Charon (19 page)

 
As a certified pilot, both air and space, I'd experienced far worse than this, which may be why I was holding up so well. But
then
I'd been in control of a machine whose properties were known. To be perfectly honest, in that moment of forward fall all I could think was
"Well, Ms is it—you're dead."

 
But almost as abrupt as the plunge was the sudden and violent turn and rise. At that moment I could see, with a kind of horrible fascination, just how close we'd come to the ground below.

 
Now we were lifting, with an eerie, rocking motion that first threw us forward, then back, as the enormous, powerful wings took us up,
then
paused to rest on a current of air. In another minute or two we were in the ever-present clouds, getting really bounced about. I glanced around and saw that Zala, eyes still closed, appeared very, very sick; the two other passengers were sitting quietly with no real reaction, while the crew was very relaxed. One was eating a fruit of some kind.

 
That terrible bouncing seemed to go on forever. Finally, we broke free, above the clouds, and into bright sunshine. Within another minute or two the creature caught a comfortable current, adjusted its course, and settled down. The experience was really strange now—after such a violent upheaval, the ride was now as smooth as glass, and nearly silent.

 
I looked over at Zala. "You can open your eyes now, and catch hold of your stomach," I told her. "It'll probably be like this the rest of the way." I just hoped and prayed this was an express.

 
One eye opened, then the other; she looked at me rather mournfully. "I'm sick," she managed.

 
All I could do was be sympathetic. "Just relax, calm down, and don't worry. That was a pretty rough take-off, but it's going to be like this until we get where we're going."

 
She didn't seem to be any more relieved. "I keep wondering what the landing is going to be like, if that was the take-off."

 
Good point. How the hell would something this size brake to a stop? Still, I had to have confidence since the pilot and crew did this all the time and none of the crew seemed worried.

 
At one point one of the crewmen took out a small carton and offered us fruit. Zala turned green at its mere mention. I almost took one,
then
decided for her sake that I could spare her the sight of me eating for the duration which, the crewman told us, would be a little more than five hours if we didn't run into weather problems. The thing managed an average airspeed in excess of 250 kph, a pretty respectable rate over the long haul for something this big.

 
The smoothness was interrupted every fifteen minutes or so by one or two sudden jolts, as those great wings compensated or switched currents, but that was about the only problem it presented.

 
The sky of Charon was nothing if not spectacular. Below were the dark, swirling clouds that seemed to never leave; above our clear place wasn't the sky I'd been expecting, but an odd band of reds and yellows all swirling about, almost as active as the storm clouds below. Some kind of gaseous layer that acted as a protective filter, I guessed, allowing a human-tolerable temperature below. The sun, a great, bright glob in the sky, was hot and visible through the upper layer. I guessed that the upper layer rather than the clouds below prevented much surveillance from orbit and blocked transmissions to and from the planet. I wondered what the stuff was.

 
Aside from my ears popping every so often, and the occasional screech from the soarer as we passed another soarer somewhere near us—I never did get more than a vague glimpse of black so I didn't get to see one in full flight—the voyage was uneventful. I took note of the other two passengers though—still fairly well-dressed even after removing their rain gear. They were obviously together, but the woman, who seemed to be going over some paperwork, rarely acknowledged or talked to the younger man. I smelted boss and bodyguard, but had no way of knowing just who they really were.

 
Even Zala managed to relax after a while, although she never did move during the entire trip and never really seemed to recover her color.

 
Finally my ears started popping a bit more regularly, and I saw that we were turning and descending very slowly. The crewmembers checked all their boxes and small hatches to make sure all was secure, then returned to their seats and strapped in.

 
I looked out at what I could see of the ground in front of the big wing, and was surprised to see breaks in the clouds not far off, and large patches of dark blue below. Hitting the clouds was similar to hitting them in an airship, and we experienced some rocking and a number of violent jerks as the wings worked harder to compensate for downdrafts, updrafts, and the like. The window showed moisture as we descended through a gray-white fog, then we broke suddenly into clearer air and the ground was visible below. Aside from seeing that it was green and somewhat mountainous down there, I couldn't make out much of anything.

 
The soarer circled, slowing a bit each time, then dropped and put its wings at an angle, abruptly braking hard. There were three or four jolts as the wings suddenly beat hard, and then one big bang—and we were down and, incredibly^ motionless. For something this big, I had to admit it certainly could land much easier than it could take off.

 
I had to tap Zala and assure her we were down in one piece and that it was all over. She could hardly believe it, but finally opened her eyes and looked around. For the first time, she looked across me to the window and finally seemed to relax.

 
"Not as bad as take-off, was it?" I said cheerfully.

 
She shook her head. "I'll kill myself before I get on one of these again, I swear it, Park."

 
The wheel was spun, the hatchlike door opened, and a blast of really hot, sticky air hit us. Still, after five hours in that hotbox of the cabin, it was welcome, and it didn't seem to be raining.

 
The two other passengers gathered their things together and departed first. We followed, although Zala was more than a little shaky, and made it down the ladder.

 
I looked around the open field. A wagon was heading for the soarer with what looked like an entire butcher shop in the back—the fuel truck, I thought, amused. Off to one side, a small group of people and two coaches waited. Our fellow passengers had already reached one of them and were being greeted by very officious-looking men and women, some of whom bowed as they greeted the woman; others opened the coach door for her, while still others rushed to the soarer and retrieved what had to be baggage from a compartment under the passenger unit. Other cargo was also carried, and several buggies came right up to the soarer for it

 
We just stood there, not quite knowing what to do. Finally I went over to the crewman who had been our host aboard. "Excuse me—but is this Bourget?" I asked him, praying that it was.

 
"Oh, yeah," he responded. "This
is
where you wanted to go, wasn't it? Our next stop's Lamasa."

 
"This is the place," I assured him, then thanked him and turned back to Zala. "Well, I guess we go over to that group and see if anybody's expecting us."

 
We walked cautiously over to the second coach,
then
looked expectantly at a couple of the people standing around. One young man—hardly more than a boy— grasped our situation and came over to us. "You the new Accountant?" he asked.

 
I felt relieved. "That's me.
Park Lacoch."

 
He looked over expectantly at Zala.
"You?"

 
"Zala Embuay. I'm his—assistant."

 
"Yeah, sure," the boy responded knowingly. "Well, if you two'll get into the coach there we'll get you into town and squared away." He looked around.
"Any luggage?"

 
"No," I told him. "We're new to Charon. We're going to have to pick up everything we need here."

 
He seemed mildly interested.
"Outside, huh?
Funny they'd stick you here."

 
I shrugged and climbed into the coach. "They gave me the job and I took it I wasn't in any position to say no."

 
We rode into town in silence, there not being much to say. The boy was not the driver, but stayed topside with him.

 
Bourget was not quite what I expected. A small village set against a very pretty bay, it was up and around low hills covered with trees.
The buildings werfe all low and mostly painted white with reddish-brown roofs.
There was nothing like the glassed-in sidewalks of Montlay or its more modern architecture. It was more like a small peasant village on one of the better frontier worlds, with the buildings made mostly of adobe and stucco of some kind, many with thatched roofs of that reddish-brown plant. Despite the clouds, it clearly didn't rain as much here as farther north, which was well and good from my point of view. There were many boats in the harbor, most with masts.

 
But it was
really
hot, easily over 40 degrees Centigrade, and both Zala and I were sweating profusely. I didn't know about her, but I needed a long, cold drink of something— anything.

 
Zala, however, was impressed. "Why, it's really
pretty,"
she commented, looking out the window at the scene.

 
The town was organized around a central square that had a little park in the middle and four large multipurpose buildings—each a square block around although all two stories tall—which were obviously markets, shops, and stalls. The coach pulled up across from the one of the four buildings that had a more or less solid front and stopped. The boy jumped down, opened the door, and helped us both down.

 
The place was lively, I'll say that. People rushing this way and that, stalls open to the outside displaying lots of fruits, vegetables, clothes, and handicrafts, and doing a fair business from the look of it.

 
"Come with me now," the boy instructed, and we followed. I could see that Zala had completely recovered from her flight for she was showing some anticipation at touring the market.

 
We entered the solid-facade building and found ourselves in a wide entry hall with a large wooden staircase situated directly in the middle. Corridors led off in all directions with what were obviously offices along them. The boy stopped and turned to us. "You wait here. I'll see if the Master is in." And with that he bounded up the stairs and was off.

 
Zala turned to me. "Who do you think he means?"

 
"Probably the local wizard," I replied. "Remember to be respectful to him. I want to get off on a good note."

 
"Don't worry."

 
We waited for the boy to return. A few people walked here and there on unknown business, but none gave us more than a passing glance. Civil servants looked the same anywhere. The one oddity was that the place was cool—at least a lot cooler than it was outside. There was certainly some land of air circulation system at work, although what type I could not guess. Not regular air-
conditioning, that was for sure—the
temperature was down, but not the humidity.

 
Before long the boy was back. "The Master will see you," he told us, and we followed him upstairs. It was a bit wanner there, as would be expected, and as we walked to the rear of the large building I was conscious of the temperature rising.

 
We were ushered into an office with nothing on the door. There was an antechamber, like a waiting room, with nobody behind the desk; we went straight back to a second door which the boy opened.

 
We felt a surprising blast of cool, dry air as we entered. The office was large and very comfortably appointed, with a huge carved wooden desk in the center. Behind that desk sat a rather large man with an enormous white beard, as if in compensation for his mostly bald head. He was smoking a pipe.

 
He smiled as we entered and nodded. "Please, take seats in front of the desk here," he said pleasantly, gesturing. The chairs, large and high-backed, were modern and quite comfortable, although as the man surely knew, it's impossible for a person sitting opposite anyone behind a desk to feel on an equal footing.

 
The bearded man looked at the boy. "That'll be all, Gori. Shut the door on your way out." The boy nodded and did as instructed. "A good lad, that," the man commented.
"Might make a good apt someday, if he gets over his hangup."

 
I couldn't imagine what the fellow was talking about, so I said, "Hangup?"

 
"Yes. He wants to be a fish. Oh, well—I'm Tally Kokul, chief magician and high muckety-muck of this little speck of humanity."

 
"Park Lacoch," I responded, "and this is Zala Embuay." He looked at Zala, and I saw a little puzzlement come over his face, but he recovered quickly. Whatever Korman had seen, though, Kokul had just seen as well.