Free Sargasso Skies by Allan Jones Page B

it till after the performance, if it’s all the same to them,” said Jack. “I really don’t want to miss it—not after all the hard work I’ve put in.” He gazed wistfully down into the orchestra pit. “It was such fun to be among all those musicians, you know.” He sighed. “Such fun!”
    â€œYou’ll get your chance to play, Jack, don’t you worry,” said Esmeralda. “I have a plan! The audience must be brought here on those iron windships, right?”
    â€œRight,” agreed Trundle and Jack.
    â€œAnd they must be taken away again at the end—on windships,” Esmeralda continued. “Which means that all we have to do is disguise ourselves as steam moles and slip aboard a windship at the end of the performance and Bob’s your uncle—we’re in Hammerland and free to start looking for the jolly old crown.” She beamed at her two friends. “What do you say, lads?”
    â€œHow exactly do we disguise ourselves as steam moles?” asked Trundle. “Short of shaving our prickles off and painting ourselves black?”
    â€œWe just need to borrow three of their leather coats,” said Esmeralda. “Buttoned up to our noses and with the collars pulled over our ears, we should just about get away with it, if we keep our heads down.”
    â€œI suppose it has to be worth a try,” Jack said dubiously. “But it’s almost time for a rehearsal, so I’ll catch up with your chaps later.” He winked. “We’re having a few problems with the ‘Ride of the Volekyries’—the percussion section always seems to get to the end five bars ahead of the rest of us. Cheerio!” And with a merry wave of his paw, Jack went trotting off to be with his fellow musicians.
    Trundle looked at Esmeralda. “He’s going to miss all this when we leave,” he said.
    â€œHe’ll get over it,” said Esmeralda.
    â€œHmmm. I wonder if he will . . . ,” said Trundle.
    Â 
    The auditorium was packed solid with steam moles—in fact, the audience was so large that the worker animals who had helped to put the opera house together were forced to watch the first-ever performance of Twilight of the Dogs from the back and the sides, or from whatever other precarious vantage point they could find.
    A hum of expectant pleasure filled the air as Trundle and Esmeralda picked their way to a small empty space at the side of the orchestra pit.
    Esmeralda stared at the eagerly waiting steam moles. “They’re a strange bunch,” she muttered into Trundle’s ear.
    â€œYou said that about the albinos, too,” Trundle whispered back.
    â€œYes, I know, but I’ve gotten used to them now.” She shook her head. “But these fellows are just plain peculiar, if you ask me.”
    â€œNo one is asking you,” hissed Trundle. “Now pipe down—it’s about to start.”
    Tap. Tap. Tap.
    The conductor lifted his baton.
    There was a moment of absolute silence. Then the music began.
    The rapt audience of steam moles gasped as the curtain rose and Bruinhilda’s lofty fortress was revealed among the sharp-edged purple mountains.
    Bruinhilda emerged from the wings and swept to center stage.
    Before she could even open her mouth, the steam mole audience erupted into titanic applause and cheering and stamping of feet.
    â€œYou know something?” Trundle shouted into Esmeralda’s ear over the terrific racket that the steam moles were kicking up. “I have the feeling that this will go rather well!”

T he opera house shook to the rafters from the rapturous and unending applause of the steam moles. The opera was over and done, but the ecstatic audience would not let the players leave the stage. Five times the curtain had risen and fallen; five times Count Leopold and his performers had joined hands and bowed as the steam moles had cheered and