“Pax, brother.”
Dard was alert-waiting for some warning to that sentry. But Kimber must have taken precautions, for the voice of the Laurel Wearer sounded natural.
“Laurel Wearer Dawson on special business of the Company—”
The guard saluted. “Pass, Noble Dawson!”
Dard closed in on the heels of Kimber and Dawson with all the military bearing he could muster. He held the pose until they were passing along the row of idle ’copters. Then Kimber spoke to his fellow conspirator.
“There’s the little matter of fuel. Climb into that baby and check the reading on the top dial in the row directly before the control stick. If it registers between forty and sixty-sing out. If it doesn’t, we’ll have to try the next.”
Dard crawled into the seat and found the light button. Between-between forty and sixty! White figures danced crazily until he forced his nerves under control. “Fifty- three,” he called out softly.
What Kimber intended to do with Dawson Dard never learned. For, at the moment, the Laurel Wearer gave a sudden heave, throwing himself down and trying to drag the pilot with him. At the same time he shouted, and that cry must have carried not only across the field, but into the Temple as well.
Dard hurled himself at the door of the ’copter. But before he could get out he saw an arm rise and fall in a deadly blow. A second scream for help was cut off in the middle and the pilot jumped for the machine. Dard found himself face down while the pilot scrambled over him to the controls. The ’copter lurched, the open door banging until Kimber was able to pull it to. They were airborne, and not a moment too soon as the whip crack of a shot testified.
The boy pulled up on the seat, trying to see behind them. Was that another ’copter rising? Or would they have more of a start before pursuit would be on their tail?