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Laura said nothing. A dreadful silence descended again.
They were flotsam, chromed tinfoil dummies in their matte- black floating blob. She wondered how deep the ocean was beneath the film of hull.
"You always liked the Red Shift better," said sailor #3
with sudden shocking venom.
"You smiled at Red Crewmen over fifteen times. You hardly ever smiled at anyone from Yellow Crew."
"I had no idea," Laura said. "I'm really sorry."
"Oh, yeah. Sure you are. Now."
"Here comes the plane," commented sailor #1.
Laura looked up, shading her eyes. The empty sky was full of little vision blurs, strange little artifacts of sight, trailing along with the movements of her eyeball. She wasn't sure what they were called or what made them, but it had some- thing to do with brightness levels. Then she saw something opening in the sky, something shredding and, popping and, finally, unfolding stiffly like an origami swan. Huge parafoil wings of bright life jacket orange. It was gliding in.
Sailor #2 examined his military phone, checking for the homing signal. Sailor #3 attached a long flabby bag to a tank of hydrogen and began inflating it with a loud flatulent hissing.
Then another cargo drop, and another. Sailor #2 whooped happily. Cargo dumpsters crossed the empty sky, bus-sized brown lozenges with broad, unfolding wings of riffling dayglo- orange plastic. They reminded Laura of June bugs, fat-bellied flying beetles from Texas summer nights. They came down in broad, wheeling descent.
Their curved hulls splashed and settled with surprising, ponderous grace. Curling bow waves. Wings refolding with loud pops and creaks.
Now she could see the plane that had dumped them, a broad-winged ceramic air-bus, sky-blue beneath, its upper surfaces cut with dun-and-yellow desert camouflage. Sailor
# 1 switched on the inflatable's engine, and the boat mumbled its way toward the nearest cargo drop. The drop was bigger than the boat, a bulging floating cylinder, its bow and sides studded with sturdy tow rings.
Sailors #2 and #3 were fighting with the weather balloon.
They let it go, and it rushed suddenly upward, uncoiling length after length of thin cable with a savage hiss.
"Okay," said #1. He hooked the end of the cable to a series of clips on the back of Laura's life jacket. "You want to hold your knees up and in, with your arms," he told her.
"Also keep your head well down and your jaw clenched. You don't want your neck to whiplash, see, or your teeth to clack.
When you feel the aircraft snag this cable, you're go
"I didn't know it would be like this!" Laura said anxiously.
"Parachuting! I don't know how to do that!"
"Yeah," said #2 impatiently, "but you've seen it, on television."
"A skyhook is just the same as a para-drop, only in reverse," said sailor #1 helpfully. He steered them to the bow of the first cargo bulk. "What do you suppose this one is?"
"New missile consignment," said #2.
"No, man, it's the new chow. Refrigerator drop."
"No way. That one's the fridge, over there." He turned to
Laura. "Didn't you hear a word I said? Grab your legs!"
"I-" It hit her like a car wreck. A sudden terrific jerk, as if the skyhook wanted to yank the bones from her flesh. She soared upward as if fired by a ca
Her vision went black, the blood of acceleration draining to her feet. She was helpless, close to fainting, wind tearing furiously at her clothes. She began to twist, blue world flopping and spi
Suspended in space, she felt a sudden roaring sense of mystic ecstasy. Sublime terror, helpless awe: Sinbad yanked up by the roc of Madagascar. East of Africa. Below her, blue bed sheet of turning sea: toy boats, toy minds...
A shadow fell across her. Mighty buzz of propellers, the whine of a whirling pulley. Then she was up and inside it, in the belly of the plane. Underlit splash of daylight: stenciled boxes, crates, a spiderwebbing of steel bracing cord. An interior crane arm plucked at her cable, swung her neatly across from the cargo bay, and plunked her onto the deck.
She lay there bruised and gasping.
Then the bay doors banged shut and pitch darkness fell.
She felt speed hit the plane. Now that it had her, it was climbing, putting its nose up and pouring energy into conti- nental flight.
She was in a flying black cavern smelling of plastic and oiled tarpaulin and the sharp primal aroma of African dust. It was dark as the inside of a thermos.
She yelled. "Lights, come on!" Nothing. She heard her words echo.
She was alone. This plane had no crew. It was a giant drone, a robot.
She managed to fumble blindly out of the life jacket. She tried variants of the lighting command. She asked for general systems help, in English and Japanese. Nothing. She was cargo-no one listened to cargo.
It began to grow cold. And the air grew thin.
She was freezing. After days in the unchanging air of the sub the cold bit her like electricity. She huddled in her tinfoil survival gear. She pulled the drawstring sleeves and trouser cuffs over her hands and feet. She put her foiled hands before her face: too dark to see them, even an inch away. She covered her face with her hands and breathed into them. Icy puffs of thin Himalayan air. She curled into a ball, shivering.
Isolation and blackness and the distant trembling hum of motors.
Landing woke her. The butterfly touchdown of cybernetic precision. Then, half an hour of timeless anxiety as heat crept into the cabin and dread crept into her. Had they forgotten about her? Was she misplaced now? A computer screwup in some F.A.C.T. datafile? An a
Creak of bay doors. White-hot light poured in. A rush, a stink of dust and fuel.
The rumble and squeak of boarding stairs. Clomp of booted feet. A man looked in, a sunburned blond European in a khaki uniform. His shirt was blackened with sweat down both sides. He spotted her where she crouched beside a tarpaulined mass of cargo.
"Come on," he told her. He waved at her with one arm. .
There was a little snout of metal in his clenched fist,, part of a flexible snaky thing strapped to his forearm. It had a barrel. It was a submachine gun.
"Come on," he repeated.
Laura stood up. "Who are you? Where is this?"
"No questions." He shook his head, bored. "Now."
He marched her down into superheated, desiccating air.
She was in a desert airport.. Dust-heavy, heat-shimmered runways, low whitewashed blockhouse with a faded wind sock, a tricolor flag hanging limply: red, gold, and green.
Huge white aircraft hangar in the distance, pale and barnlike, a distant angry whine of jets.
There was a van waiting, a paddy wagon, painted white like a bakery truck. Thick lugged tires, wire-reinforced win- dows, heavy iron bumpers.
Two black policemen opened the back of the van. They wore khaki shorts, ribbed knee-high socks, dark glasses, billy clubs, holstered pistols with rows of lead-tipped bullets. The two cops were sweating and expressionless, faces blank, radiating careless menace, calloused hands on their clubs.
She climbed into the van. Doors slammed and locked. She was alone and afraid. The rooftop metal was too hot to touch and the rubber-covered floor stank of blood and fear-sweat and a nauseating reek of dried urine.
People had died in here. Laura knew it suddenly, she could feel the presence of their dying. like a weight on her heart.
Death, beaten and bleeding, here on these filthy rubber mats.
The engine started- and the wagon lurched into movement, and she fell.