He left the screen and turned on the control panel with fingers that remembered from long habit the settings required. Stryker's voice bellowed frantically after him, unheeded, while he fed into the ship's autopilot a command that would send her plunging skyward bare minutes later.
Then, ignoring the waiting mechanical's passive stare, he went outside.
The valley beckoned. The elfin laughter of the people by the lake touched a fey, responsive chord in him that blurred his eyes with ecstatic tears and sent him running down the slope, the Falakian girl keeping pace beside him.
Before he reached the lake, he had dismissed from his mind the ship and the men who had brought it there.
But they would not let him forget. The little gray jointed one followed him through the dancing and the laughter and cornered him finally against the sheer cliffside. With the chase over, it held him there, waiting with metal patience in the growing dusk.
The audicom box slung over its shoulder boomed out in Gibson's voice, the sound a noisy desecration of the scented quiet.
"Don't let him get away, Xav," it said. "We're going to try for the ship now."
The light dimmed, the soft shadows deepened. The two great-winged moths floated nearer, humming gently, their eyes glowing luminous and intent in the near-darkness. Mist currents from their approach brushed Farrell's face, and he held out his arms in an ecstasy of anticipation that was a consummation of all human longing.
"Now," he whispered.