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intoxicating ride and made her want to howl at the moon for the glory of it
all.
She scolded herself to order as the slopes of k Wys loomed before them, set
the eel to searching for the con-figurations around the blowhole she wanted.
The crescent moon was low on the horizon when she pulled herself cautiously
from the hole and wriggled through the thornbush until she could stretch out
on a mix of gravel and dead grass and use her nightglasses to sweep the area
around the hangar.
Quiet. No one around. As usual.
She eased up, squatted, and pulled the gearsac round where she could get at
it. Screened by the brush and the folds of rock, mindtouch reaching out to
warn her if any-one came round, she stripped off the wetsuit, rolled it into a
tight cylinder, and tucked it into a crack in the stone. No point in dripping
on the hangar floor. The breather hood she contemplated for a moment, then
slid it into a press pouch on the outside of the sac. There might come a time
when she needed it.
By the time she was ready to move, the moon was gone and clouds were blowing
across the stars, thickening the darkness. The wind had risen and was whipping
dead leaves and grit across the ground.
She let it whip her along with them, turned the corner of the hangar,
and stopped before the small personnel door. She clicked on the reader
Digby had given her, confirmed what her own senses told her.
The only barrier was mechanical. She flipped the reader over, extruded the
quickpic, and in-serted it into the slot.
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A moment later she eased the door open and slipped in-side. As she started to
turn so she could relock the door, there was a swift scrabbling and a sudden
weight slammed into her, knocking her flat.
Carrion breath.
Feet on her back, nails ripping into her shirt and the skin beneath it.
Teeth closing on the nape of her neck.
The instant she felt the weight, her mindride stabbed out, froze the beast.
She lay with her face in the dust, holding desperately to the grip she had on
him.
Focus. Slow. No hurry. You know how to do this. Fol-low the pathways, take
control, bleed off the rage ....
In another few breaths she had him.
She opened his mouth, walked him off her back, then rolled up and scowled at
him and through his eyes at her-self. It was a weird feeling. She eased off on
the hold, played a moment in his pleasure centers, then brought him
closer so she could rub her hands over him and get him used to her scent.
The faint light coming through clerestory windows high overhead showed her a
black canine with a flash of white on his neck. She dug her fingers into his
droopy jowls, scratched behind his ears, worked down his spine, evoking
slobbery whimpers and an ecstatic wriggle of his hindquarters. Gradually she
removed the controls, starting to breathe again as he stayed friendly. He, was
an intelli-gent beast and not mad at the world, no meanness in him, just doing
his job.
 Yes, you re a good dog, aren t you. With a good trainer, you like him, don t
you. He s my friend, you re my friend. Feels good when I scratch you like
that, doesn t it. Ah, spla, your breath s enough to knock over an ox. So I ll
get up. Down, boy, feet on the floor. That s right. Head at my knee. Now let s
go explore.
Panting and dripping slobber, he trotted beside her as she moved about the
hangar, using a minute pinlight to see what the Ptaks kept in that vast gloomy
building.
There were four fliers parked in the center of the stained metacrete floor. A
fifth was racked with one of the lifters stripped, waiting for repairs which a
certain thickness of dust suggested no one was rushing to com-plete.
None of the locks were engaged.
They were standard haulers with the cargo hold below the passenger
module. The hold was a rectangular box with a grating floor, straps for
tying bales and bundles, and a series of wall bins. Stowing away wouldn t be
dif-ficult if she could figure out which flier the Cobben planned to use.
She moved away from them and stood, hands on hips, scowling at four large
shadows.  Well, dog,
it s really too bad you can t talk. Or would you even know? Maybe they haven t
decided themselves which beast they re going to ride. Shays! I really don t
want the noise it d make if I had to steal one of those things. It s a nest in
the rafters for me, dog. Sleep out the night and watch which one they load up
with supplies and hope they do it ahead of time.
The dog pushed his muzzle against her hip and wagged his stumpy tail as she
dug her fingers into the ruff round his neck.
 You re a love, aren t you? She chuckled.  Deadly lit-tle love. I d
be cold meat without the mindride. Ah, spla, my fault, not yours. Should
have read the building before I went in. Hmp. Time for you to get back to work
and me to find myself a perch.
Early morning sunlight was streaming through the nar-row clerestory windows
when the large doors slid open. The dog trotted to the door, stood a moment,
ruff bris-tling, a ridge of hair rising along his spine. There was a sound
that Shadith felt rather than heard. The dog relaxed and trotted out of sight.
A
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moment later a cargo carrier hummed in.
It settled beside the nearest flier, then a small wiry man followed the
handler out. Lying on a rafter high above them, Shadith smiled tightly as he
spoke. Cobben on the job. The voice told her which. Orm.
With the loader  bots working steadily and in spite of Orm s fussy
interference, the transfer of the goods was quickly finished. As the handler
loaded the  bots onto the carrier, Orm climbed into the passenger
section of the flier. Shadith tensed, listening to the clinks and clunks he
made, wondering if he were going to settle in and wait for the others. The
Coryfe said noon and that was several hours off, but maybe they d changed the
time. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]