Presently, Procul turned around and walked straight out the door. Steigh marched briskly after him, smoke puffing from his pipe. Procul looked up to the sky directly ahead of them. Steigh looked to Procul for a moment, then followed his gaze. For a few moments, he saw, but did not comprehend. Suddenly, his mouth fell the slightest bit open as the image registered. A mid-sized airship drifted slowly away towards Procul's vessel.

Steigh was already marching back into Procul's cabin to examine the device again.
"Our researchers were working on something to a similar effect," he grumbled, "using the reflection of soundwaves-- surely the Spanish must be using a different method. There's no chance it could function in such a compact size..." He gazed at the device, running his hands over it. "We'll have to bring this into the laboratory for testing." He picked up the device. "Procul, I never thought I'd say this, but--" He released a puff from his pipe. "Good work." Steigh began to waddle out of the cabin, the horn sticking up over his head. The machine seemed to challange him with its size, and Procul couldn't help but derive some amusement from the image. Finally, he spoke up.

"Steigh, I'm keeping that," Procul said softly. Steigh turned, his mouth open and his hazel eyes windened with a slight look of fear. His moustache seemed to be losing its wax curling as he began to sweat.
"What are you talking about, Capitan?"
"I'll be needing that machine. You can't have it yet."
Steigh produced a sharp laugh. "I can't have it? What do you need this for, anyway?"
"It's not particularly your concern why I need it. It would concern you, however, if the Yorkshire Hearald were to learn that glorious Great Britain has been trading with hostiles, and the man responsibile is named Commander Steigh."
Steigh's eyes narrowed again. The fear had left. He had encountered this ploy from Procul many times, and he knew the protocal well.
"May I ask you one thing, Procul?"
"What's that, old chum?" Procul asked, smiling softly.
"Will I ever see this machine again?"
"Oh yes, you'll see many of them."

Steigh set the machine on the floor walked out of the cabin without so much as a glance back, puffs of smoke trailing behind his stout frame.

************************

Procul's vessel undocked by dawn the next day. Procul, who had upon receiving his vessel stubbornly refused to name it (it was referred to by others simply as the "no-name"), had only a slight modification done beyond the normal maintence: on the bow of the airship, he had "Aucorita ex recto" etched into the wood.

Procul sat on his desk, uncharacteristically lacking his Capitan's coat or his hat. He sat in his white tunic and his black, cordory pants, writing on a piece of parchment on his study. His penmanship, like all other things Procul did, was elegant in an inhuman way: individual letters were identical to their counterparts, and his signature was completely consistant. His letters hooked and curved just so, striking the balance between artistry and functionality. He scribbled his note and tucked it into an envelope, which he sealed with his standard-issue wax seal. Procul took the envelope and sauntered to the yolk.

Procul stood awkwardly next to Smithen for a while. Smithen darted his eyes towards his capitan, and then back ahead again: he had never seen Procul behave in such a way. Finally:
"Smithen, I have something of a mission for you."
"Yes sir?" Smithen locked the yolk and looked humbly towards his capitan. His dark curls flapped in the wind, and for a moment, Procul was taken off guard. He saw the stubble on his cheeks, and the crow's feet around his eyes: it dawned on him for the first time that Smithen was a man as well. He quickly recovered.
"Smithen, we will soon be over farmland." Procul held the envelope in front of Smithen. "You are to take this envelope and parachute to ground, and you are to deliver it to the first farmhouse you can find. Make sure that they follow the instructions I have listed carefully. You are literate, yes?"
"Yes, sir," Smithen replied.
"You will most likely have to read it to them. It is of the utmost importance that these orders be carried out exactly as I have stated them. Is this clear?"
Smithen paused. "Yes, sir," he answered.
"Good. Ready your parachute presently." Procul handed Smithen the envelope. Procul looked at Smithen's hand and noticed, after all his years of dutiful service, the roughness of his hands. Procul's face, which was always immaculately shaven and perfectly smooth, led him to believe all of Procul's body was this way. His hands were, upon inspection, cracked and weathered as if Procul had endured many years of manual labor. Smithen mused to himself how different some things can from close up.

The crewman scurried off. Procul looked ahead at the open sky: there were some mountains in the distance, but the area below was mostly flat except for gentle, unpresumptuous slopes. The sky was perfectly clear today: a deep, cloudless blue that only nature itself can produce: the shade of blue that even the finest Indian inks can only approximate. Slowly, Procul slid his hand between the hinged orbs and gripped the rough leather handel. He pulled the lever next to the yolk, releasing the lock, and Procul was, for the first time in months, himself in control of the ship's destination.