going to let us go with him,” Bridge says, “but we have to follow his rules.”
“We do not come up until I say.” Paplas speaks Standard with that lovely lilt all of the Vaycehnese have. “I stay there, with my lunch, until I am done for the day. I do not work extra hours. It taxes the Reclaimer.”
He’s making sure I know that he won’t bend for me, or for Bridge for that matter.
“All right,” I say.
“If you are ill, if there is a problem, you tell me now,” Paplas says. “I will not come back except for an emergency.”
“I understand,” I say.
“You will sit behind me,” he says. “You will ask no questions.”
I open my mouth, then close it as Bridge gives me a sideways look. He has permission to ask questions. I do not. In other words, I’m to sit there quietly and watch while the men take care of business.
I hope Bridge will ask the questions we need. If not, I hope he’ll confer with me, maybe quietly, so that he can ask the questions I think of. We might need answers later.
I am worried about a repeat of yesterday’s events. I hope Bridge will discuss that with him as well.
“I understand that, too,” I say.
Paplas nods and walks away from me. He’s heading back to the Bug. We follow.
Up close the pod looks huge. It is both wider and taller than it looks when it’s in motion. The gigantic legs bend and tower above us. Their sides have movable blades that dig into mountainsides. There are several other pieces of equipment attached to the legs that look movable as well. I can’t tell what those pieces are for.
The bottom of the legs themselves—the feet, for lack of a better word— are bendable. They seem to have a way to adhere to a surface.
Suddenly, my technical interest is piqued, and I wish I can talk to Paplas, one pilot to another. But I cannot.
Bridge sees me looking at the legs, but doesn’t understand that I have questions.
The questions aren’t important yet. They can wait. I have a hunch we’ll be back tomorrow, and if we are, then Bridge can ask about the working mechanism of the legs and feet.
Paplas stands near the door of the Bug. It’s clear, like the rest of the pod. Inside there are two seats up front, and a bench seat in the back. The ceiling is high.
What surprises me is that the equipment, and the seats, are in the exact middle of the pod. Like a single ship, then, the pod is designed to work in any direction.
I didn’t expect to see something like that on land.
“You will strap in,” Paplas says. “You will not touch the restraints except when we have to leave.”
He points out a service area in the very back, which has a bathroom and a place to store our gear. Nothing will remain loose in the pod itself.
He explains why, but he doesn’t need to—at least for me. I understand. The pod will rotate 360 degrees at various times during the day. Anything loose will fall on us.
The pod doesn’t have artificial gravity.
“You will sit there,” he says to me as he points to the part of the bench farthest from him. “Go.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I climb up the tiny set of stairs, then boost myself up to the seat. As I clamber over to it, I glance behind me. Paplas looks amused.
I seem to have passed the first test.
I figure out the various straps and restrainers while Bridge climbs in beside me. As Paplas gets in, I look at the controls. Dozens of them, all of them marked in Vaycehnese. The handles look well used, and the lettering has come off of many of the labels.
This machine is older than she looks, well loved and well maintained.
That makes me feel better—or at least it does until he starts her up. The pod jerks as he puts it into some kind of gear.
Then we rise.
None of the movements are smooth. I have a good sense of direction. I also do well under g-forces and in strange positions. But Bridge looks a bit ill. I hope he can survive something that will whip him around like a ball on a string.
But I don’t warn him. I’ve been told to remain silent, and I do. I do, however, see a small group of sick bags tucked behind the pilot’s seat. I point them out to Bridge.
His