Judith had wound a cut lashing round herself, binding her body to the skids. Would her knots hold? Most women can’t tie a knot that doesn’t slip. But Judith was a surgeon. Hers should be good. She had one hand on the clamp-release, was signaling “Ready” with the other.
The container had reached maximum tilt. Its seaward side swung open. The Skipper’s voice came on the wind, “We therefore commit these bodies to the deep—” I pressed the starter.
The rotors turned. The turbine gasped and fired, hesitated ' and died. I held the starter down. The turbine tried again, gasped again, and kept turning.
The four coffins shot overside into the welter of sea foam. The Skipper broke off his nondenominational burial prayer to shout, “What the hell?” The container dropped back onto the deck with a crash that shook the ship. The turbine roared and spluttered. Three guards were tumbling down the bridge ladder. A fourth, on the bridge, was aiming a rifle.
It was the next stern-lift or never. I speeded the turbine mid signaled Judith. She struggled with the clamp-release. It wouldn’t free. The moment passed. The John Howard’s stem dropped into the next trough. The Light was pitching us every curve ball in its repertoire.
The ship corkscrewed in a cross sea at the moment that the rifle stuttered. The burst went wide. The first of the guards down the bridge ladder slipped on the wet deck and the two behind fell with him. The rifleman was snapping on another magazine. Judith had both hands on the clamp-release. The stern started to rise.
I signaled. Judith tugged. The turbine roared. At the critical moment when the crest lifted the clamp came free. The minicopter was tossed into the air. A burst ricocheted off the deck.
The rotors got a grip, lost it, and we dropped alongside the ship into the trough between waves. The turbine roared again and we were starting to rise when the next crest caught us, foaming around struts and over skids. Judith was submerged.
I hauled out the overdrive control, an action likely to stall a cold engine. It started to fade, then decided to try. Power poured into the rotors. They tore us, airframe shuddering, out of the grip of the sea. I glimpsed Judith limp across the skids, and then I was into the overcast, fighting to retain control of a minicopter whose turbine was alternating between full power and failure.
I cut the overdrive and the turbine settled into a steady purr. Below me Judith was still limp. If not already drowned she’d be dead of exposure within minutes. I rammed open the throttle and dipped through the clouds. About five kilometers ahead the seas were pounding onto a rocky coast. I dived toward the only stretch of shingle in sight.
I touched down as gently as I could, and dropped from the cockpit to frantically attack the lashings. She had tied them well and they freed easily. I rolled her onto her stomach, pumped water from her lungs, then turned her on her back and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She gasped and opened her eyes. “Gavin! I promised any time, anyway! But not right now!” She sat up. “Where are we? In hell?”
“In Maine! And we’ve got to move. The hounds will be after us.”
She began to shiver. Her jumpsuit was soaked. I helped her up into the cockpit, and dragged a rug from behind the seat. “Get that suit off and this around you, before you freeze.” I turned up the cabin heater, which didn’t help much while the motor was still cool. Then I took off. The overcast was our best hope.
She fumbled at her zippers. “Gavin—I’ve got no hands!” I glanced sideways. They were white claws.
I switched the copter to auto and set it to fly southwest through the clouds. I pushed her hands into the heater blast and began to unzip her. After a struggle I managed to peel ' off her soaked jumpsuit. I had undressed women in a minicopter before, but never when it was flying and the woman was freezing.
I wrapped her in the rug, then found a windbreaker to pull over her shoulders. She began to sob with pain as feeling came back into her fingers and toes. That was a good sign. I concentrated on flying the copter, glancing down through gaps in the clouds. All I could see below were patches of wet woods.
“The proximity indicator,” she whispered. “Aircraft at seventy-two!”
Three, a little above us, flying southwest. Had they vectored in on us already? I started to turn and came out of the ; clouds. “Minicopters, by God!”
Three civilian minicopters, flying in a group but not in formation. And another four farther inland, heading the same way. They must all be going somewhere, but they weren’t after us. I eased over to fall in astern of the nearest group. A flock like this might confuse the radar search. “Where the hell are they going?” I muttered.
“Up ahead!” Judith raised a mottled hand. “They’re landing.”
Beneath us was only forest. It would be hopeless to try to hide in that, even if I could see a place to put down. I know about people-hunting in jungle; airborne sniffers would smell us out in no time, once they knew roughly where we were i hiding.
We passed over a road, cars moving along it in a steady stream, heading toward a group of buildings surrounded by hectares of permacrete. “A rural shopping mall!” said Judith.
After being out of circulation for three years, it took a moment for me to appreciate what she was saying. Minicopters were forbidden to fly near cities or to land in populated areas. But out here, in the boondocks, they were the transportation of choice for farmers, miners, and foresters. Shopping centers to serve such people had sprung up and the one ahead of us was large and obviously popular. Cars were streaming in from the highway; minicopters dropping down from the sky. I followed the copter ahead into the landing pattern and put down in the next parking slot. It was starting to rain, and people were running from cars and copters toward the dome covering the mall. Every rustic within range seemed to have come shopping at the same time.
I cut the motor. “What’s going on? Why the rush?”
“Nine o’clock on a Saturday morning.” Judith glanced around. “Will they have tracked us here?”
“Maybe not yet. We’ve hours at the best—minutes at the worst. We’ve got to lose ourselves in that mob. Come on!” I began to open the door.
“Like this?” She was wearing only a windbreaker and a blanket. “Help me back into my suit.”
Judith’s fingers were not yet fully functional and cramming her back into a wet jumpsuit was an exercise in applied gymnastics. The shoppers who glanced at us as they hurried through the rain looked quickly away. We were obviously some kinky couple who chose to copulate in a minicopter at nine on a Saturday morning in a parking lot. I was more afraid of the police arriving with Judith half-naked than of shocking the rustics. When she was more or less dressed I jumped out. “Let’s make a dash for it!”
The rain had turned into downpour. We ran toward the mall among other scurrying shoppers and stood dripping amid potted plants and ornamental fountains. Judith looked only a little wetter than the rest of the crowd, but she was shivering as well as dripping. I guided her to a store where flocks of women were rummaging through racks of clothing. “Join that mob. Pick out something warm and try it on.”
Her teeth were chattering. “I’ve no cards and no cash.”
“Tell anybody who asks that your old man told you to buy yourself a dry dress. He’ll pay when he comes to pick you up. But get rid of that jumpsuit. It’s a dead giveaway if the cops come looking.”
“You’ll be back?”
“Of course!” I took the windbreaker and gave her a push toward the store. “If I can’t liberate enough cash you’ll have to fade into the crowd. The shoplifter magstrip is usually hidden in the hem. Go on! And pick something sensible and inconspicuous, for God’s sake!”