John DeChancie Skyway 00 Starrigger

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of hard copy in a continuous roll, piling up on the floor. From the size of
the pile I guessed that everyone had been out for ten minutes at least.
I was looking for Petrovsky s office, or failing that, trying to find where
they stored prisoners
valuables, or where they kept evidence. I needed Sam s key. Nobody showed
signs of coming to yet, but
I hurried, running through the maze of white aseptic hallways, glancing into
rooms and dashing off again. Reilly s office was empty, and no sign of
Petrovsky anywhere. I tried a half dozen more offices, stumbled onto an
employees lounge with two cops draped over a table awash with spilled
beverage, found a communications room, a storage room filled with filing
cabinets, a library, but nothing like a lock-and-key affair where evidence
would be stashed. Maybe Petrovsky had been going through my stuff when the
blackout hit if I could find him.... I found him in another office sitting
upright at the desk, eyes glazed, deep in a trance that made him look like a
redheaded Buddha, helmet in his right hand, white handkerchief in his left,
both arms extended over the desk top as if in supplication. His head lolled to
one side, gaze on infinity. And on the floor in front of the desk lay Darla.
9
SHE WAS FACE-DOWN with her head resting on her right forearm. I turned her
over to find unfocused eyes looking through me. She had changed clothes and
was now in a dark green, ersatz-velvet jumpsuit, with black knee-high boots.
She looked very different. I got her to sit up and she responded somewhat,
moving as if underwater, limbs like taffy on a warm day, but when I got her to
her feet she couldn t walk, couldn t draw it all together to perform all the
motions in proper sequence. I leaned her against me, reached over the desk,
and pushed Petrovsky back in his chair. I opened the top desk drawer and
searched through it for Sam s key, but found only Darla s Wanner. I took it,
then reached inside
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Petrovsky s jacket for his pistol. I stooped, put my shoulder to Darla s
midsection, and she went up and over into a fireman s carry like a sack of
wheat. Her pack was near the overturned chair, and I threw her gun into it and
grabbed it. As I carried her through the station, I wondered how much time I
had. I was getting the feeling that everyone would be coming around soon
enough. I didn t bother to guess what had caused the phenomenon, since several
methods were likely candidates, but the extent and completeness of the effect
were impressive. Nor did I waste time wondering who had done it. Later if
there was a later I d write a thank-you note on nice stationery and think
about whom to send it to. I
reached the garage, went on through to the man-size door, thinking it strange
that no one had come in from outside, unaffected and wondering what the hell
had happened cops returning from driving their beats, coming back from lunch,
etc. I cracked the door and looked out into the lot. Two stalwart constables
were slouched in their car parked near the door, stupefied grins beamed at no
one in particular. I was really impressed now; even more so when further
outside I found " another cop who had been pulling into the lot when the
effect hit either that or he was in the habit of wrapping his vehicle around a
heat-pump unit when he parked. His face was squashed up against the front of
the bubble.
Which brought up our immediate transportation needs. Steal a squad car? No
chance. No time to hot-
chip the thumbprint-lock or deactivate the tracing beacons. Besides, they d
know what I was driving, down to the serial number. Then I forgot the problem
momentarily, staggered by the fact that pedestrians on the near side of the
street had been hit too. Three people lay face down on the sidewalk. Good
trick, that. I cut down an alleyway going parallel to the street behind the
station.
Darla couldn t have massed over sixty kg at one-G, but she was a burden on
Goliath. Her pack was no bagatelle either. I found a walkway between two
outbuildings, put her down, and propped her up against a wall. I firmly
swatted her cheeks a few times, crossing carefully over the pain threshold,
then shook her as hard as I could. Her cheeks blushed the color of winter
dawn, her eyes fluttered, and she sighed, but she was still out on her feet.
Well, time to get moving again. I levered her up on my shoulder, hoisted the
pack, and stood mere debating where I should go. Then I sensed movement
behind me. I whirled around, almost toppling over. Two Ryxx stood in the
alley, gawking at us, scrawny bird-
legs thrust out at oblique angles to the pavement, shoring up their fat
ostrich like bodies against at least twice the Ryxx homeworld s gravity. Clear
assist masks covered their faces, faces that did not belong on bird bodies,
sour old faces like those of Terran camels, but the eyes were much bigger, and
there were four of them, two above the snout in the usual configuration, two
at the base of the long slender neck.
They liked to look where they put those taloned avian feet. They were dressed
in the usual manner, in skintight body suits of brightly colored material with
embroidered gilt designs around the lower
eyeholes. Their huge bony hands hands that once were framework for wing
membrane were folded up with | spindly arms in a very complicated manner at
the sides.
I clucked the appropriate greeting, all I knew of their language, which,
written out, comes out to:
R-r-ryxx-ryxx (click) r-r-ryxx, with each morpheme at a slightly different
pitch. With my language ability, I had probably asked them to pass the salt.
The one on the right returned the greeting, and added in System, And hello
to you, Roadbrother.
And to you, Roadbrothers, I said, many thanks, if I am indebted to you for [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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