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Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee and Steve Miller
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return early next morning and had
promised to let the pilot know that an appointment had been set in
his name.
Shan presented himself at Gromit Company
slightly in advance of the appointed hour, to find Mr. Iritaki's
second on duty.
"I'm sure they'll be back any minute, sir,"
Ms. Atwood said, sending a faintly worried look at the clock. "They
just went a couple streets over for a bite and a cup of coffee. Ren
Zel's solid. He wouldn't miss an appointment for anything short of
catastrophe."
"I'm sure you're right," Shan said
soothingly. He smiled at the roster boss and had the satisfaction
of seeing the worry fade from her face.
"I could fancy some coffee myself," he
confided. "Do you happen to know which shop the pilots favor?
Perhaps I won't be too late to share a cup with them."
It happened that Atwood did know which shop,
which was a favorite among the company's pilots. "Only place on
Casia you can get real coffee," she said, and Shan would have sworn
there were tears in her eyes.
A few moments later, possessed of directions
to this mecca, and having extracted Ms. Atwood's promise to hold
Pilot dea'Judan, should he arrive back at the Hall in the meantime,
Shan sauntered out into the sharp air and rumble of early morning
Casiaport.
Though there was nothing in his face or his
gait to betray it, Shan was in a fever to shake the dust of Casia
from his feet. His evening had been spent delving deeper than was
perhaps good for his peace of mind into the affairs of Casiaport
Guildhall and a certain Clan Jabun. The information he uncovered
was disturbing enough that he found he had no choice, as a Master
Pilot who owed duty to the Guild, but to call Jabun before a full
board of inquiry.
However, he thought, stretching his long legs
and turning into the street where he would find the "best damn
coffee on Casia," that job of form-filing would certainly wait
until he had Ren Zel dea'Judan safely in hand.
The coffeeshop hove into view on his left,
precisely as promised. Shan checked his long stride, but did not
approach the door, which was crowded around with people, all
staring up-street, where a commotion was in progress.
Shan felt the hairs shiver on the nape of his
neck. What was it that the Ms. Atwood had said? That nothing would
keep Ren Zel from an appointment except calamity?
The scene up-street had every trapping of
calamity, including the white trucks and flashing blue lights of
Casiaport Rescue, clustered in such abundance that the Port
Proctor's sun-yellow scooters were scarcely noticeable.
Shan stretched his legs again, moving quickly
toward the hub-bub.
He had no trouble walking through the cordon
thrown up by the Proctors--he was never stopped by guards if he did
not wish to be--and into what the sign by the door dignified as
"Wilt's Poolroom and Tavern."
Inside--well.
All about were knots of med
techs, attending the wounded. Elsewhere, Proctors questioned
several unmistakable grounders who were for some reason wearing
pilots' leathers. Toward the back of the room, a figure was
shrouded in a white plastic sheet. Not far distant lay another
figure, blood a black pool on the floor. Shan touched a stud on his
belt, alerting every Dutiful
Passage crewmember on Port that there was a
comrade down and in danger. Help was on the way. Now...
Directly before him, a Terran woman was
shouting at a med tech.
"Hey!" she yelled in Trade, grabbing the
tech's arm. "There's somebody over there who needs you."
The tech turned, glanced along the line of
the Terran's finger, then slid his arm free, sighing slightly.
"I am not allowed to tend that one."
"What?" the Terran gaped. "You just patched
up four of the worst desperadoes I've seen on this Port in a long
time and you ain't allowed to tend a pilot who was wounded while
protecting his co-pilot?"
"He is Clanless," the tech said, with a note
of finality in his soft, Liaden voice.
"He'll be lifeless if you people
don't do something for him soon!"
The tech turned his
promised to let the pilot know that an appointment had been set in
his name.
Shan presented himself at Gromit Company
slightly in advance of the appointed hour, to find Mr. Iritaki's
second on duty.
"I'm sure they'll be back any minute, sir,"
Ms. Atwood said, sending a faintly worried look at the clock. "They
just went a couple streets over for a bite and a cup of coffee. Ren
Zel's solid. He wouldn't miss an appointment for anything short of
catastrophe."
"I'm sure you're right," Shan said
soothingly. He smiled at the roster boss and had the satisfaction
of seeing the worry fade from her face.
"I could fancy some coffee myself," he
confided. "Do you happen to know which shop the pilots favor?
Perhaps I won't be too late to share a cup with them."
It happened that Atwood did know which shop,
which was a favorite among the company's pilots. "Only place on
Casia you can get real coffee," she said, and Shan would have sworn
there were tears in her eyes.
A few moments later, possessed of directions
to this mecca, and having extracted Ms. Atwood's promise to hold
Pilot dea'Judan, should he arrive back at the Hall in the meantime,
Shan sauntered out into the sharp air and rumble of early morning
Casiaport.
Though there was nothing in his face or his
gait to betray it, Shan was in a fever to shake the dust of Casia
from his feet. His evening had been spent delving deeper than was
perhaps good for his peace of mind into the affairs of Casiaport
Guildhall and a certain Clan Jabun. The information he uncovered
was disturbing enough that he found he had no choice, as a Master
Pilot who owed duty to the Guild, but to call Jabun before a full
board of inquiry.
However, he thought, stretching his long legs
and turning into the street where he would find the "best damn
coffee on Casia," that job of form-filing would certainly wait
until he had Ren Zel dea'Judan safely in hand.
The coffeeshop hove into view on his left,
precisely as promised. Shan checked his long stride, but did not
approach the door, which was crowded around with people, all
staring up-street, where a commotion was in progress.
Shan felt the hairs shiver on the nape of his
neck. What was it that the Ms. Atwood had said? That nothing would
keep Ren Zel from an appointment except calamity?
The scene up-street had every trapping of
calamity, including the white trucks and flashing blue lights of
Casiaport Rescue, clustered in such abundance that the Port
Proctor's sun-yellow scooters were scarcely noticeable.
Shan stretched his legs again, moving quickly
toward the hub-bub.
He had no trouble walking through the cordon
thrown up by the Proctors--he was never stopped by guards if he did
not wish to be--and into what the sign by the door dignified as
"Wilt's Poolroom and Tavern."
Inside--well.
All about were knots of med
techs, attending the wounded. Elsewhere, Proctors questioned
several unmistakable grounders who were for some reason wearing
pilots' leathers. Toward the back of the room, a figure was
shrouded in a white plastic sheet. Not far distant lay another
figure, blood a black pool on the floor. Shan touched a stud on his
belt, alerting every Dutiful
Passage crewmember on Port that there was a
comrade down and in danger. Help was on the way. Now...
Directly before him, a Terran woman was
shouting at a med tech.
"Hey!" she yelled in Trade, grabbing the
tech's arm. "There's somebody over there who needs you."
The tech turned, glanced along the line of
the Terran's finger, then slid his arm free, sighing slightly.
"I am not allowed to tend that one."
"What?" the Terran gaped. "You just patched
up four of the worst desperadoes I've seen on this Port in a long
time and you ain't allowed to tend a pilot who was wounded while
protecting his co-pilot?"
"He is Clanless," the tech said, with a note
of finality in his soft, Liaden voice.
"He'll be lifeless if you people
don't do something for him soon!"
The tech turned his
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