The cabin interior was done out in a rather stern Teutonic Art Deco. Ginsbergbear lounged in a chrome and leather chair, having returned to his taking of notes. He jotted down snippets of conversation, descriptions of his surroundings and a few plot ideas. The walls were painted in browns and creams to represent marquetry panelling. There was an exclusive looking geometrically patterned rug on the floor with Phoebles kneeling on it. He was trying to remove the catnip ash and disguise a small burn hole.
Up in the cockpit Boz was tapping several dials quite vigorously and looking concerned. A significant number of engines had abandoned their purrrrrh and taken up variations on Clunk-clatter, chug-chug-cough-ch..., and phwwww. One engine pair wailed, "scrscheeeough-plack!" followed it with a ping and then fell silent.
"I think we are going to land." said Ferdy, from the pilot's bucket chair.
"Where? No, don't. We can't!" Boz was having some difficulty maintaining his calm exterior.
"No longer my decision, old comrade. The bird is to become a boat... or an amorphous mass of twisted metal and squishy heroes if the ground down there is as hard as it looks."
The vault above with its carpet of stars and ribbon of Milky Way was as eternal as ever, but the landscape below was getting closer. Black trees reached up towards them from the dark earth. The forest grew aggressively close... then turned to sandy scrub... then a patch of obsidian blackness, peppered with stars - the sky again, below them. A playful zephyr rippled cats' paws that made the stars dance and then break up as the Dornier touched down on the surface of a small lake at a considerably steeper angle than recommended in the flying manuals. She dug in. A bow wave curled back and drenched the cockpit windsceens, spray obscured everything outside, rhinestone teardrops plumed from prop blades or dribbled down the skin of leviathan. Waggling flaps and throwing those engines which still functioned into reverse Ferdinand and Boris brought the craft under control. It slowed, bobbed and eased its bow up a gently shelving beach at the far end of the pond. Phoebus and Ginsbergbear appeared in the doorway.
"Did we miss something?"
Trousers rolled up and boots in hand the heroes disembarked and as they reached the strand yellowing twin headlamps flashed three times from the woodedge, a signal.
The transport awaiting them was an ageing Chevy pick-up with Strawberry at the wheel. Boz and Phoebles piled into the cab whilst Ferdinand and Ginsbergbear scrambled over the tailgate and settled down amongst the sacks and boxes in the back. It is possible that having three ginger cats in the driving cab of a blue Chevrolet truck is not ideal. As they pulled away Boris decided to take command though he had no idea where they were. Phoebles had a map that Ginsbergbear had lent him and elected to be navigator. The map however covered the entire world in indifferent detail and was in a foreign language. Strawberry had the wheel and managed to retain it despite a great deal of pushing and shoving and squabbling. As they careered through the winding lanes with headlamps picking out fleeting detail in the gloom Ginsbergbear rang ahead on his shiny new i-Phone. He and Ferdy sat braced with their backs to the cab from which came shrieks and thumps and Rossini on a blaring car-radio.
After a hair raising half hour the truck pulled up outside Aunty Stella's house and Strawberry papped the horn. Ginsbergbear banged on the roof of the cab to attract the attention of those within. He shouted through the window, "I have rung the aerodrome. They will have the Princess Aethelfleda fired up and ready for us."
Aunty Stella emerged, resplendent in pith helmet and tweeds and carrying a small overnight bag. Ferdy jumped down, helped her up over the tailboard and they were off again, heading north.
"Slasher and Mouse may well follow tomorrow. they are still making sandwiches."
Outside the immense hangers, the Princess was tethered to a complex mast and was shimmering in the intense arc-lighting. The enormous oval hull was humbug striped in liquorice and pearl with crimson tailplanes. The gondola and propulsion units, constructed of the strongest and lightest of modern materials were finished to appear as brass and mahogany. She had been designed as a thermal-dirigible and was in fact a hybrid hotairship; helium counteracted the weight of the construction whilst the burners heated air to provide lift and control.
With the Chevy neatly parked in front of a Keep Clear sign the sextet mounted the boarding ladder. Ferdy was explaining the changed circumstances to Aunty Stella, "...rescue mission, way up north."
"Perhaps I can swap the pith helmet for something woollier when we get to The Land of Green Ginger."
"The Kittens are organising all sorts of cold weather provisions." Ferdy replied, with conviction.
Ground crew were already heaving on the mooring lines, manoeuvring the airship out into the field. Ferdy took up position at the helm on the spartan "bridge" whilst the others looked agog at the pipes, valves, breakers, buttons and dials in the engine control room. The burners not only controlled lift, but also provided steam to the propulsion units. All this power and energy had to be directed to where it was needed. In the waist of the gondola was the rather tight accommodation, a galley and mess, across the stern the saloon with large bow windows and a narrow walkway around the outside. Those not occupied with the takeoff began to stow their gear.
The main burners had been roaring for a while and the vectored propellers set up a continuous "Vvvwwwww..." hum. The dirigible rose and slowly turned its nose northwards. It began to snow.
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