At nine-fifteen, I ignite another flare, still hoping to lure a female zeppelin pilot from the North. But Zürgh scoffs, "The women who navigate such craft... They have cat eyes, exceedingly sensitive to nocturnal emissions. That flare will only instill agitation. Besides, your skies are treacherous. They will not come for you." But (as usual) his words prove a delightful incantation to the contrary, immediately summoning a vessel of the mighty Faggenbrüge class. Exhibiting unlikely agility (imparted by nineteen diesel-turbines), the airship maneuvers deftly between our towers, then slows to a halt at an altitude of ninety-one meters. "The currents are not as significant as you think," reminds Zürgh, as I ascend to the undercarriage via a pulsating shaft of light. "But treacherous nonetheless..." My female zeppelin pilot, a sinewy woman clad in black leather, nudges her chin against my shoulder. "What's our bearing?" she inquires. "My petrol affords us three-hundred minutes, but half that I've burned already." So we consult the manual, then adjust her gyro's middle ring: North by (approximately) thirteen degrees east. Soon enough, we find ourselves above Gnuundärd Providence, the midnight sun proffering a queer luminescence over the icy tundra. "There," I gasp, pointing to a shifting expanse below. The pilot's eyes darken, and she coos with delight, "Cervus Canadensis. A benevolent and protective order." I prepare the winch as she maneuvers above the itinerant herd. "Have you ever studied the output of infinitely many monkeys with typewriters?" I ask. "Not in so many words," she admits, rubbing her cheek against a brass adjunct. "But I understand they're keen to reproducing copious reams of Hamlet." (Yes, I've tested this myself.) "So a sizeable contingent of elk, equipped with well-oiled Underwoods..." And the female zeppelin pilot nods with reverent appreciation, "Something more whimsical than Hamlet, I expect."