidence, I have taken it upon myself and my crew to prevent this attack at all costs, and have chosen to spare the man you see before you so he may become my successor." The poor strangers kept their eyes wide in horror as Smithen choked on his words. He gathered himself, and continued.

"That said, my orders to you are as follows:"