Chapter 35

Zolan walked into Brad’s office and dropped into a chair, clearly exhausted.

“How’d it go?”

“Couple of dozen screen generators in position sunside,” Zolan hefted a small, flat control in his hand as he spoke, then tossed it on the desk.

“The energizer,” he said quietly.

Brad turned the control in his hands as he examined each safety lock. He slipped the control into a pocket.

“Narval leaves for the conference in a few hours,” he said, almost in a whisper. He could not hide his deep sadness.

They rose and walked together toward the door. Without speaking, Zolan left and disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

The hour of Narval’s departure brought a whirl of excitement to Coldfield. The transit strip from the official residence to the President’s air lock had been stopped, scrubbed clean, and a padded chair installed on it for Narval’s comfort.

Narval boarded the strip, accompanied by his personal guards. The guards took protective positions ahead, behind, and along the strip’s edges, completely surrounding their leader. The strip began to move and maintained a slow, steady pace until Narval was abreast the air lock; it came to a smooth stop.

The air lock had been decorated with flags and bunting; a red carpet extended from the strip to the air lock. Narval swept in and passed through the inner compartment.

The Revenge, Narval’s luxurious spunnel yacht was moored to pylons above the air lock. The yacht’s commander, Captain Ras Hamdia, stood stiffly at the head of a line of ship’s officers inside its portal.

A set of taut, parallel cables rose from the air lock to the ship. Fastened to the cables at the surface, Narval’s personal red and black lift capsule was ready to transfer him aloft without the inconvenience of donning a space suit.

Narval entered the lift with an officer who dogged the doors and flashed the ready signal.

“Up, easy,” the ship’s captain ordered.

The lift rose slowly until it reached the Revenge’s portal. An articulated crane grasped the cabin gently, drew it inboard along slackened cables and lowered it to a mobile platform. Suited technicians dashed forward to disengage the cables, and the capsule was pushed inside.

Narval safely aboard, space tugs encircled the Revenge and took positions along its hull. Mag-beams flashed across. The Revenge disengaged from the mooring tower and drifted off. The tugs nudged it along to a hundred kay above the dome, cut their mass-attractors and the ship disappeared into the node of the Planet Pluto Spunnel.

Narval was off to his destiny.

Zolan stood among a throng of space-suited citizens below the Revenge, from where he watched it ascend and move off. Minutes later, none but Zolan remained.

Aware of his awesome responsibility, a sense of serenity in the power of his will suffused Zolan’s being. He had been faithful to the science and art of his chosen profession, and his devotion to the Sentinels’ mission had enriched his harmony with all about him. It had come to this.