A Talent for War

XVII.

THE MIST BLEW off the sea in the late afternoon, and I retired to a table in a corner of the bar, to sit quietly sipping green lamentoes. After a while, as the sky began to darken and Ilyanda’s rings took shape, I activated my commlink. "Chase, are you there?"

I heard it buzz, which meant she wasn’t wearing it. I went back to my drink and tried again a few minutes later. This time I connected. "Shower," she explained. "It’s been a long afternoon, but I’ve got some answers. Our boy’s idea would work."

"The antimatter?"

"Yes. It should be anti-helium, by the way, assuming the target has a helium core. Which is the case here."

"Who’d you talk to?"

"A physicist at a place called Insular Labs. His name’s Carmel, and he sounds as if he knows what he’s talking about."

"But it would work?"

"Alex, he said, and I quote: A shipload of that stuff would blow the son of a bitch to hell! "

"Then Kindrel’s story is at least possible. Provided you can get the stuff into the core. Did you ask him about that part of the problem? Could Sim have found a way to navigate in hyper?"

"I didn’t mention Sim. We were talking about a novel, remember? But Carmel thinks that navigation in Armstrong space is theoretically impossible. He suggested another way: ionize the anti-helium, and put it behind a powerful magnetic field. Then ram it into the sun at high velocity."

"Maybe that’s the way they intended to do it," I said. "Could we do that now?"

"He doesn’t think so. The anti-helium would be easy to make and contain, but the technology for the insertion would be pretty advanced stuff.

"Theoretically, the only type of nonlinear space that permits physical penetration by three-dimensional objects is Armstrong. I still think it’s a hoax."

"Yeah," I said, "Maybe. Listen, I’m at a nice spot. How about joining me for dinner?"

"The Perch?"

"Yes."

"Sure. Sounds good. Give me a little time to get myself together. Then I’ll take a taxi out. See you in about an hour and a half?"

"Okay. But don’t bother with the taxi. I’ll send the skimmer back for you."

I tried to use my commlink to enter the return code into the skimmer’s onboard computer. But the red lamp blinked: no connection. Why not? I made another unsuccessful effort, and patched through to the service desk. "I’m having problems with my automatics," I said. "Could you send an attendant to enter a code manually into my skimmer?"

"Yes, sir." It was a female voice, and it sounded vaguely annoyed. "But it’ll take a while. We’re shorthanded, and this is our busy night."

"How long?"

"It’s hard to say. I’ll send someone in as soon as I can."

I waited about twenty minutes, and then went up myself to the hangar area, which was located underground at the summit. The temperature had plummeted, and the rings, which had brightened the sky a half hour earlier, were now only a pale smear against a heavy overcast. Outside the hangar, I tried the service desk again. Still busy. Any time now, though.

"Can you tell me where my skimmer’s located?"

A pause, then: "Sir, guests aren’t allowed in the hangar area."

"Of course," I said.

A warning was posted on the door: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. I pushed through it into a sprawling cave that would probably not have looked so big if I could have seen some walls. It was illuminated only by a string of yellow lamps burning morosely out in the gloom somewhere. While I tried to get my bearings, a set of overhead doors opened, and a vehicle descended through a shaft into the hangar. Its navigation lamps sliced across rows of parked vehicles. I got only a glimpse before the lights went out. But the skimmer’s magnetics continued to whine, and its black bulk glided to floor level and accelerated. I felt the wave of cold air as it passed at high speed.

My own aircraft was green and yellow. A bilious combination, but one that would be easy to see if I could get reasonably close to it. I waited for my eyes to adjust, and then stepped cautiously through the door onto a permearth floor, and turned to my left, on the ground that there was a little more illumination in that direction.

Another skimmer dropped out of the shaft, lights blazing. I tried to get a good look around, but the lamps blinked off almost immediately. Then it accelerated down one of the corridors formed by the parked aircraft. I groped past a small airbus, and penetrated deeper into the hangar.

There appeared to be three shafts, and vehicles were coming in at an alarming rate. Maddeningly, there was never quite enough time to organize my search during the few seconds of illumination that each provided. I became an expert on the placement of running lights that evening, and formulated Benedict’s Law: no two sets on any consecutive vehicles will point in the same direction. In the end, they only added to the confusion.

In addition, once they reached ground level, the skimmers, now lost in the dark, moved at high speed. I had a bad time of it: I stumbled past wing struts and tail assemblies, banged a knee, and fell on my face.

At one point, I was kneeling immediately in front of a skimmer rubbing a knee when I heard the magnets energize. I scrambled to one side as the thing rolled forward, but a wing caught me anyway and knocked me flat.

I was by then having a few misgivings, but I’d lost my fix on the door, so I couldn’t retreat. I considered calling the service desk again to ask for help, and was about to do so—reluctantly—when I spotted a green and yellow fuselage.

Gratefully, I hurried over, climbed into the cockpit, and called Chase to tell her the aircraft would be a few minutes late.

"Okay," she said. "Anything wrong?"

"No," I grumbled. "I’m doing fine. Just a minor problem with the skimmer. Stay with me a second until I make sure it works."

"Make sure it works?" She sounded skeptical. "Listen, maybe I better take the taxi."

I’ve thought since, many times, yes, there was my chance to head it all off. It’s what I should have done in the first place. And I never even considered it. Now, of course, I’d gone to too much trouble to take the obvious solution.

You have to work at it to shut down a skimmer response system inadvertently. On the bilious special I had, it was necessary to take off a plastic cover and push a presspad. Simple enough, but you had to make a conscious decision to do it.

How had it happened?

Careless attendant, presumably. Odd, since the attendants don’t enter the aircraft unless there’s a problem. Still, there it was. I promised myself there’d be no tip. My God.

I turned the systems back on, enjoyed the swirl of warm air in the compartment, tapped instructions in for the topside pads, and listened to the magnets engage. The vehicle lifted off the floor, paused while something sailed past, and entered the corridor. Then the skimmer accelerated, stopped (throwing me against the harness), and rose almost vertically into an exit shaft.

I rode it up, out over the summit, and down again into the landing area. I got out and reset the guidance system for the roof of the Point Edward hotel. "On its way," I told Chase, over the commlink. It lifted again, and accelerated seaward.

"Good thing," she said. "I’m getting hungry."

I watched it climb, its running lights blurring against the underside of a low cloud cover. It circled toward the south, and was swallowed in the night.

"Storm building," I told Chase a half-hour later from the hotel bar. "You’ll want to dress for it."

"You’re not going to be walking me through a lot of snow, are you?"

"No. But the Perch itself is outside. Unprotected."

"Okay."

I was seated in a padded armchair. Thick carpets cushioned a stone floor, and the wall-length window which faced the ocean was circumscribed by dark gray drapes. Resistance Era patriotic art decorated the walls, world seals and frigates framed against lunar surfaces and Valkyrie mothers juxtaposed with portraits of their sons. "It’s lovely out here."

"Good." Pause. "Alex?"

"Yes?"

"I’ve spent the day thinking about antimatter and Armstrong units and whatnot. We’ve assumed that Kindrel’s story might be true because maybe a sun weapon could have been built. But there’s another possibility: maybe the story is true, but Olander was a liar."

I considered it. There was no reason I could find to dismiss the idea. Still it didn’t feel right.

"You know what Kindrel Lee looked like," Chase continued. "Olander’s sitting in that bar, probably half-tanked, and suddenly she’s there with him. What more typical of a man than that he should begin immediately to exaggerate his importance?"

"That’s a side of you I haven’t seen before," I observed.

"Sorry," she said. "No slur intended. It’s more or less the nature of things. Well, you know what I mean."

"Of course."

"The skimmer just came in. See you in a bit." She signed off.

The wind was rising, whipping flakes against the window.

The storm arrived and began to build in intensity. I called the desk and reserved two rooms for the night. Not that the weather presented any serious danger to travelers: the skimmers were inordinately sturdy vehicles and, as long as the pilot stayed with the automatics, there was really nothing to fear. But I was drawn by the prospect of spending a stormy night on Sim’s Perch.

I was enjoying a dark Ilyandan wine, lost in thought, when a hand pressed on my shoulder, and a voice that I knew cried, "My God, Alex. Where’ve you been?" The voice was Quinda Arm’s, and she held on tight. "I’ve been looking everywhere for you." There was snow in her hair and on the shoulders of her jacket. She was trembling, and her voice shook.

I stared at her in mild shock. "Quinda," I said, "what the hell are you doing here?"

Her face was pale. "Where’s your skimmer?"

"Why?" I stood up intending to help her into a chair, but she waved me impatiently away.

"Where’s the skimmer?" she demanded, in a tone that I could only characterize as threatening.

"Somewhere out over the ocean, I guess. It’s bringing Chase Kolpath in from Point Edward."

She swore. "That the woman you brought with you?" Her eyes locked on mine: she looked wild, frightened. "You need to get in touch with her. Tell her to get off the skimmer. Keep everybody else away from it too." She was having trouble speaking and breathing. Her eyes lost their focus, and she wiped a damp brow with the back of her hand.

Things started to go cold. "Why?" I asked. "What’s wrong with the skimmer? What’s going on?"

She shook her head violently. "Never mind." She got up as though to leave, looked about, sat down again. "There’s a bomb on board."

I could barely hear her, and I thought I’d misunderstood. "Pardon?" I said.

"A bomb! Get her off. For God’s sake, call her. Get her off the goddam thing. Wherever you sent it, get everybody away from it."

"It’s probably a little late for that now." I was slow to react: I couldn’t quite get hold of things, and Quinda was on her feet, anxious to go somewhere, do something. "How do you know about the bomb?"

Her face was a white mask. Frozen. "Because I put it there." She glanced at her commlink. "What’s her code? I’ll call her myself. Why didn’t you log onto the net while you were here so you could be found?"

"Nobody knows us on this world," I said. "Why the hell would we sign on?" I opened a channel and whispered Chase’s name into my own unit.

Immediately, I could hear the hiss of the carrier wave, and the rattle of the wind against the aircraft. Chase said hello. Then: "Alex, I was going to call you. Order me a steak and baked. I’ll be there in twenty minutes."

"Where are you?"

She responded with amused suspicion. "Almost halfway. Why? Something come up? Or someone?"

"Quinda’s here."

"Who?"

"Quinda Arin. She thinks you have a bomb on board."

More wind. Then: "The hell she says."

Quinda was on her own system now. "I don’t think. It’s attached to one of the skids. It could go off any time."

"Son of a bitch. Who are you, lady?"

"Listen, I’m sorry. None of this was supposed to happen." I thought she was going to come apart. Tears started, but she shook them off. "It’s there, Kolpath. Can’t you see it?"

"Are you kidding? In this? There’s a blizzard going on out there. Listen, I’m twenty minutes away. Is this thing about to go off or what?"

Quinda shook her head no. Not no that there was no immediate danger, but no that she had no idea, no that she could promise nothing. "It should have exploded an hour ago," she said. "Any possibility you could climb down and dislodge it?"

"Wait a minute." I heard Chase moving in the cockpit, struggling with the canopy, swearing softly. She got it open, and the wind howled. Then she was back, breathless. "No," she said. "I am not going down there." I caught a sense of panic around the edge of her voice. "How’d it get there?" she demanded in a voice whose pitch had risen sharply.

I tried to visualize the aircraft. It would be a long step from the cockpit out to the strut, and then she’d have to lower herself maybe two meters onto the skid. All this in the face of a storm. "How about if you stop the skimmer? Can you hold it steady?"

"How about if you come up here and do some handstands on the skids? Who the hell is this woman anyhow? Which of us does she want to kill?"

"She’s got to get rid of the bomb," said Quinda. "Or get out of the skimmer."

"Listen," said Chase. "I’m going to go to manual, and make for the summit. You’ll have to come get me. But do it quick. After I get down, I’m going to get as far away from this thing as I can, and it’s cold out."

"How far off shore are you?"

"About three kilometers."

"All right, Chase. Do it. But keep your commlink on. We’re on our way."

"I can’t believe you’ve done this," I told her.

Quinda was directing her skimmer to pick us up. She kept on until she’d finished, and then she turned on me in cold fury. "You dumb son of a bitch. You brought it on yourself. What right do you have, barging in and trying to grab things for yourself? And then blabbing to the goddam mutes. You’re lucky you’re not dead. Now let’s get moving and we can argue about it later."

We were both on our feet now.

"You want to do something constructive?" she continued. "Call the Patrol. And tell Kolpath to activate her beacon." She was having trouble controlling her voice. "I never intended anyone should get hurt, but I’m not so sure now that was a good idea."

I notified the Patrol, and gave them the situation. They were incredulous. "Who the hell," demanded the official voice on the link, "would put a bomb on an aircraft?" Quinda was glaring at me. "On our way," he grumbled. "But we’ve got nothing in the immediate vicinity. Take a while. Maybe forty minutes."

"We don’t have forty minutes," I told him.

"Alex," Quinda said, as we hurried through the lobby, "I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t just go to you, and I’m sorry you’re such a damned fool. But why the hell couldn’t you have minded your own business? I may wind up having killed somebody before this is over!"

"It was you all the time, wasn’t it? You took the file, and you left the loaded simulation. Right?"

"Yes," she said. "Goddam shame you can’t take a hint."

It was too much. I believe, had there been time, I’d have thrown her against a wall. As it was, we had things to do. "Where’s your skimmer?"

"It’s on its way."

"God help me, Quinda, if anything happens to her I’ll pitch you into the ocean!" We went through the lobby on a dead run. There’s a ballroom at the north end, which was corded off. The cord was flexible, and there was about twelve meters of it. I ripped it free, and coiled it as we ascended the shaft to the summit.

Snow was falling heavily onto the pads. Our headlong rush stopped at the end of a line. People stood with their heads bent against the storm, hands jammed into the pockets of their thermals. Quinda pealed back the sleeve of her jacket, and glanced at her watch.

No trace of the hangar was visible from the landing pads. We watched an aircraft rise out of the trees, and float in our direction. Overhead, a couple of incoming skimmers circled, waiting their turns to land.

An airbus drifted in and docked.

"This isn’t going to work," she said, looking anxiously around.

"Where was it supposed to go off?"

"In the hangar. But something went wrong."

"Another warning?" She turned toward me. It’s the only time in my life that I can remember seeing violence in a woman’s eyes. "Quinda, why did you disconnect the automatics?"

"To prevent anyone from using it," she said stiffly. "Who would have thought you’d go down there to get the thing?"

"What triggers the bomb?"

"A timer. But either I didn’t set it properly, or it’s defective. I don’t know."

"Wonderful."

The storm beat down on us. I felt suddenly very tired. "Don’t you have any idea," Quinda asked, "of the risk you’re running? For all of us?"

"Maybe you should tell me."

"Maybe you should just leave it alone. Let’s get your partner, and the two of you can go back to Rimway and leave it alone." She spoke into her commlink: "Control, we have an emergency. My name’s Arm. I need my skimmer immediately. Please."

They were slow to answer. "Your aircraft is on the way," a computer voice said. "There is nothing we can do to hurry matters."

"Can you supply a vehicle?" I asked. "This is an emergency."

"Just a moment, please. I’ll put you through to my supervisor."

The bus passengers filed out, and hurried through the storm. When they were gone, the vehicle lifted, swung ponderously over the trees, and descended into the hangar. Moments later, a sleek, luxurious skimmer rose over the same grove and turned in our direction. It was steel blue, with inlaid silver trim, and tapering ingot wing mounts. A Fasche. An elderly couple hurried forward out of the shelter of the tube station.

I considered trying to commandeer the Fasche, but Quinda shook her head. "Here it comes," she whispered.

A new voice from Control: "What is the nature of your problem, please?"

"Aircraft in trouble." Quinda gave them Chase’s code.

Our skimmer lined up behind the luxury aircraft. Both floated toward us.

Control again: "We are notifying the Patrol. We do not maintain rescue facilities here."

"We don’t need rescue facilities," said Chase. "Just a skimmer."

"I understand."

My commlink beeped. I opened a channel. "Yes, Chase?"

The wind was loud at both ends, drowning her voice.

I turned away from the weather. "Say again!"

"I think the damned thing has just blown." She was struggling to keep her voice under control. "I’ve lost the son of a bitch. It’s going down."

"Do you still have power?"

"Yes. But part of the tail’s gone. And something big came through the cockpit. The canopy’s popped and I have a hole in the deck big enough to fall through." The wind screamed in the link.

Quinda: "Are you all right?"

Chase’s voice hardened. "Is she still with you?"

"We’re going to be using her skimmer," I said.

"Going to be? You mean you’re not started yet?"

"Starting now. Are you okay?"

"I’ve been better." There was a sharp intake of breath. "I think my left leg’s broken."

"Can you make the summit?"

"No. I’m above it now, but I’m losing altitude too fast. If I try it, I’ll probably hit the wall."

"Okay. Stay clear."

Quinda turned worried eyes toward me, and put her hand over my wrist, covering the commlink. "The ocean’s cold. We have to get to her quickly."

The Fasche settled into its slot on the pad. Its owners passed us, walking backward against the storm. The man looked up, and took in the sky with a broad sweep of his hand. "Hell of a night," he said. "Isn’t it?"

Chase’s voice again: "I’ll try to stay in the air as long as I can."

"You’ll be okay."

"Easy for you to say. Where the hell’s the survival equipment in these things? There isn’t even a lifebelt."

"They’re not supposed to crash," I said. "Listen, we may get there before you hit the water. If not, we’ll only be a couple minutes behind. Stay with the skimmer."

"Suppose it sinks? This one’s got a very big hole in it."

Our vehicle settled onto the pad, and we clawed the canopy open and scrambled on board. Hurry. Quinda didn’t say it, but her lips formed the word. Hurryhurryhurry—

"Losing power," Chase said. "The magnetics are making a lot of noise. I don’t have much forward motion, and I’m still pretty high. Alex, if they quit, I’m going to take a long fall." Something banged.

"What happened?"

"The cockpit’s coming apart, Alex."

"Maybe you ought to go lower."

"I’m going lower. Have no fear. When are you going to get here?"

"Twenty minutes."

The voice from Control broke in: "Arm, you have emergency priority. We’ve returned control of your aircraft to you. Good luck."

Chase: "I’m getting knocked around a lot up here. This thing may just flat-out disintegrate."

We lifted. Slowly. As soon as we got above the windbrakes, the storm hit us. It was going to be a rough ride. I patched the signal from Chase into the tracking system, and put a display of the target area on the monitor.

We were beginning to accelerate. Quinda rang up a hundred eighty kilometers on the control. Top speed. I doubted the thing could manage that kind of velocity.

A blue light came on near the right side of the target display, pinpointing Chase’s position. I opened the channel. "How are we doing?"

"Not good," came Chase’s voice.

"Any sign of the Patrol?" I didn’t really expect they’d be there that quickly, but it was a way to sound hopeful.

"Negative. How far away are you?"

"Thirty-eight kilometers. What’s your condition?"

"Dropping faster. I’m going to hit pretty hard." The words came one at a time, broken up by the noise, and maybe a little fear. I could sense her, pressed against her seat in the shattered aircraft, looking down into a void.

"Quinda?"

"We’re going as fast as we can." She punched up numbers on the display. Other than Chase’s aircraft, and the Fasche (which was rapidly dropping behind us), there were two blips.

I put them on the scopes. One was an airbus, headed out from Point Edward toward Sim’s Perch. The other looked to be a private skimmer, just leaving the city, headed our way, but at a greater range than we were. I wondered where the hell the Patrol was. "Chase, Fm going to leave the circuit open. We’ll be right here."

"Okay."

I opened a channel to the bus. "Emergency," I said. "Skimmer in trouble."

A woman’s voice crackled back: "This is the Sim’s Perch Express. What’s happening?"

"There’s a skimmer going down about four kilometers ahead of you, and a few degrees to your starboard. Present altitude about two hundred meters."

"Okay," she said, "I have the blip."

"One pilot, no passengers. There’s been an explosion. Pilot may have broken her leg."

"Bad night for it," she said. Then: "Okay. Fm notifying the Patrol that I’m diverting to assist. There are several aircraft coming off the Perch. Which one are you?"

"The one in front."

"You’ll want to get here quick. This thing isn’t maneuverable in the best of circumstances, and nobody’s going to be able to set down without getting swamped. You better think about how you’re going to handle this."

"Okay," I said, pulling on the cord to test its strength, which seemed substantial. "I’ve got some rope."

"You’ll need it."

"I know. Do what you can. Stay with her."

Quinda bent silently over the controls, urging the skimmer forward. Her face was immobile in the pale light of the instruments. Despite everything, she was lovely. And, I thought, now forever beyond reach.

"Why?" I asked.

She swung toward me, lifting her eyes. They were filled with tears. "Do you know what you’ve been looking for? Do you have any idea what’s out there?"

"Yes," I said, and took my best shot. "There’s a Dellacondan warship."

She nodded. "Intact. Everything intact. Alex, it’s a priceless artifact. Can you imagine what it would mean to walk her decks, to read her logs? To bring her back? I think it’s one of the frigates, Alex. One of the frigates—"

"And you were willing to take chances with our lives to get the damned thing."

"No. You were never in danger. I wouldn’t have—But—the— goddam—bomb—didn’t—trigger." She squeezed the words out. "And then I couldn’t find you to warn you. I couldn’t get to you."

"Where’s the Tanner file?"

"I hid it. You have no right to it, Alex. I’ve been working on this for years. Your uncle is dead, and there’s no reason why you should just walk in and pick everything up."

"But how’d you get involved?"

"Didn’t it ever occur to you that Gabe wasn’t the only one wondering about the Tenandrome?"

Another blip appeared on the display. It was the rescue craft. But it was too far away. Chase would be in the water a long time before it arrived on the scene.

"Hey, Skimmer." It was the bus pilot. "I got a glimpse of the bird. The weather closed in again right away, but I saw her. She’s not exactly falling, but she’s coming down too fast."

"Okay. Chase, you copy?"

"Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know."

"Anything you can do?"

"I’m open to suggestions."

"I understand, Chase. We’ll be there quick."

"I don’t see anything here that’ll float except maybe the seats, and they’re anchored."

"Okay. You can hang on for a couple minutes. We’re making our descent now. Coming fast."

"I can see the bus. She’s following me down."

"Good."

Quinda again: "Chase, you won’t have any trouble getting out of the skimmer, will you?"

"No," she said, her tone softening slightly. "I’ll be all right."

"Chase? Is that your name?" It was the bus pilot.

"Yes."

"Okay, Chase. We’re going to stay right with you. And your friends are coming. You’ll be all right."

"Thanks."

"I can’t get you out of the water. Ocean’s too rough for me to come close enough to try to reach you."

"It’s okay."

"I mean, I’ve got twenty people on board."

"It’s all right. Who are you?"

"Hock. Mauvinette Hochley."

"Thanks, Hoch."

"Water coming up. You’re going to hit in about twenty seconds."

We were down near the surface now. The boiling sea unrolled, and the wind screamed. Quinda had gone quiet again. I was starting to coil the cord.

One of the monitors blinked on. "Feed from the bus," Quinda said. We were looking at the stricken aircraft from slightly above and nearby. The bus was angled so that its running lights illuminated the scene. We could see Chase in the cockpit, pushed back into her seat, clinging to the yoke. The skimmer was shredded, undercarriage gone, holes punched in the fuselage, tail crumpled, one of its stubby wings shattered.

"How much longer?" I asked.

"Three, maybe four minutes."

"There’s no way," I whispered, covering the commlink with my hand so Chase wouldn’t hear.

"We’ll get there," Quinda said.

She hit hard. The skimmer slapped down into a trough and the ocean rolled over it.

We were all calling Chase’s name, but nothing moved in the cockpit.

"It’s sinking," said Hoch.

The skimmer wallowed in white water; a wing lifted momentarily, and broke off, its lights still burning brightly.

"We’re right overhead," said Hoch. "I wish to hell there was a hatch on the bottom of this son of a bitch." She sounded distraught.

Quinda’s breath was coming in short sharp gasps. "She’s not getting out," she said. "Alex—" Her voice started up the scale. "She’s not going to get clear."

The bus pilot whispered her name. "Come on, Chase. Get your ass out of there."

Nothing. The wreckage slipped beneath the water.

We hurtled across the heaving, white-flecked ocean.

"Hey!" It was Hoch’s voice. "What are you doing back there?"

Another outside camera switched on. We had a view of the bus’s main hatch. A crack of yellow light appeared around it, and then the door swung outward. A woman who’d been pushing on it nearly fell out.

There was a burst of profanity from Hoch.

A man—his name was Alver Cole, and I’ll remember it all my days—appeared in the doorway, hesitated, and jumped out into the ocean. He vanished immediately into the black water.

Quinda hit the braking jets. "About a minute," she said.

One of the bus’s lights stabbed down and picked up Cole, who had surfaced and was struggling toward the cockpit.

Hoch increased her magnification on the scene in the water. Swimmer and wreckage were lifted high on a wave. "I don’t know," said the bus pilot, "whether you can see this on your screen or not. But it looks as if he’s reached her."

"Hoch," I said. "Your door’s still open. You’re not going to let anybody else jump, are you?"

"I damn well hope not." She directed someone to see to it. Moments later, the light vanished.

"Patrol coming fast," said Quinda. "Be here in four or five minutes."

A cheer went up in the bus. "He’s waving," said Hoch. "He’s got her." Hoch continued to maneuver the big vehicle, trying to keep her winglamps on the water.

"We’re seconds away," said Quinda. "Get ready."

She pushed the braking jets to full throttle, and the skimmer went into a mild spin. But we stopped hard. I released the canopy lock and pushed it up out of the way. Snow and spray poured in, and I looked out across a slippery wing surface into blazing lights and rough ocean.

Quinda rotated the rear seats, and depressed their backs, giving us two couches. "Over to your left," came Hoch’s voice.

"There," said Quinda. I looked just in time to see two heads vanish beneath a wave.

Uncurling my cord, I crawled out onto the wing. It was icy, and my hands froze to it. A sudden burst of wind struck me, and I skidded wildly, sliding toward the ocean. But I got hold of a lamp, a flap, something, and ended up twisted over on my side, both legs dangling, still headed for the water. Quinda was out the door immediately, sprawled across the wing, holding me by an arm and a leg. I could hear Hoch’s voice over the shrieking of the storm, but I couldn’t tell what she was saying. The ocean was turned on its side, and my legs were tangled in the cord.

Quinda shifted around to get a better grip. A wave pounded into the skids, rocking the skimmer violently and sending cold spume into the air. "I’ve got you," she said.

"Hell of a rescue team," I grumbled, finally getting my balance, and rolling clumsily back into a sitting position.

"Okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. Thanks."

She gave me a thumbs-up, and ducked back inside just as we got hit again. The skimmer lurched, and icy water washed across the wing. Quinda produced strips of cloth from something and passed them out to me. I wrapped my hands in them.

I could see Chase and the man from the bus. But it was a long way down to them. Maybe eight meters. "Take it lower," I shouted.

"I think we’re already too low," Quinda said. "A couple more minutes of this and we’ll be swamped."

"A couple more minutes of this and it won’t matter." I went flat on my belly, wishing there was a way to jettison the skids. The swimmers were almost directly below me. Chase was either unconscious or dead. Her rescuer was doing his best to hold her head out of the water. Her leg floated at an odd angle. I watched it bend as they disappeared again into the turbulence.

In that moment, I could have killed Quinda Ann.

The man with Chase hung on. She coughed and threw her head back.

Alive, at least.

He seemed at the end of his strength.

I threw the line toward him. It fell close by, but his hands were frozen. He couldn’t get hold of it. I tried to drag it closer. He got it finally, and looped it around Chase. Quinda appeared beside me again. "Stay at the controls," I said.

"They’re on automatic."

"That won’t help if the ocean knocks us sidewise."

"That’s going to be dead weight coming up. You want to handle it alone?"

The man in the water waved. Okay.

We pulled the line tight. The ocean lifted her toward us, and then fell away. I heard encouragement from Hoch as Chase came out of the water. We were both on our knees now, taking advantage of what purchase we could get, hauling hand over hand.

Chase’s arms hung loosely at her side, and her head lolled on her shoulders.

When she was close enough, I reached down and grabbed her jacket. Her face was deathly white, and splinters of ice crystals clotted her hair and eyebrows. "Watch her leg," said Quinda.

We got her up onto the wing, and I got the line off her and threw it back into the ocean. Quinda climbed inside the cabin, and I passed Chase through. "Hurry," said Hoch. "You’re losing the other one." I left her for Quinda to move to the far couch, and went back for her rescuer.

He was trying to hold onto the line, and not having much luck. Too cold. He held one arm weakly toward me, and slipped under.

Quinda was back.

I handed her the end of the line, and was about to slide over the side, but she shook her head vehemently. "How do you expect me to haul him out of there? Or you afterward?"

"Maybe we should just let him drown," I said.

"Thanks," she said bitterly. And then, before I knew what she intended, she was gone. She plunged into the waves, sank, came up choking and gasping, looked around her, went under again.

The man from the bus surfaced moments later on his own. Quinda reached for him, and the sea broke over their heads. But when I saw them again she had him.

I’d retrieved the line and dropped it to her. She looped it quickly under his arms and signaled.

I hauled up.

Dead weight. And a lot heavier than Chase had been.

There was no place to plant my feet. When I tried to pull the line in, I simply slid across the wing surface.

I climbed back inside the cabin, and tried from there. But it was too cramped. He was just too damned heavy.

"Hoch," I cried.

"I see your problem."

"Can you have your people open that door again?"

"They’re doing it now."

"Quinda," I shouted. "Hang on. Hang onto him. We’re going to bring you both up." I was tying the line around the seat anchor.

She shook her head. I couldn’t hear her, but she pointed at the line. It wouldn’t be strong enough to support both. To emphasize the point, she pushed away from him, and shouted something else. Over the roar of sea and wind, I understood: "Come back for me."

I scrambled into the cockpit and took the skimmer up.

Hoch rotated her bus to cut down on my maneuvering. A big warm circle of yellow light opened in her hull. Behind me, Chase made a noise, more whimper than groan.

I got above the bus, and started down. "Tell me when," I said. "A lot of this is guesswork."

"Okay," she said. "You’re doing fine. Check your monitor: you should be getting a picture now, but just keep coming the way you are, coming down, maybe a few meters forward—Okay, keep coming—"

On the screen, I was looking back along the hull of the bus. Several sets of hands gripped the sides of the aircraft around the opened door. "A little lower," said Hoch.

The line stretched tight out through my own door and over the leading edge of the wing.

Arms reached out of the bus, seized the man by his legs as soon as he was close, and hauled him inside. "Okay," said Hoch. "We’ve got him."

"I need the line back."

"You got it."

I lurched away. "Keep the door open," I said. "I’ve got another one in the water. Let’s do it the same way."

"Okay," said Hoch. And then, somberly: "Hurry."

Hurry.

When I got back out on the wing, she was gone. I stood there, trailing the cord, calling her name, not even certain where she’d been, until the Patrol vehicles circled in and took station overhead.

They searched until dawn. But there never was any hope.