The boat slackened speed until it was travelling no faster than a walking man, but the irregularity of its movements continued.  It was shaped rather queerly.  About twenty feet long, its straight sides tapered off from a flat bow, four feet broad, to a sharp-angled stern.  The flat bottom was not above ten feet from the ground.  It was undecked, and carried only one living occupant; the other object they had distinguished was really the carcass of an animal, of about the size of a large sheep.  The blue haze trailing behind the boat appeared to emanate from the glittering point of a short upright pole fastened in the stem.  When the craft was within a few feet of them, and they were looking down at it in wonder from above, the man removed this pole and covered the brightly shining tip with a cap.  The forward motion then ceased altogether, and the boat began to drift hither and thither, but still it remained suspended in the air, while the haze underneath persisted.  Finally the broad side came gently up against the pile of rocks on which they were standing.  The steersman jumped ashore and immediately clambered up to meet them.

Maskull offered him a hand, but he refused it disdainfully.  He was a young man, of middle height.  He wore a close-fitting fur garment.  His limbs were quite ordinary, but his trunk was disproportionately long, and he had the biggest and deepest chest that Maskull had ever seen in a man.  His hairless face was sharp, pointed, and ugly, with protruding teeth, and a spiteful, grinning expression.  His eyes and brows sloped upward.  On his forehead was an organ which looked as though it had been mutilated—­it was a mere disagreeable stump of flesh.  His hair was short and thin.  Maskull could not name the colour of his skin, but it seemed to stand in the same relation to jale as green to red.

Once up, the stranger stood for a minute or two, scrutinising the two companions through half-closed lids, all the time smiling insolently.  Maskull was all eagerness to exchange words, but did not care to be the first to speak.  Corpang stood moodily, a little in the background.

“What men are you?” demanded the aerial navigator at last.  His voice was extremely loud, and possessed a most unpleasant timbre.  It sounded to Maskull like a large volume of air trying to force its way through a narrow orifice.

“I am Maskull; my friend is Corpang.  He comes from Threal, but where I come from, don’t ask.”

“I am Haunte, from Sarclash.”

“Where may that be?”

“Half an hour ago I could have shown it to you, but now it has got too murky.  It is a mountain in Lichstorm.”

“Are you returning there now?”

“Yes.”

“And how long will it take to get there in that boat?”

“Two—­three hours.”

“Will it accommodate us too?”

“What, are you for Lichstorm as well?  What can you want there?”