I looked out at what I could see of the ground in front of the big wing, and was surprised to see breaks in the clouds not far off, and large patches of dark blue below. Hitting the clouds was similar to hitting them in an airship, and we experienced some rocking and a number of violent jerks as the wings worked harder to compensate for downdrafts, updrafts, and the like. The window showed moisture as we descended through a gray-white fog, then we broke suddenly into clearer air and the ground was visible below. Aside from seeing that it was green and somewhat mountainous down there, I couldn’t make out much of anything.
The soarer circled, slowing a bit each time, then dropped and put its wings at an angle, abruptly braking hard. There were three or four jolts as the wings suddenly beat hard, and then one big bang—and we were down and, incredibly^ motionless. For something this big, I had to admit it certainly could land much easier than it could take off.
I had to tap Zala and assure her we were down in one piece and that it was all over. She could hardly believe it, but finally opened her eyes and looked around. For the first time, she looked across me to the window and finally seemed to relax.
“Not as bad as take-off, was it?” I said cheerfully.
She shook her head. “I’ll kill myself before I get on one of these again, I swear it, Park.”
The wheel was spun, the hatch like door opened, and a blast of really hot, sticky air hit us. Still, after five hours in that hotbox of the cabin, it was welcome, and it didn’t seem to be raining.
The two other passengers gathered their things together and departed first. We followed, although Zala was more than a little shaky, and made it down the ladder.
I looked around the open field. A wagon was heading for the soarer with what looked like an entire butcher shop in the back—the fuel truck, I thought, amused. Off to one side, a small group of people and two coaches waited. Our fellow passengers had already reached one of them and were being greeted by very officious-looking men and women, some of whom bowed as they greeted the woman; others opened the coach door for her, while still others rushed to the soarer and retrieved what had to be baggage from a compartment under the passenger unit. Other cargo was also carried, and several buggies came right up to the soarer for it.
We just stood there, not quite knowing what to do. Finally I went over to the crewman who had been our host aboard. “Excuse me—but is this Bourget?” I asked him, praying that it was.
“Oh, yeah,” he responded. “This is where you wanted to go, wasn’t it? Our next stop’s Lamasa.”
“This is the place,” I assured him, then thanked him and turned back to Zala. “Well, I guess we go over to that group and see if anybody’s expecting us.”
We walked cautiously over to the second coach, then looked expectantly at a couple of the people standing around. One young man—hardly more than a boy—grasped our situation and came over to us. “You the new Accountant?” he asked.
I felt relieved. “That’s me. Park Lacoch.”
He looked over expectantly at Zala. “You?”
“Zala Embuay. I’m his—assistant.”
“Yeah, sure,” the boy responded knowingly. “Well, if you two’ll get into the coach there we’ll get you into town and squared away.” He looked around. “Any luggage?”
“No,” I told him. “We’re new to Charon. We’re going to have to pick up everything we need here.”
He seemed mildly interested. “Outside, huh? Funny they’d stick you here.”
I shrugged and climbed into the coach. “They gave me the job and I took it I wasn’t in any position to say no.”
We rode into town in silence, there not being much to say. The boy was not the driver, but stayed topside with him.
Bourget was not quite what I expected. A small village set against a very pretty bay, it was up and around low hills covered with trees. The buildings were all low and mostly painted white with reddish-brown roofs. There was nothing like the glassed-in sidewalks of Montlay or its more modern architecture. It was more like a small peasant village on one of the better frontier worlds, with the buildings made mostly of adobe and stucco of some kind, many with thatched roofs of that reddish-brown plant. Despite the clouds, it clearly didn’t rain as much here as farther north, which was well and good from my point of view. There were many boats in the harbor, most with masts.
But it was really hot, easily over 40 degrees Centigrade, and both Zala and I were sweating profusely. I didn’t know about her, but I needed a long, cold drink of something—anything.
Zala, however, was impressed. “Why, it’s really pretty,” she commented, looking out the window at the scene.
The town was organized around a central square that had a little park in the middle and four large multipurpose buildings—each a square block around although all two stories tall—which were obviously markets, shops, and stalls. The coach pulled up across from the one of the four buildings that had a more or less solid front and stopped. The boy jumped down, opened the door, and helped us both down.
The place was lively, I’ll say that. People rushing this way and that, stalls open to the outside displaying lots of fruits, vegetables, clothes, and handicrafts, and doing a fair business from the look of it.
“Come with me now,” the boy instructed, and we followed. I could see that Zala had completely recovered from her flight for she was showing some anticipation at touring the market.
We entered the solid-facade building and found ourselves in a wide entry hall with a large wooden staircase situated directly in the middle. Corridors led off in all directions with what were obviously offices along them. The boy stopped and turned to us. “You wait here. I’ll see if the Master is in.” And with that he bounded up the stairs and was off.
Zala turned to me. “Who do you think he means?”
“Probably the local wizard,” I replied. “Remember to be respectful to him. I want to get off on a good note.”
“Don’t worry.”
We waited for the boy to return. A few people walked here and there on unknown business, but none gave us more than a passing glance. Civil servants looked the same anywhere. The one oddity was that the place was cool—at least a lot cooler than it was outside. There was certainly some land of air circulation system at work, although what type I could not guess. Not regular air-conditioning, that was for sure—the temperature was down, but not the humidity.
Before long the boy was back. “The Master will see you,” he told us, and we followed him upstairs. It was a bit warmer there, as would be expected, and as we walked to the rear of the large building I was conscious of the temperature rising.
We were ushered into an office with nothing on the door. There was an antechamber, like a waiting room, with nobody behind the desk; we went straight back to a second door which the boy opened.
We felt a surprising blast of cool, dry air as we entered. The office was large and very comfortably appointed, with a huge carved wooden desk in the center. Behind that desk sat a rather large man with an enormous white beard, as if in compensation for his mostly bald head. He was smoking a pipe.
He smiled as we entered and nodded. “Please, take seats in front of the desk here,” he said pleasantly, gesturing. The chairs, large and high-backed, were modern and quite comfortable, although as the man surely knew, it’s impossible for a person sitting opposite anyone behind a desk to feel on an equal footing.
The bearded man looked at the boy. “That’ll be all, Gori. Shut the door on your way out.” The boy nodded and did as instructed. “A good lad, that,” the man commented. “Might make a good apt someday, if he gets over his hangup.”