But she was sliding swiftly now, down the gentler, longer curve of the slope that led to Foralie Town. She could see the brown track of the river road, now, following the snake of blue water that wound away to the east and out between a fold in the mountains, and in its other direction from the town, west and up until it disappeared in the rocky folds above, where its source lay in the water of permanent ice sheets at seventeen thousand feet. Small clumps of the native softwood trees moved and passed like shutters between her and sight of the town below as she descended. But at this hour she saw no other traffic about. Twenty minutes later, she came to the road and the river below the town, and turned left, upstream toward the buildings that were now close.
She passed out from behind a clump of small softwoods and slid past the town manufactory and the town dump, which now separated her from the river and the wharf that let river traffic unload directly to the manufactory. The manufactory itself was silent and inactive, at this early hour. The early sun winked on the rubble of refuse, broken metal and discarded material of all kinds, in the little hollow below the exhaust vent of the manufactory's power unit.
The Dorsai was a poor world in terms of arable land and most natural resources; but it did supply petroleum products from the drowned shorelines of the many islands that took the place of continents on the watery planet. So crude oil had been the fuel chosen for the power generator at the manufactory, which had been imported at great cost from Earth. The tools driven by that generator were as sophisticated as any found on Earth, while the dump was as primitive as any that pioneer towns had ever had. Like her Fal Morgan and the communications equipment within its wall.
She stopped the skimmer and got off, walking a dozen feet or so back into the brush across the road from the dump. She took the heavy energy handgun from her belt and hung it low on the branch of a sapling, where the green leaves all about would hide it from anyone not standing within arm's reach of it. She made no further effort to protect it. The broad arrow stamped on its grip, mark of the ap Morgans, would identify it to anyone native to this world who might stumble across it.
She returned to the skimmer, just as a metal door in the side of the manufactory slid back with a rattle and a bang. Jhanis Bins came out, wheeling a dump carrier loaded with silvery drifts of fine metallic dust.
Amanda walked over to him as he wheeled the carrier to the dump and tilted its contents onto the rubble inches below the exhaust vent. He jerked the carrier back on to the roadway and winked at Amanda. Age and illness had wasted him to a near skeleton, but there was still strength in his body, if little endurance. Above the old knife-scar laying all the way across his eyes held a sardonic humor.
"Nickel grindings?" asked Amanda, nodding at what Jhanis had just dumped.
"Right," he said. There was grim humor in his voice as well as his eyes. "You're up early."
"So are you," she said.
"Lots to be done." He offered a hand. "Amanda."
She took it.
"Jhanis."
He let go and grinned again.
"Well, back to work Luck Commander, ma'm."
He turned the carrier back toward the manufactory.
"News travels fast," she said.
"How else?" he replied, over his shoulder, and went inside. The metal door rolled on its tracks, slamming shut behind him.
Amanda remounted the skimmer and slide it on into town. As she came to a street of houses just off the main street, she saw Bhaktabahadur Rais, sweeping the path between the flowers in front of his house, holding the broom awkwardly but firmly in the clawed arthritic fingers of the one hand remaining to him. The empty sleeve of the other arm was pinned up neatly just below the shoulder joint. The small brown man smiled warmly as the skimmer settled to the ground when Amanda stopped its motors opposite him. He was no bigger than a twelve-year boy, but in spite of having almost as many years as Amanda, he moved as lightly as a child.
He carried the broom to the skimmer, leaned it against his shoulder and saluted. There was an impish sparkle about him.
"All right, Bhak," said Amanda. "I'm just doing what I'm asked. Did the young ones and their Ancients get out of town?"
He sobered.
"Piers sent them out two days ago," he said. "You didn't know?"
Amanda shook her head.
"I've been busy with Betta. Why two days ago?"
"Evidence they were out before we heard any Earth troops were coming." He shifted his broom back into his hand. "If nothing had happened it would have been easy to have called them back after a few days. If you need me for anything, Amanda - "
"I'll ask, don't worry," she said. It would be easier at any time for Bhak to fight, than wait. The kukri in its curved sheath still lay on his mantelpiece. "I've got to get on to the town hall."
She lifted the skimmer on the thrust of its fans. Their humming was loud in the quiet street.
"Where's Betta?" Bhak raised his voice.
"Foralie."
He smiled again.
"Good. Any news of Cletus?"
She shook her head and set the skimmer off down the street. Turning on to the main street, past the last house around the corner, she checked suddenly and went back A heavy-bodied girl with long brown hair and a round somewhat bunched-up face was sitting on her front step. Amanda stopped the skimmer, got out and went up to the steps. The girl looked up at her.
"Marte," said Amanda, "what are you doing here? Why didn't you go out with the other boys and girls?"
Marte's face took on a slightly sullen look
"I'm staying with grandma."
"But you wanted to go with one of the teams," said Amanda gently. "You told me so just last week"
Marte did not answer. She merely stared hard at the concrete of the walk between her feet. Amanda went up the steps past her and into the house.
"Berthe?" she called, as the door closed behind her.
"Amanda? I'm in the library." The voice that came back was deep enough to be male, but when Amanda followed it into a room off to her right, the old friend she found among the crowded bookshelves there, seated at a desk, writing on a sheet of paper, was a woman with even more years than herself
"Hello, Amanda," Berthe Haugsrud said. "I'm just writing some instructions."
"Marte's still here," Amanda said.
Berthe pushed back in her chair and sighed.
"It's her choice. She wants to stay. I can't bring myself to force her to go if she doesn't want to."
"What have you told her?" Amanda heard the tone of her voice, sharper than she had intended.
"Nothing." Berthe looked at her. "You can't hide things from her, Amanda. She's as sensitive as… anyone. She picked it up - from the air, from the other young ones. Even if she doesn't understand details, she knows what's likely to happen."
"She's young," said Amanda. "What is she - not seventeen yet?"
"But she's got no one but me," said Berthe. Her eyes were black and direct under the wrinkled lids. "Without me, she'd have nobody. Oh, I know everyone in town would look after her, as long as they could. But it wouldn't be the same. Here, in this house, with just the two of us, she can forget she's different. She can pretend she's just as bright as anyone. With that gone…"
They looked at each other for a moment.
"Well, it's your decision," said Amanda, turning away.
"And hers, Amanda. And hers."
"Yes. All right. Goodby, Berthe."