Light seeped around a bend, with the noise of the storm. He could judge thereby how matters went outside. Periodically he crept to the entrance of his dolmen and monitored the radiation level. Before long it had reached such a count that—space armor, expert therapy, and all—an hour’s exposure would kill him.
He must wait.
Jaccavrie knew the approximate area where he intended to set down. She’d come looking as soon as possible. Flitting low, using her detectors, she’d find the wrecked sled. More than that she could not do unaided.
But he could emerge and call her. Whether or not they actually saw each other in this mountainscape, he could emit a radio signal for her to home on. She’d hover, snatch him with a forcebeam, and reel him in.
But… this depended on calm weather. Jaccavrie could overmaster any wind. But the dust would blind both her and him. And deafen and mute them; it was conducive, radio could not get through. Laure proved that to his own satisfaction by experimenting with the mini-radar built into his armor.
So everything seemed to depend on which came first, the end of the gale or the end of Laure’s powerpack. His air renewer drew on it. About thirty hours’ worth of charge remained before he choked on his own breath. If only he’d been able to grab a spare accumulator or two, or better still, a hand-cranked recharger! They might have rolled no more than ten meters off. But he had decided not to search the area. And by now, he couldn’t go back. Not through the radiation.
He sighed, drank a bit from his water nipple, ate a bit through his chow lock, wished for a glass of beer and a comfortable bed, and went to sleep.
When he awoke, the wind had dropped from a full to a half gale; but the dust drift was so heavy as to conceal the glorious starfog night that had fallen. It screened off some of the radiation, too, though not enough to do him any good. He puzzled over why the body of the planet wasn’t helping more. Finally he decided that ions, hitting the upper air along, the terminator, produced secondaries and cascades which descended everywhere.
The day-side bombardment must really have got fierce!
Twenty hours left. He opened the life-support box he had taken off his shoulder rack, pulled out the sanitary unit, and attached it. Men don’t die romantically, like characters on a stage. Their bodies are too stubborn.
So are their minds. He, should have been putting his thoughts in order, but he kept being disturbed by recollections of his parents, of Graydal, of a funny little tavern he’d once visited, of a gaucherie he’d rather forget, of some money owing to him, of Graydal—He ate again, and drowsed again, and the wind filled the air outside with dust, and time closed in like a hand.
Ten hours left. No more?
Five. Already?
What a stupid way to end. Fear fluttered at the edge of his perception. He beat it. The wind yammered. How long can a dust storm continue, anyhow? Where’d it come from? Daylight again, outside his refuge, colored like blood and brass. The charged particles and X rays were so thick that some diffused in to him. He shifted cramped muscles, and drank the stench of his unwashed skin, and regretted everything he had wanted and failed to do.
A shadow cast on the cornering rock. A rustle and slither conducted to his ears. A form, bulky and awkward as his own, crawling around the tunnel bend. Numb, shattered, he switched on his radio. The air was fairly clear in here and he heard her voice through the static: “… you are, you are alive! Oh, Valfar’s Wings upbear us, you live!”
He held her while she sobbed, and he wept, too. “You shouldn’t have,” he stammered. “I never meant for you to risk yourself—”
“We dared not wait,” she said when they were calmer. “We saw, from space, that the storm was enormous. It would go on in this area for days. And we didn’t know how long you had to live. We only knew you were in trouble, or you’d have been back with us. We came down. I almost had to fight my father, but I won and came. The hazard wasn’t so great for me. Really, no, believe me. She protected me till we found your sled. Then I did have to go out afoot with a metal detector to find you. Because you were obviously sheltered somewhere, and so you could only be detected at closer range than she can come. But the danger wasn’t that great, Daven. I can stand much more radiation than you. I’m still well inside my tolerance, won’t even need any drugs. Now I’ll shoot off this flare, and she’ll see, and come so close-that we can make a dash—You are all right, aren’t you? You swear it?”
“Oh, yes,” he said slowly. “I’m fine. Better off than ever in my life.” Absurdly, he had to have the answer, however footling all questions were against the fact that she had come after him and was here and they were both alive. “We? Who’s your companion?”
She laughed and clinked her faceplate against his. “Jaccavrie, of course. Who else? You didn’t think your womenfolk were about to leave you alone, did you?”
The ships began their trek homeward. They moved without haste. Best to be cautious until they had emerged from the nebula, seen where they were, and aimed themselves at the Dragon’s Head.
“My people and I are pleased at your safety,” said Demring’s image in the outercom screen. He spoke under the obligation to be courteous, and could not refrain from adding: “We also approve your decision not to investigate that planet further.”
—“For the first, thanks,” Laure answered. “As for the second—” He shrugged. “No, real need. I was curious about the effects of an atmosphere, but my computer has just run off a probability analysis of the data I already have, which proves that no more are necessary for my purposes.”
“May one inquire what your purposes are?”
“I’d like to discuss that first with your navigator. In private.”
The green gaze studied Laure before Demring said, unsmiling: “You have the right of command. And by our customs, she having been instrumental in saving your life, a special relationship exists. But again I counsel forethought.”
Laure paid no attention to that last sentence. His pulse was beating too gladly. He switched off as soon as possible and ordered the best dinner his ship could provide.
“Are you certain you want to make your announcement through her?” the voice asked him. “And to her in this manner?”
“I am… I think I’ve earned the pleasure. Now I’m off to make myself presentable for the occasion. Carry on.” Laure went whistling down the corridor.
But when Graydal boarded, he took both her hands and they looked long in silence at each other. She had strewn jewels in her tresses, turning them to a starred midnight. Her clothes were civilian, a deep blue that offset coppery skin, amber eyes, and suppleness. And did he catch the least woodsy fragrance of perfume?
“Welcome,” was all he could say at last.
“I am so happy,” she answered.
They went to the saloon and sat down on the couch together. Daiquiris were ready for them. They touched glasses. “Good voyage,” he made the old toast, “and merry landing.”
“For me, yes.” Her smile faded. “And I hope for the rest. How I hope.”
“Don’t you think they can get along in the outside worlds?”
“Yes, undoubtedly.” The incredible lashes fluttered. “But they will never be as fortunate as… as I think I may be.”
“You have good prospects yourself?” The blood roared in his temples.
“I am not quite sure,” she replied shyly.
He had intended to spin out his surprise at length, but suddenly he couldn’t let her stay troubled, not to any degree. He cleared his throat and said, “I have news.”
She tilted her head and waited with that relaxed alertness he liked to see. He wondered how foolish the grin was on his face. Attempting to recover dignity, he embarked on a roundabout introduction.