"You, too?" said Purri with irritation. "And what do you want, scapegrace?"
Qanya's black eyes narrowed dangerously. She moved forward to Dworn's side and took a grip on his arm. "I might ask what you're doing here disturbing—"
"Both of you, you're wasting time," growled Dworn.
He'd heard with a queer pang that his people—those who remained alive—had been located. Not that it made any real difference, of course. His father was dead, and he, Dworn, was dead too as far as his own kind was concerned. Nor, in this world, was there anywhere else he could turn.
For the present, under the threat of the Drone, that didn't matter. All laws of all peoples were in abeyance for the duration of the great emergency. But once the threat was dissolved, and the old laws resumed their force, the plight of Dworn and of Qanya also would be what it had been—that of outcasts in a world where an outcast had no chance of survival.
Well, it was no use thinking of the future. Dworn said determinedly: "I want to see the end of this business, at least."
"And I!" declared Qanya. "We've earned that right."
Purri eyed them sourly, shrugged. "As you like. I'm in command here while the Mother's busy at the front. I'll see you get transportation up there." Turning toward the door, she glanced sidelong at Dworn.... "You'll have to go separately, since a spider will only carry two. I'm leaving right away myself; you may come with me in my machine—"
"No, he won't," declared Qanya with finality, tightening her hold on Dworn's arm. "He can ride with old Zimka."
Purri stalked through the doorway before them, grumbling to herself, "Why is it the best ones always get away?"