Exasperated, Laureline released the joystick and threw her hands up in the air. “You want to drive?”
“Keep your hands on the wheel, please!” Valerian tried not to yelp the words.
Laureline, stony-faced, appeared not to have heard.
Sweat broke out on Valerian’s brow. With the utmost politeness, he said in a calm voice, “Laureline, will you please put your hands back on the wheel?”
“Will you stop complaining about my driving?” she retorted.
“Yes, I’m sorry. You’re a great driver. You’re the best driver in the entire universe!” Valerian wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince—himself or Laureline. Probably both.
She beamed at him, but her eyes were sly. “Aww, thanks!” She’d won this round and they both knew it.
But at least she’d grabbed the joystick again and had gained control of the ship.
CHAPTER THREE
“Touchdown on Kirian in two minutes,” Laureline announced. There was a trace of pride in her voice as she added, “I saved us some time.”
“Perhaps I should take over for a moment,” Alex said, “so you can both utilize that time to put on something more appropriate?”
While Valerian had certainly not forgotten that Laureline was in her bikini, he’d forgotten that he was sitting in the cockpit of a cutting-edge ship in nothing but swimming trunks.
“Good thinking,” Laureline said, to Valerian’s quiet disappointment. “Leaving manual.”
“Manual disarmed,” Alex replied.
Laureline rose and left to change. Valerian watched her retreating figure with all the appreciation it deserved, murmuring under his breath, “Wow! Man…”
“Do you want me to regulate your hormones, Major?” Alex offered helpfully.
For a brief instant, Valerian actually considered it. Then, “No thank you,” he replied, and rose to change as well.
They walked down the ramp to the surface of Kirian, a plain of soft, powdered sand interrupted by craggy, jutting stone. In the end, their attire was a bit more modest, but otherwise not that different. The major was in shorts, closed athletic shoes, and a yellow mesh undershirt overlaid with a gaudy flower-print shirt. The sergeant followed clad in a short, gray, flowing dress, waving at the six unsmiling soldiers who had been awaiting their arrival.
They were, at least at this moment, unmistakably that— soldiers, despite their efforts to blend in with the populace. They wore loose, somewhat messy sand-colored clothing. Their heads were wrapped with cloth—except for one soldier, whose bald pate and long, thick beard set him apart and, frankly, probably was a better disguise than a head-wrapping. Voluminous ponchos served double duty, concealing their excellent physical condition and also conveniently hiding various pieces of equipment and weaponry. Their disciplined military bearing was obviously being sorely tested by the heat of the planet, which had reddened the paler faces among them and dewed all of them in sweat.
Kirian was every bit as unwelcoming on its surface as it had looked from space. Some of the huge boulders had been contorted and shaped by time and weathering, their tops looking like the wrinkled folds of brains propped up on narrow stalks. Others erupted at angles from the ground and looked more like sharp, flat arrows. Both types reared up over flat desert like ancient witnesses to a time of tremendous chaos. The sand was soft, but hot, and it was already starting to creep into clothing and skin.
The commando unit further emphasized the incongruity of the situation by lingering near an old bus that looked almost as weathered and solemn as the boulders. It was painted in what had once been a bright yellow and was now a dull ochre, and it was decorated with insanely tacky rust-hued flames. Along its top were emblazoned the words “Kirian Tours.”
Valerian responded to the absurdity of it all by gleefully snapping a picture of the soldiers. The glowers of some of them were priceless, and would make fantastic souvenirs.
“Hey,” he asked, looking about and spreading his arms. “Where’s the band?”
Major Gibson, the officer in charge of the operation, looked at him askance. “What band?”
“To welcome us,” Valerian answered cheerfully. The soldiers looked at one another, utterly at a loss for words.
Gibson, a tall, lean man with sharp features, eyed the pair critically, his mouth turning down in an expression of distaste. “You plan on going on a mission dressed like that?”
“Hello Major Pot, I’m Major Kettle. Have you looked at yourselves in a mirror? We’re supposed to mingle with the tourists, aren’t we? What do you expect us to wear? A panda suit?”
Gibson sighed. “I’ll make this short and sweet, as we’re running late.”
Laureline threw Valerian an I told you so look as they climbed into the bus, settling in as best they could.
“Major Valerian,” Gibson said briskly, “your contact is Sergeant Cooper. He is in position and will be waiting with your equipment in the back of the suspect’s store.” Without another word, he turned to take his seat.
“Hey!” Valerian protested. “I’m only working with my partner here!”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. We’re a team.”
Gibson glanced at Laureline, raising an eyebrow. She shrugged. “Funny. Because Sergeant Laureline will arrive at the drop in precisely twenty minutes, and you will have ten seconds to make the transfer.” An unpleasant smile quirked his lips. “Or didn’t you read the memo?”
“Of course I did,” Valerian lied, with just the right combination of annoyance and weariness.
“You better have.” Gibson’s tone of voice and skeptical, slightly worried expression gave Valerian the distinct impression that the major wasn’t fooled.
The two agents were bumped and jostled as the vehicle made its way across the desert to their destination, moving over the endless sand and passing through shade provided by the enormous rock formations. Laureline pulled out a tablet and quipped wryly, “Hey, how about we look over the memo? You know—one last time?”
Valerian, feeling his face getting hot, shrugged nonchalantly. “Can’t hurt,” he said casually, stretching and slouching in the uncomfortable bus seat.
Laureline pulled up a map on the tablet, pointing to it with the tip of one long, elegant finger.
“Section four. Aisle 122,” she stated. “Suspect claims to be a bona fide art dealer. His name is Igon Siruss.”
She called up the suspect’s image. Valerian, like most humans, had gotten used to aliens of nearly every shape and size imaginable. Even so, he had a sneaking suspicion that in this case the suspect had a face even his mother would be hard-pressed to love.
Bald, with reddish, slightly shiny skin, Igon Siruss was jowly and sullen-looking, with eyes so tiny they were all but swallowed by rolls of extra flesh. But that was not what had caught Valerian’s attention.
“Wow!” he yelped. “What’s with the three sets of nostrils?”
“He’s a Kodhar’Khan,” Laureline explained. “There are three seasons on his planet. The dry season brings suffocating sandstorms. The rainy season results in clouds of noxious sulfur dioxide fumes. And then there’s winter, when you can breathe pretty much normally. Each nostril set has developed separate air filtration capabilities and can be sealed off voluntarily, just like we can close our eyes.”
Not for the first time, Valerian looked at his partner with open admiration of her beautiful brain. “How do you know all this?”