Foord should have realised what it was from the low throb of its engine, or the shape of the shadow it cast, but he didn’t until it was upon them: a tracked lowloader, like those in the clearing earlier, but much larger. There were others behind it. They carried more beam and scanner units, and missiles so tall they towered precariously over Pindar’s buildings, and they moved through the main street in the opposite direction to everything else: in the direction, of course, of the highlands. The lowloader was so long that as it passed the landchariot, and continued and continued to pass, it seemed that its bulk was standing still and they were moving past it. Then it passed by and the illusion ended, but as those behind it followed, each of them equally tall, there was another illusion: that of a city moving through a town.
“What’s that noise, Commander? Are you all right?”
“It’s OK, Cyr, a military convoy is passing through. Stay on, I want to speak again when it’s quieter.”
The lowloaders continued: there were seven of them, followed by groundcars, sixwheels and other vehicles. When they had gone, and their engine-noise had receded, the traffic was ushered back into the centre of the road and continued at walking pace. The sirens stopped. The abnormal quiet returned.
“Cyr.”
“Commander?”
“That convoy gave me an idea. Cyr, I intend to return to the lowlands, and to the ship, in this landchariot. Contact Swann, please. Tell him where we are, and tell him to get a military escort to clear the way for us. Invoke our priority, it seems to work.”
Cyr did not reply immediately.
“Cyr? Do you think that’s pushing him too far?”
“No, Commander.” Foord realised, from the inflexion of her voice, that she had been laughing quietly. “I think he’ll do anything….I’ll call him now. We are heaping insults on him, aren’t we?”
Foord snapped his wristcom shut, and thought, This is like the running joke in ancient movies, where one person gets repeatedly clobbered. He thought also, She never asked why I have to go by landchariot, though she probably thinks it’s self-indulgent. The fact was, he didn’t really know himself. Instinctively, it just felt fitting. He could have rationalised it by saying it was done out of respect for Thahl, but that wasn’t true. Thahl had already told him, firmly but in private, that he thought the idea was unnecessarily risky as well as a provocation to Swann.
Between Foord’s knees, and across the landchariot’s dim interior, Thahl stayed expressionless and silent, though Foord had known him long enough to know he was amused at the indignities being piled on Swann. Sakhrans’ quiet humour was strangely at odds with their capacity for violence.
Foord looked above Thahl’s head at their driver. He had never seen anyone’s mere neck and shoulders radiate so much repressed anger. The driver had said nothing to Thahl since leaving the clearing, and nothing at all to Foord; his turned back carried far more expression than Thahl’s face.
•
When they finally got out of Pindar the road widened; traffic was heavy but faster. In both directions—toward the lowlands and highlands, the latter now entirely military vehicles—it was an unbroken stream. Cyr called back to report that Swann, although outraged that Foord should enter Blentport by landchariot, had agreed almost gratefully to the suggestion that a military escort would hasten his return and, hence, departure. They would be met, Cyr said, by a specially picked detachment who would escort them at high speed the rest of the way down.
The foothill country opened up and the landchariot clattered on, between fields of dark gold corn stubble where suddenly-empty houses stood alone as if daubed there in anger; fields of waving barley where cloud shadows raced each other across the ground; between fields of naked brown ploughed earth where flocks of white birds, or things like birds, wheeled screaming. And everywhere in the fields were swarms of giant Sakhran butterflies, iridescent violet and purple, looking for the farm animals on whose excrement they fed; they preferred it warm, so they would cluster around anal orifices. The farmers called them Buggerflies.
The sky was still full of freighters going to and from Blentport. As two passed overhead, much too low and much too fast—they were huge ships, and their passing seemed to go on and on, like that of the lowloaders—they encountered their escort. Swann had wasted no time.
Two sleek, low-slung military groundcars, with sirens blaring and lights flashing, came up behind them from the direction of the highlands, overtook them and waved them down. The landchariot juddered to a halt, the chimaeras’ hooves scuttering and kicking up stones and mud. Three soldiers got out of each car. They were from heavy-gravity planets, each one of them bigger than Foord, and they wore dark blue Special Forces uniforms.
“Commander Foord and Officer Thahl?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Kudrow. Major Miles Kudrow.” He was not unlike Foord, even down to the thick dark hair and beard; but younger and larger. The five standing behind him were equally large, and looked impressive even to Foord. “I’ve been ordered by Director Swann to escort you back to your ship.”
“Thank you, Major. We didn’t expect you quite so soon.”
Kudrow nodded, politely. “Commander, my orders were to escort you in this landchariot.”
“That’s correct.”
“Can I suggest you transfer to the cars? We’d make better time.”
“Thank you, Major, but I particularly want to complete the journey by landchariot.”
“Of course, Commander. We’ll get you there as quickly as we can. One car in front, one behind, sirens and lights. We’ve already called ahead so a lane will be cleared when we hit the main highway.”
“Thank you, Major.”
Kudrow opened his wristcom and spoke into it. His wristcom, and Foord’s, buzzed in unison. “Our numbers are stored, Commander. Please call me if we’re going too fast, or too slow. See you in Blentport.”
They moved out into the road, one car in front and one behind, the sirens and flashing lights clearing the way. Generally the traffic moved aside in good time, leaving them free to rush past in the left-hand lane; vehicles which didn’t move quickly enough were made to, diplomatically but efficiently. Kudrow seemed to have got the landchariot’s speed exactly right, and kept it thoughtfully constant. They were making good time, having neither to slow down or to rush beyond the chimaeras’ capacity.
The road was wide, still partly stones and mud, but starting to show patches of proper surfacing. The area was still predominantly agricultural, although crops and livestock had given way to commercial-scale market gardening: huge fields growing the prized Sakhran black tulips and blue roses. It was a more prosperous area: they passed through a couple of market towns and saw several farmhouses, all notably larger and better-kept than Pindar. The towns had fatter names, too: Framsden, Cromer, Meddon.
After twenty minutes, Foord’s wristcom buzzed.
“Kudrow, Commander. We’ll be taking a left turn in half a mile.”
“Trouble?”
“No, Commander. I’ve called ahead and there’s a detour we can take to reach the main highway: a farm road which cuts off a few miles. My people are keeping it open for us.”
It came up in a couple of minutes, a small turnoff guarded by a sixwheel. Kudrow’s car, in front of them, signalled and turned smoothly, flashing its lights at the sixwheel as it did so. The landchariot, and the second car behind, followed.
But it wasn’t a road, or even a track. It was just a clearing. Kudrow’s car skidded round, throwing up stones and mud and turning in almost its own length to face them; and with impressive speed and precision, and before the car stopped moving, Kudrow and his two passengers jumped out and were at Foord’s side of the landchariot, guns levelled. Foord could even read the name-tags of the other two: Lyle and Astin. The guns were pointed unwaveringly in his face—directly at him, with such geometric precision that their muzzles appeared to him as perfect black circles. Not even ovals, but circles.