CLARION 63

Slowly, Paul released the deathgrip he had taken on the arms of the seat. Ogram was guiding the streamer along the scar of an old riverbed, twisting through the connected bases of low, rolling hills. He reduced the craft's speed and left the riverbed to fly up the gentle slope of a hill that was covered with lush vegetation. His eyes searched the vidscreens that were now set on wide-angle. When the craft crested the hill, Paul could again see the valley, and scattered signs of the ruins of Chalcharuzzi.

"Ah, here we are." Ogram swung the craft into a gentle turn and climbed the slope a few hundred meters. Then he brought the scoutship to a stop and hovered unsteadily above a grassy clearing that was sheltered all around by high trees.

As the craft dropped closer to the ground, a warning light winked amber on the console screen. Paul waited for Ogram to lower the landing struts and realized with a sudden surge of panic that Ogram hadn't even noticed the light. He tried to speak, but his mouth had gone suddenly dry. Frakes had said something about that other man from Clarion: He came down too fast. . . stasis engines blew. . . crispy by the time they got him out. . .

"The struts!" Paul yelled. "Lord—" Ogram's head jerked around; then he reached forward and hit the four banded switches an instant before the streamer landed with a bone-jarring thump.

"Sorry," Ogram said. "Guess I could use a little more work on that, too."

Paul released a breath, drew another. His heart hammered.

"Anyway, we're here." Ogram swiveled around and pressed the bar to open the hatchcover. The outside environment sensors went to work while Ogram tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of 64

William Greenleaj CLARION 65

his chair. A moment later the hatchcover lifted with a pneumatic hiss. Two men waited outside near the edge of the clearing. Ogram unsnapped his harness, ducked out through the hatchway and trotted down the short ramp. He stopped at the bottom and turned back to Paul and Borland.

"Coming?"

Paul looked at Dorland, waiting. Doriand stared at him; then something in his face softened a little and he offered a weary grin.

"Sorry about all this. You shouldn't have come." Paul didn't know what to say. In truth, he was beginning to feel the same way.

Dorland fumbled with his harness and got it loose with Paul's help; then the two of them went down the ramp to join Ogram. The ground underfoot was spongy. The air was cool on Paul's sweaty face and neck, and carried a pleasant outdoor scent.

One of the men stepped forward and tilted his head at Dorland. "Is that him?"

The voice didn't match the appearance. Paul looked closer and realized that the person who had spoken was a young woman with short hair. She wore dark coveralls like Ogram's. A belt pouch hung from her waist, cinched with dark cord.

"Dorland Avery," Ogram said by way of introduction. "This is Karyn DiMemmo. She—"

"I remember," Dorland said. A brief smile touched his lips, and he held his hand out at waist level, palm down. "You were this high when I saw you last. How are your parents?"

"They're both dead."

The smile faded. "I'm sorry . . ." Her dark eyes remained on him a moment longer; then she looked at Paul. "Who's he?" Ogram answered: "He works for Dorland—"

"You were supposed to bring Dorland. Nobody else."

"Dorland wouldn't come without him. Sabastian said not to bring him unless he agreed to come willingly."

The girl clearly wasn't pleased with Paul's presence. Beside her stood a thin, feral-looking man with a mane of black hair shot with gray. There was a generally unkempt, straggling look about him. He wore bulky coveralls like the others, but carried a knapsack instead of a belt pouch. He grinned up at Paul, showing teeth that were stained and broken.

"Let's get this over with," Paul said. "Dorland and I want to get back home."

"This is Dorland's home," the girl said.

"Sabastian is waiting." She turned to lead the way into the trees.