There was a sound in the night, a roaring, crumbling noise like thunder or rock falling from the peak above my cave. It was loud enough to wake me and, fearing that I might be trapped in the cave I rose from my bed, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and groped my way through the darkness towards its narrow entrance. I cursed myself for my foolishness in leaving my only lamp by the entryway to my shelter.

I had now, so far I could tell, been living on the deserted land where the El Dorado had come to rest for eight days. Long enough, as I described at the beginning of what must seem like an interminable and poorly organised tale, to gather around me the essentials of survival. Not long enough, however, to be certain of the sustainability of my continued existence. My resources were finite and strictly limited. This land was small, steep, and possessed neither a spring nor any significant vegetation. Once my supplies of water and food ran out I would be in desperate straits indeed. But now it looked as if I faced a more immediate problem than starvation.

After stubbing my toes twice and hitting my head against the roof of the cave three times I found the piece of cloth that I had hung across the entrance. Now all I had to do was crouch down to the right and find the place where I had left the lantern. I groped around and, after what seemed like an age, my hand brushed against it and - damn! - knocked it to the ground. I heard it roll away into the back of the cave.

Continuing to swear immoderately, I considered what to do next. Should I go after the lantern, or continue down the passage to the open air? No, leave the lamp. It would take a further age to find in the pitch dark, and it might have been broken by its fall and be useless anyway. I got on my hands and knees and crawled forward, every moment expecting to hit my head against the stones which, I was rapidly convincing myself, had fallen across the mouth of the cave, sealing me inside.

Inch by inch, like a dog returning unwillingly to its master for chastisement, I made my way over the rough ground until a release of pressure on my ears and a chill breeze against my face told me that I was outside and in the open air. I stood up carefully and blinked. I looked around me. Yes, there were the stars, and there was the peak above me, silhouetted against the golden light of Hally.

So my first fear had proved groundless, but… the grinding sound had not been an imagining or a dream. I have, I am told, a weak imagination and I never dream. But if the noise had not been made by crashing rock or thunder - for there was no rain and the ground was perfectly dry - what could it have been?

The answer to that question was suddenly terribly obvious. The El Dorado! Had she broken from her temporary moorings? Had I heard her scraping over the ground as she drifted free of the land? Was she lost to me? I was stricken by a shock of panic. The ship had become a constant in my mind; but if a gust of wind had torn her loose and swept her away... I am, as you will have ascertained, not a man of action, but I ran like a mad berserker from a history book down the hill and around to the place where I had last seen the El Dorado, not minding how often I fell or how much skin I abraded from my knees and elbows. Why did it have to be this particular night that the light of the worlds was hidden from me and the land cloaked in darkness?

Back and forth, back and forth, blundering into rocks, tripping over boulders, waving my hands in front of my face to prove to myself that I could still see… I said only a moment ago that I do not dream, but I suffered terrible nightmares in my desperate search for the El Dorado. And then, just as I realized that I had become hopelessly lost and that I should have to wait until daybreak brought the light of the Blessèd sun if I were to find my way back to the cave, I tripped over a different kind of obstruction and, even as I fell flat on my face, cried out in triumph. The mooring rope! I had found the line by which I had secured the ship to the land! I got to my feet and, letting the rope run through my fingers, worked my way carefully downhill until I could see the bulk of the El Dorado's hull obscuring the stars. Breaking my own rule about going on board at night time, I climbed through the hole that I had cut in the fabric of the vessel and, more certain of myself now that I was inside and in relatively familiar surroundings, felt my way to the main corridor and thence to the captain's quarters, when I lay down on the bunk, still wrapped in the blanket I had brought from the cave and, exhausted by shock and fear, fell fast asleep.

- 0 -

You must not suppose that I had, now that I was safe on land, ceased wondering about the circumstances which lay behind my unexpectedly setting out to sea. I still did not know who had cut the ropes which had held the ship securely in her dock and once I had settled on board it seemed that the question had become unimportant. I knew I was alone then, as I was now. And yet, it would not go away, that insistent nagging in my mind; the desire to know for certain what had happened, and why.

And... when I listed the suspects in my mind - a prankster, an agent of the company that owned the El Dorado, a thief (but a failed one), a stowaway (but where was he now?) - I realised that there was one further suspect I must add to the list.

Myself.

I am sure that you, my reader, have already thought of this; that I, having found myself on board this ship in unexplained circumstances, might be the one who was responsible for my own predicament. We are a cynical race, we humans, always ready to distrust the motivations of one another; and even ourselves. It would be quite plausible, would it not, that I, having made off with a valuable airship, would concoct a story to explain the disappearance of the El Dorado, while simultaneously exonerating myself from any possible blame?

So I do not necessarily expect that you will believe the account I have written here, or take it at face value, even though I know, and would readily affirm to any authority you might bring me up before, that I did not cut the ropes that secured the El Dorado in dock five of the Aeroport of Phyle, on the land of Scrape.

There. That is straightforward, is it not?

Ah, you say, but... Just suppose... Suppose I did it unknowingly? The ways - the self-deluding ways - of humankind are manifold. I might truly believe in my heart that I had not sabotaged the ship, and yet speak an untruth notwithstanding. My unconscious, hidden self might have deceived my conscious awareness. I might have a long-concealed leaning towards self-destruction and be looking for a significance in death that I did not possess in life. For I am, as you will have gathered, not an especially social creature. I am reticent and easily ignored. Perhaps, then, I seek notoriety through dishonest means, as it is clearly apparent that I am quite incapable of achieving a great reputation by using honest ones.

To these sneering, pseudo-psychologically-based accusations I can make little answer, except to shrug my shoulders, and say little, except to ask, 'If all this is so, why was I neither followed nor found? Why have I not been found yet? Have my ship and I become invisible somehow?' Surely that is answer enough.