The cloud cover is low enough that most of the mountain rises above it. Patrishia glances down at her dials, then returns her gaze to the view ahead. This is the only way to get to Tahoma now. The mooring spires glitter in the sunlight, a bright morning shared only by the pilots with license to fly above the clouds.
As she pilots the dirigible closer, the embarkation platforms come into view. Passengers wait, dressed in their traveling best. This sort of thing has become a luxury, and as with most luxuries, it has accreted practices of etiquette. Even Patrishia, who likes to think herself above these sorts of things–hah–has made sure that her coveralls are clean.
She drifts closer to Tahoma like a ship coming in to anchorage at an island harbor. In this weather, with this wind, it is like sailing on the sea. Or at least how she imagines that would be.
A small group waits on the embarkation platform. No more than half a dozen. Patrishia’s gaze fastens on the passenger in red, aiming the dirigible at her as though as at a target.
That one is primary. The rest are just fares.
Tags: dirigible, postcard stories
