Hasson freed an arm from the Fireman’s mock-sexual embrace and pulled Inglis’s body in close. He groped for the dead man’s master switch but found only a smooth plaque of frozen blood. The jewelled horizons were rising rapidly on all sides now, and the circling traffic stream was opening like a carnivorous flower. Air rushed by at terminal velocity, deafeningly. Hasson fought to break the icy casting away from the switch on Inglis’s harness, but at that moment the Fireman slid an arm around his neck and pulled his head back.
“Don’t try to get away from me,” he shouted into Hasson’s ear. “Don’t try to chicken out—I want to see how well you bounce.”
They continued to fall.
Hasson, encumbered by his nets, felt for the buckle of the belt which held, among other things, the towline dispenser. He fumbled it open with numb fingers and was about to release Inglis’s body when it occurred to him he would gain very little in doing so. An experienced chicken player always delayed breaking out of field interference until the last possible instant, leaving it so late that even with his harness set at maximum lift he hit the ground at the highest speed he could withstand. The Fireman probably intended going to the limit this time, leaving Hasson too disabled to prevent himself being smashed on impact. Getting rid of Inglis’s body would not change that.
They had dropped almost two thousand metres and in just a few seconds would be penetrating the crowded commuter levels. The Fireman began to whoop with excitement, grinding himself against Hasson like a rutting dog. Holding Inglis with his left hand, Hasson used his right to loop the plasteel towline around the Fireman’s upraised thigh and to pull it into a hard knot. He was still tightening the knot as they bombed down into the traffic flow. Lights flashed past nearby and suddenly the slow-spinning galaxy was above them. Patterns of street lamps blossomed beneath, with moving ground cars clearly visible. This, Hanson knew, was close to the moment at which the Fireman had to break free if he was to shed enough downward velocity before reaching ground level.
“Thanks for the ride,” the Fireman shouted, his voice ripping away in the slipstream. “Got to leave you soon.”
Hasson switched on his flares and then jerked the towline violently, bringing it to the Fireman’s attention. The Fireman looked at the loop around his thigh. His body convulsed with shock as he made the discovery that it was he and not Hasson who was linked to the dead and deadly skycop. He pushed Hasson away and began clawing at the line. Hasson swam free in the wind, knowing that the line would resist even the Fireman’s great strength. As he felt his CG field spread its invisible wings he turned to look back. He saw the two bodies, one of them struggling frantically, pass beyond the range of his flares on their way to a lethal impact with the ground.
Hasson had no time to waste in introspection—his own crash landing was about to occur and it would require all his skill and experience to get him through it alive—but he was relieved to find that he could derive no satisfaction from the Fireman’s death. Nunn and the others were wrong about him.
Even so, he thought, during the final hurtling seconds, I’ve hunted like a hawk for far too long. This is my last flight.
He prepared himself, unafraid, for the earth’s blind embrace.