moment. "Don't come back until the Empress is ready to lift!"
There was a bustle of motion, big men scuttling into the van as though whips instead of words cracked against them.
"And if I see any of you faces during the rest of the voyage, it will be the worse for you when we reach Grantholm. I, Franz Streseman, promise it!"
The springs of the rental vehicle yelped as the last man leaped aboard. The engine wasn't powerful enough to chirp the tires as the driver stamped on the throttle, but the van continued to accelerate for as long as it remained in sight.
Oanh's vision was returning to normal. Her skin felt clammy. Franz kissed her.
"Darling," he murmured. "My love? Are you all right?"
"Franz, let's go inside," she said. Her voice was hoarse.
"Please!" he begged. He stepped back, holding her by both shoulders. "Please—now that you know. Is it . . . ?"
"I don't want to talk about it now," Oanh said. "Let's go up to the room."
She threw herself into his arms again and kissed him fiercely. She couldn't see for her tears. She knew that by her statement, she had answered Franz's question and all the questions behind it; all the questions he had been afraid to raise and she was afraid to look at, even now.
"I don't want to talk about it ever!" she shouted in a despairing voice as she clung to her lover.
* * *
The primary was at zenith, filling half the sky. The water in the lagoon boiled with moonfish, ten-centimeter disks of succulent flesh. They formed streamers of blue and silver and magenta, rotating and coalescing as they shifted. By now they covered most of the enclosed water, mimicking the primary's opalescent atmosphere with their own varihued skins.
She stretched over the air mattress, supporting herself on toes and fingertips with her pubic wedge the highest point of a perfect arch. Ran looked down at her. The primary mottled her pale e
There was a bustle of motion, big men scuttling into the van as though whips instead of words cracked against them.
"And if I see any of you faces during the rest of the voyage, it will be the worse for you when we reach Grantholm. I, Franz Streseman, promise it!"
The springs of the rental vehicle yelped as the last man leaped aboard. The engine wasn't powerful enough to chirp the tires as the driver stamped on the throttle, but the van continued to accelerate for as long as it remained in sight.
Oanh's vision was returning to normal. Her skin felt clammy. Franz kissed her.
"Darling," he murmured. "My love? Are you all right?"
"Franz, let's go inside," she said. Her voice was hoarse.
"Please!" he begged. He stepped back, holding her by both shoulders. "Please—now that you know. Is it . . . ?"
"I don't want to talk about it now," Oanh said. "Let's go up to the room."
She threw herself into his arms again and kissed him fiercely. She couldn't see for her tears. She knew that by her statement, she had answered Franz's question and all the questions behind it; all the questions he had been afraid to raise and she was afraid to look at, even now.
"I don't want to talk about it ever!" she shouted in a despairing voice as she clung to her lover.
* * *
The primary was at zenith, filling half the sky. The water in the lagoon boiled with moonfish, ten-centimeter disks of succulent flesh. They formed streamers of blue and silver and magenta, rotating and coalescing as they shifted. By now they covered most of the enclosed water, mimicking the primary's opalescent atmosphere with their own varihued skins.
She stretched over the air mattress, supporting herself on toes and fingertips with her pubic wedge the highest point of a perfect arch. Ran looked down at her. The primary mottled her pale e