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The forests, carrying the semi-parasitical growth which clustered on the
floatwood s thick twisted boles, towered up to six hundred feet about the
lagoon, living walls of almost indestructible toughness and density. The
typhoon battering through which they had passed had done little visible
damage. Beneath the surface they were linked by an interlocking net of
ponderous roots which held the island sections clamped into a single massive
structure.
The island was moving slowly to the south, foam-streaked swells running past
it on either side. This might be the southern fringe of the typhoon belt. The
sky immediately overhead was clear, a clean deep blue. But violent gusts still
shook the car, and roiling cloud banks rode past on all sides.
Ticos Cay s hidden arboreal laboratory should be in the second largest section
of the floatwood structure, about a third of the way in on the seaward side.
He wasn t responding to close-contact communicator signals; but he might be
there in spite of his silence. In any case it was the place to start looking.
There d been no sign of intruders which didn t mean they weren t there. The
multiple canopies of the forests could have concealed an army. But intruders
could be avoided.
Nile thought she might be able to handle this without waiting for Parrol. It
was late afternoon now, and even if there were no serious delays in getting
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her message to him, it would be at best the middle of the night before he
could make it out here. To drop down openly to the floatwood would be asking
for trouble, of course, though there had been no reports of attacks on aircars
as yet. But she could circle south, go down to sea level, submerge the car and
maneuver it back underwater to the island through the weed beds which rode the
Meral. If she d had her jet diving rig with her, she wouldn t have hesitated.
She could have left the car a couple of miles out, gone in at speed and
brought Ticos out with her if he was in his hideaway, with almost no risk of
being noticed by whoever else might be about. But she didn t have the rig
along. That meant working the car in almost to the island, a more finicky
operation.
But it could be done. The submerged weed jungles provided the best possible
cover against detection instruments.
Nile checked course and altitude, returned her attention to the magnification
scanners. Everything down there looked normal. There was considerable animal
activity about the lagoon, including clouds of the flying kesters which filled
the role of sea and shore birds in Nandy-Cline s ecological pattern. In the
ocean beyond the floatwood at the left, two darkly gleaming torpedo-shaped
bodies appeared intermittently at the surface. They were kesters too, but
wingless giants: sea-havals, engaged in filling their crops with swarms of
skilts. Their presence was another good indication that this was Ticos
island. There d been a sea-haval rookery concealed in the forest section next
to the one he d selected
An engine control shrieked warning, and a sullen roaring erupted about them.
Nile saw a red line in the fuel release gauge surge up toward explosion as her
hand flicked out and cut the main engine switch.
The shrieking whistle and the roar of energies gone wild subsided together.
Losing momentum, the car began to drop.
Nile?
We re in trouble, Sweeting. The otter was on her feet, neck fur erect, eyes
shifting about. But Sweeting knew enough to stay quiet in emergencies that
were in Nile s department.
Energy block . . . it could be malfunction. But that type of malfunction
occurred so rarely it had been years since she d heard of a case.
Someone hidden in the floatwood had touched the car with a type of weapon
unknown to her, was bringing her down. The car s built-in antigrav patterns
would slow their descent. But
Nile became very busy.
When she next looked at the altimeter, it told her she had approximately three
minutes left in the air. Wind pressure meanwhile had buffeted the car directly
above the island, a third of the way out across the lagoon. That would have
been the purpose of killing her engines at the exact moment it was done. When
the car splashed into the lagoon s vegetation, she d find a reception
committee waiting.
She was in swim briefs by now for maximum freedom of action in water or in the
floatwood. Fins and a handkerchief-sized breather mask lay on the seat. Most
of the rest of what she was taking along had been part of the floatwood kit
she d flung into the back of the car on leaving the Giard Station. Various
items were attached to a climb-belt about her waist knife, lightweight UW gun,
grip sandals, a pouch containing other floatwood gear she didn t have time to
sort over. The otter caller she used to summon Sweeting and Spiff from a
distance was fastened to her wrist above her watch. Her discarded clothing was
in a waterproof bag.
Remember what you re to do?
Yesss! Sweeting acknowledged with a cheery hiss, whiskers twitching.
Sweeting would remember. They were going to meet some bad guys. Not at all a
novel experience. Sweeting would keep out of sight and trouble until Nile had
more specific instructions for her.
The bad guys hadn t showed yet. But they must be in the lagoon, headed for the
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area where the car seemed about to come down. It was rocking and lurching in
the gusts toward a point some three hundred yards from the nearest floatwood.
Not at all where Nile wanted it to go. But she might be able to improve her
position considerably.
She sat quiet throughout the last moments, estimating the force of the wind,
eyes shifting between the altimeter and a landing area she d selected on the
far side of the water. Then, at hundred yards from the surface, she pushed
down a stud which slid out broad glide-vanes to either side of the car.
The fringes of a typhoon were no place for unpowered gliding. Like the blow of
a furious fist, wind slammed the vehicle instantly over on its side. Seconds
of wild tumbling followed. But she had the momentum now to return some control
of the car s motion to her. To hostile watchers in the lagoon and the
floatwood it must have looked like a futile and nearly suicidal attempt to
escape as it was intended to look. She didn t want them to start shooting.
Twice she seemed within inches of being slammed head-on into the water, picked
up altitude at the last instant. Most of the width of the lagoon lay behind
her at that point, and a section of forest loomed ahead again. A tall stand of
sea reeds, perhaps three hundred yards across, half enclosed by gnarled walls
of floatwood, whirled by below.
Wind force swept the car down once more, too fast, too far to the right. Nile
shifted the vane controls. The car rose steeply, heeled over, swung sideways,
its momentum checked and that was almost exactly where she wanted to be. She
slapped another stud. The vanes folded back into the vehicle. It began to
drop, antigrav effect taking over. Nile reached for the fins, snapped them on
her feet. Green tops of the reeds whipped suddenly about the car. She drew the
transparent breather mask over her face, pressed its audio plugs into her
ears. Car door open, set on lock . . . dense vegetation swaying jerkily with
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