03. Quest for the Well of Souls by Jack L. Chalker
Authors: Jack L. Chalker
Tags: Science-Fiction
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and elevation. They were so busy making sure of their shot that they failed to notice faint wisps of white begin to rise from the Trader 's twin stacks.
On the bow, the two Twosh at the strange console suddenly yipped in glee as sophisticated control panels came to life before them. A radar mast flipped up and started its slow back and forth sweep, and a large grid in front of one Twosh showed the cutter clearly.
The captain had won his gamble. Now, in the fight and run, with the current carrying most of the load, they'd drifted back over the high-tech hex border, into Usurk. That had activated all their technical devices.
They could see the flare in the hand of a ghostly shape on the cutter deck prepare to touch off the rocket mine that would administer the coup de grâce to the Toorine Trader .
But the Twosh suddenly elevated their platform to proper height, locked on, and fired with computer-aided accuracy.
The odd-looking telescope was better known as a laser cannon.
At the same time the Trader turned; sails came down in record time and when the master gauge on the bridge read ready a slim tendril shot out from the captain and pulled a lever, activating the great engines and twin screws.
Huge clouds of smoke billowed from the Trader 's stacks before the sails were even down, and it turned with astonishing speed and bore in on the small cutter.
"Fire!" screamed the Parmiter, but at that moment a blinding beam of greenish-white light struck them full force. The grenade rose a half-meter, then exploded. The laser beam swept down, slicing off a part of the cutter's bow.
The small ship exploded.
There was a blinding flash and roar as the balance of the rocket grenades ignited, and a great plume of water shot up, then fell, leaving only fragments where the ship had been.
A collective sigh of relief traveled the length of the Toorine Trader .
The captain surveyed the scene, its odd, transparent head cocked a little to one side. "Maybe they're right," it murmured to itself. "Maybe those grenades are too damned explosive to carry."
Damage-control personnel started cleaning up, patching, and repairing, taking advantage of the high-tech hex to use their best equipment.
The Trader approached the now-visible coast of Ecundo, which looked wild and forbidding this far south. Shortly she'd head north, back up that coast, almost all the way under sail.
As the ship headed toward the land, it moved away from a single, tiny figure drifting south in the current. It was too small, and soon much too far away, to be heard or noticed except by a few curious seabirds.
"Help me! Oh, please, god! Somebody help me!" came the anguished voice of the Parmiter. "Doc! Grune! Somebody! Anybody! Help me!"
But there was no one to help the Parmiter this time.
Nocha
The Torrine Trader had been patched well; only the fresh wood on parts of the bow, midsection, and superstructure hinted that something had been amiss.
A week later, the Trader was several hundred kilometers out, steaming across the Sea of Turagin to the northwest, on its way to deliver to Wygon huge crates of things whose function they couldn't fathom and couldn't have cared less about.
It was cold in Nocha, slightly above freezing. The crew stayed belowdecks as much as possible; the sea was extremely rough, and one could easily fall overboard into the chilly waters. Nobody wanted that—not in Nocha, where, only a few meters below the raging surface, thousand-toothed insects waited for just such a bonanza.
They were definitely not company customers, anyway, and no crewman wanted to give them anything for free.
The storm and cold had driven a tiny airborne figure farther west. She was almost exhausted, and had begun to doubt her ability to continue. No land had been in sight since she'd flown out over the sea to intercept the Trader before its landfall in Wygon three days hence—according to the schedule obtained from the company office in Domien.
She had no broad,
On the bow, the two Twosh at the strange console suddenly yipped in glee as sophisticated control panels came to life before them. A radar mast flipped up and started its slow back and forth sweep, and a large grid in front of one Twosh showed the cutter clearly.
The captain had won his gamble. Now, in the fight and run, with the current carrying most of the load, they'd drifted back over the high-tech hex border, into Usurk. That had activated all their technical devices.
They could see the flare in the hand of a ghostly shape on the cutter deck prepare to touch off the rocket mine that would administer the coup de grâce to the Toorine Trader .
But the Twosh suddenly elevated their platform to proper height, locked on, and fired with computer-aided accuracy.
The odd-looking telescope was better known as a laser cannon.
At the same time the Trader turned; sails came down in record time and when the master gauge on the bridge read ready a slim tendril shot out from the captain and pulled a lever, activating the great engines and twin screws.
Huge clouds of smoke billowed from the Trader 's stacks before the sails were even down, and it turned with astonishing speed and bore in on the small cutter.
"Fire!" screamed the Parmiter, but at that moment a blinding beam of greenish-white light struck them full force. The grenade rose a half-meter, then exploded. The laser beam swept down, slicing off a part of the cutter's bow.
The small ship exploded.
There was a blinding flash and roar as the balance of the rocket grenades ignited, and a great plume of water shot up, then fell, leaving only fragments where the ship had been.
A collective sigh of relief traveled the length of the Toorine Trader .
The captain surveyed the scene, its odd, transparent head cocked a little to one side. "Maybe they're right," it murmured to itself. "Maybe those grenades are too damned explosive to carry."
Damage-control personnel started cleaning up, patching, and repairing, taking advantage of the high-tech hex to use their best equipment.
The Trader approached the now-visible coast of Ecundo, which looked wild and forbidding this far south. Shortly she'd head north, back up that coast, almost all the way under sail.
As the ship headed toward the land, it moved away from a single, tiny figure drifting south in the current. It was too small, and soon much too far away, to be heard or noticed except by a few curious seabirds.
"Help me! Oh, please, god! Somebody help me!" came the anguished voice of the Parmiter. "Doc! Grune! Somebody! Anybody! Help me!"
But there was no one to help the Parmiter this time.
Nocha
The Torrine Trader had been patched well; only the fresh wood on parts of the bow, midsection, and superstructure hinted that something had been amiss.
A week later, the Trader was several hundred kilometers out, steaming across the Sea of Turagin to the northwest, on its way to deliver to Wygon huge crates of things whose function they couldn't fathom and couldn't have cared less about.
It was cold in Nocha, slightly above freezing. The crew stayed belowdecks as much as possible; the sea was extremely rough, and one could easily fall overboard into the chilly waters. Nobody wanted that—not in Nocha, where, only a few meters below the raging surface, thousand-toothed insects waited for just such a bonanza.
They were definitely not company customers, anyway, and no crewman wanted to give them anything for free.
The storm and cold had driven a tiny airborne figure farther west. She was almost exhausted, and had begun to doubt her ability to continue. No land had been in sight since she'd flown out over the sea to intercept the Trader before its landfall in Wygon three days hence—according to the schedule obtained from the company office in Domien.
She had no broad,
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