“Why?” Ronnie asked, amused in spite of himself. It was the sort of thing George would think of. All they had told him was that they needed lots of balloons hanging around the nursing home on some ridiculous pretext.
“I don’t know.” The girl, whom he vaguely remembered from last Season, had dyed her hair in streaks of green and blue, and wore a tan coverall with one blue and one green arm. “Somebody said this would be a good place. Cheer up the patients who couldn’t come to the Festival. Anyway, why not climb up and come along?”
“Because you’re not going anywhere,” Ronnie pointed out. “Not until you get out of that tree. Besides, your balloon is deflating—haven’t you noticed?”
“Oh.” The girl looked and shrugged, then turned on the young man. “I told you you were too low, Corey. We’ll be stuck here for hours, and the others will have all the fun.”
“You could ride with me,” Ronnie offered. “It’s not as much fun as flying there, but more fun than hanging in a tree like an ornament.”
“No!” The administrator looked angrier than ever. “Unauthorized persons cannot just wander around unsupervised. You—” He turned on Ronnie. “Where’s your pass?”
“Here.” Ronnie held it out. “I’m on my way out; couldn’t I escort Andalance? It’s not her fault.”
“She’s an intruder. A trespasser—”
“Oh, come on. It’s the Festival—” Corey sounded both angry and slightly drunk. “She’s my date—”
“She didn’t trespass intentionally,” Ronnie said. The longer he stood here arguing, the more obvious it was that he didn’t have his aunt hidden on his person. He told himself that the gloves in his pocket didn’t really glow bright yellow, either. “And it would get her out of your tree. Or I could help free the basket—it looks like you’ve got other problems, too.”
“No,” the man said again, handing Ronnie’s pass back. “It would be most helpful if you would simply check out now. If we clear the property of legitimate guests it will be easier to deal with these—” He glared upward. Corey made a rude noise.
“Well—if that’s what you want—” Ronnie shrugged, and turned away, looking he hoped like someone reluctant to leave. He gave a last glance up to the trapped basket. “I’ll take your place, shall I, Corey? Sing by the bonfire and all?”
“You can’t go; you aren’t flying,” Corey yelled back.
“I can pick up a parasail at home—there’s still enough daylight. Enjoy your treehouse.” Ronnie walked on, ignoring the jeers behind him. He made himself walk slowly, looking up when a balloon’s burner whooshed overhead, grinning and shaking his head when a shower of glittery confetti covered him in blue and turquoise. At the main desk, a crowd of visitors clustered, complaining about the noise and confusion, about being forced to leave early. Ronnie handed his pass to the harried receptionist with a shrug and smile, and accepted the gate pass she gave him.
Someone tapped his shoulder and said, “Isn’t your aunt in that last row?”
“Yes, why?” Ronnie said without flinching.
“All that noise—and I saw one balloon land almost on top of that row, dragging the basket along—”
“Must have been after I left,” Ronnie said. “It won’t bother her, I’m sorry to say.”
“Oh?” The avid curiosity of the other man annoyed Ronnie, but he knew he must answer.
“She’s in a coma,” he said. “Has been for months.”
“Oh, well, that’s not so bad. But still. My father nearly had another stroke, when he saw someone fall out of a basket and have to climb back in.”
“It’s just the Festival,” Ronnie said vaguely and turned away. He had to get out of here. He made it out the door, down the long walk to the gatehouse, in a clump of departing visitors. Another low-flying balloon nearly scalped him—someone behind yelled a warning—and the guard at the gatehouse was shaking his head when he collected the gate passes.
“Every year or so they get wild like this. No, madam, I don’t know why. The administration sends warnings out to all the Families and the Clubs, but every so often they take it into their heads to ignore the rules. Can’t explain it. I don’t think it’s so bad myself; patients might enjoy a bit more color and excitement, but I can see why it riles the staff. Like this young gentleman here, with that blue confetti—what fell on the ground, someone’s got to clean up.”
He had made it to his own vehicle; he had started it up. Others crowded the exits; he glanced behind, half-expecting to see someone running to stop him. But nothing. He was on the road home; no one signalled him, no pursuit appeared. At home he faced the tricky part. While his parents had agreed that “something must be done” it had been clear that whatever was done must be done secretly. None of them ever discussed possibilities. For all he knew, they had their own plans to rescue Cecelia, and he had just ruined them. Then again, maybe they’d given up. But they certainly had no idea what he’d been part of. Suddenly the casual self-invitation to the beach party sounded like just the thing.
He left a message on the house board, and went to get his parasail out of storage.
Chapter Eleven
Brun crouched as the burner roared, and pulled the blanket she’d brought along over Cecelia’s crumpled form. Finally—it always seemed to take too long—the balloon rose with a jerk, and the basket hung straight beneath it. “Sorry!” Brun yelled down at someone who had had to dive away from the basket on the terrace behind another unit. “Bad currents.” She watched ahead: there. She could continue to ascend between that balloon and the other—and there was just room to use the directional thruster as well. Carefully, while tossing sackfuls of confetti out with one hand, she set the thruster controls and pumped the burner.
The idea had been to rise directly above Cecelia’s unit, in hopes of not triggering any alarms when her monitor-transmitters went out of range, and then catch a strong wind home. But the surface breeze, twisting between the units and deflected as well by so many jostling balloons, didn’t cooperate. She was already more than thirty meters from the room where Cecelia’s bed had been; she needed to gain altitude and start running now.
Her balloon rose; she felt the pressure in her boots. Now she could see over the last row of units. Was that Ronnie, walking toward the administration building? Someone had caught a basket in a tree; that balloon, deflating, draped itself over the tree like a discarded party dress. She didn’t envy the owner. If they got it out at all, there’d be plenty of rips to repair. A vast green—and-silver surface blocked her view as it slid by, someone else’s balloon. Out the other side, she saw yellow striped with light blue. Above, her own balloon blocked her view. She had to hope that she didn’t bump into someone from below.
Now she was higher than most of the others—than anyone near. Behind and below, balloons obscured her view of the nursing home and its meadow. Most were still aflight, but some were on the ground, surrounded by clumps of people. Ahead and higher were other balloons headed for the shore, but no one was near her. That in itself was dangerous . . . anyone might notice the color of a balloon that lifted too suddenly from the nursing home. She looked back again, glad to see that five or six others were rising as fast now. They would block a clear view of hers from the ground.
She let go the burner controls. In the sudden silence, she checked her gauges. Still rising, slowly. She knelt beside the crumpled shape, and as gently as she could tugged Cecelia to a half-sitting position. The older woman’s skin was cold, but she had a strong regular pulse and she seemed to be breathing normally. Brun stuffed a pillow under her head.
“It’s Brun, Lady Cecelia. If you can hear me—we’ve got you out. Here, smell this.” She tugged out her riding gloves, and laid them against Cecelia’s face. A nostril fluttered. “That’s it. Horse and dog and out-of-doors. I can’t talk more—we’re in the air.”