The Spotted Custard sank as Percy activated the anti-puffer. Rue’s stomach went up into her throat. It was rather like bobbing on a large wave. They slid through the Charybdis currents easily this time, but unfortunately hit a strong current below that dragged the airship westward away from the beacon.

“Again, professor,” ordered Rue.

Down they bobbed a second time. And a third. And a fourth in quick succession. This was followed by a buffeting spin through another set of fiercer Charybdis currents. Then they were blessedly out. The aether mists cleared and they were floating down through a star-filled sky. Rue wondered, not for the first time, what the aetherosphere looked like from above. And what, in fact, the layer above the aetherosphere was made of – was it even breathable? She was not alone in this curiosity – aether scientists discussed the outersphere as if it were a desirable undiscovered country, and were always concocting new ways to go higher. So far, however, no one had managed to break through.

Percy cranked up the propeller, and The Spotted Custard farted excitedly. Slowly, they swung around to face their original direction of travel, and before them, under the silvered moon, was the upper docking section of the Maltese Tower, the beacon rising above into the aetherosphere.

Rue scurried to the front rail of the forecastle, looking out over the bowsprit at the Sixth Pinnacle of the Modern Age.

The Maltese Tower, one of the Eight Wonders of the British Empire, was as impressive as one might hope. It looked like nothing so much as an immense piece of elaborate cooking equipment – a massive circular oven pot with peepholes and windows and multiple spatulas sticking up and out, only facing the wrong way with their handles in. These spatulas made up the docking ports, a few already boasted dirigibles, ornithopers, and other airships, fresh into port, mooring ropes out. Some were under maintenance, while others were taking on helium, water, or coal. The tiny forms of dock workers scampered along the spatulas like ants along cake servers. The dock of the Maltese Tower resembled a shipyard, only miles up in the air. Not, of course, that Lady Prudence should have any idea what a shipyard looked like.

Rue wasn’t impressed because what made the Maltese Tower one of the Eight Wonders of the British Empire wasn’t its beacon, nor its docking port, but its bottom half.

For when one looked down, it was as if the Maltese Tower kept going for ever, braced and supported by scaffolding so colossal it required most of the island of Malta as its base. This part also looked like an endless stack of kitchen utensils. It was held up not by its own structure, but by hot-air balloons staged all along in a random pattern, balloons that were moved by the winds so that the whole tower swayed one way and then the other under the influence of various breezes. Like some underwater sea worm meets jumble sale.

It must be terribly troublesome in a storm, thought Rue.

The Maltese Tower seemed to have been built with any available material: fabric and net, wood and steel, a massive bicycle here, bits of boat there, very small houses, the occasional train carriage. Rue knew people lived and worked up and down the tower, an entire culture sustained by aetheric travel, but she was hard-pressed to think it wondrous.

Prim came to stand next to her. “Gracious me! It is hideous, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Rue was disposed to be optimistic. “If one squints, it might be called attractively biological. See those parts, dangling. They are like seed pods.”

“Presumably they’re actually habitations and workshops.”

Rue ignored her friend’s lack of romantic vision. “The balloons and air tanks there are like leaves stretching upward.”

“I don’t follow.”

“No, you never do.” Rue was resigned. Primrose was a creature of practical elegance and the Maltese Tower was neither.

They watched as enormous dumb waiters, carrying coal, moved sedately up one side of the tower on thick cables. There were long tubes winding around and sucking up water from the Mediterranean, filtering and siphoning, destined for the great ships that docked far above but tapped all the way along by workers and inhabitants. Rue remembered reading somewhere that the Maltese Tower had a dedicated side business in the salt trade.

Percy guided The Spotted Custard forward gingerly, heading for a port on the nearside. The Custard seemed to be going rather fast.

“I should prefer it, professor, if we didn’t actually crash into the Maltese Tower,” said Rue.

“Yes, captain, I guessed as much.”

The Spotted Custard sped up as she caught a breeze.

“Percy!” said Rue, voice rising.

“Everything is in order, captain.”

Rue lifted the speaking tube. “Cut the boilers, please.”

“Anything for you, mon petit chou,” Quesnel’s warm voice acknowledged the command. Rue was decidedly relieved it wasn’t Aggie.

She added, “Once we’re docked, please come up for a discussion on the matter of shore leave.”

“It would be my pleasure,” replied Quesnel.

Rue replaced the tube with the feeling that her engineering staff was doomed to be a problem, one way or another.

Percy toggled the switch that reversed the propeller to the sound of triple flatulence. The Spotted Custard stuttered, jerking to a slower speed, almost sedate. They glided in and nosed up next to one of the spatulas, subsiding into stillness with one final tremendous ptttttt noise.

“Not the most dignified of arrivals,” commented Primrose.

Percy snipped at his sister: “I thought the point was not to crash.”