lightning, slamming into the sand. The boomerang sailed effortlessly on, and then suddenly changed angle and came tearing back as fast as it had charged forward.
“Hey, Lieutenant Boyd,” Detroit said, looking a little nervously at the approaching whirling blade, “don’t you think we’d better take cover before it—” But the instant before it reached Boyd’s outstretched arm, the lasers went dead and the thing plopped down in his hand as if the engine had been shut off.
“And it can do so much more, can’t you, little nipper?” Boyd said, cradling the thing as he eased it back into its pouch. “Well, satisfied we can be of assist, guys? We ain’t no bloody wowsers or surfies now—but the real milko. And with these little lollies—the Reds are gonna be right out in the dunny scratching their dinky-dis.”
“I think I get the drift of what you’re saying,” Rockson mumbled as Archer stared on, scratching his huge head as if he were listening to Martian. “But as impressive as these boomerangs of yours are, I’m afraid our mission is of such ultimate importance that I just can’t risk it. If it was anything else, perhaps I’d bring you, but—”
“Ah, shove it, matey,” Lieutenant Boyd said, crumpling up his can of Foster in one hand and throwing it to the ground in an angry gesture. “What the ’ell do we care that we’ve flown 18,000 miles, nearly got shot out of the bloody sky a ’alf dozen times, and parachutes ourselves right into a sunbaked billabong where the bloody Yankee cacti are ripping our butts into pillow stuffing—and then the bloody head Yank tells us we ain’t wanted and can just head on home again—camels and all. This bloody country is not only not a nice place to live, it’s not even a nice bloody place to visit.” With that, Lieutenant Boyd and his men retreated, holding their cans of beer high, and began singing patriotic Australian songs of resistance on the far side of their angry howling camels.
Nine
“A re they still following us?” Rockson whispered to Detroit, who rode several yards away on his chestnut brown ’brid.
“Trailing us like a snar-lizard stalks a deer,” the black Freefighter replied, swinging his head back around. “That Lieutenant Boyd is about thirty yards behind McCaughlin and the kitchen ’brids. The whole Aussie crew is just piled up on top of their camels there, keeping a perfect pace.”
Rockson couldn’t resist turning, even though he didn’t want Boyd to catch him looking at them, didn’t want the man to think that the Doomsday Warrior was even taking notice of them. But it was hard not to look—not with thirty camels all trying to bite their riders, the camel in front of them, or the camel behind in no particular order. They were piled high with crates of food and weapons—and the amber ale—and were all swaying from side to side with their mountainous backs threatening to send their cargo flying at any moment with an extra-hard shift of weight. Their riders whipped at them with short sticks and screamed out bloody murder, using every curse that thirty Australians had picked up over their combined nine hundred and thirty seven years of life. It was as if a continuous argument was going on between human and animal about just who was running the show, each trying to outshout the other. Why anyone would want to ride the foul-smelling awkward creatures in the first place was beyond Rockson.
“Give me an old flea-bitten hybrid any day of the week,” he grinned at Detroit, who was staring straight ahead, his warrior eyes taking in every shadow, every dropping quill.
“Amen,” the sweating black Freefighter replied, not shifting his head. “But what the hell are you going to do about the Aussies? They could attract attention—all that noise and everything. I know they’re well-meaning and all, but . . .”
“I know,” Rockson said. “It was a noble gesture. I’m praying that their camels just won’t be able to keep
“Hey, Lieutenant Boyd,” Detroit said, looking a little nervously at the approaching whirling blade, “don’t you think we’d better take cover before it—” But the instant before it reached Boyd’s outstretched arm, the lasers went dead and the thing plopped down in his hand as if the engine had been shut off.
“And it can do so much more, can’t you, little nipper?” Boyd said, cradling the thing as he eased it back into its pouch. “Well, satisfied we can be of assist, guys? We ain’t no bloody wowsers or surfies now—but the real milko. And with these little lollies—the Reds are gonna be right out in the dunny scratching their dinky-dis.”
“I think I get the drift of what you’re saying,” Rockson mumbled as Archer stared on, scratching his huge head as if he were listening to Martian. “But as impressive as these boomerangs of yours are, I’m afraid our mission is of such ultimate importance that I just can’t risk it. If it was anything else, perhaps I’d bring you, but—”
“Ah, shove it, matey,” Lieutenant Boyd said, crumpling up his can of Foster in one hand and throwing it to the ground in an angry gesture. “What the ’ell do we care that we’ve flown 18,000 miles, nearly got shot out of the bloody sky a ’alf dozen times, and parachutes ourselves right into a sunbaked billabong where the bloody Yankee cacti are ripping our butts into pillow stuffing—and then the bloody head Yank tells us we ain’t wanted and can just head on home again—camels and all. This bloody country is not only not a nice place to live, it’s not even a nice bloody place to visit.” With that, Lieutenant Boyd and his men retreated, holding their cans of beer high, and began singing patriotic Australian songs of resistance on the far side of their angry howling camels.
Nine
“A re they still following us?” Rockson whispered to Detroit, who rode several yards away on his chestnut brown ’brid.
“Trailing us like a snar-lizard stalks a deer,” the black Freefighter replied, swinging his head back around. “That Lieutenant Boyd is about thirty yards behind McCaughlin and the kitchen ’brids. The whole Aussie crew is just piled up on top of their camels there, keeping a perfect pace.”
Rockson couldn’t resist turning, even though he didn’t want Boyd to catch him looking at them, didn’t want the man to think that the Doomsday Warrior was even taking notice of them. But it was hard not to look—not with thirty camels all trying to bite their riders, the camel in front of them, or the camel behind in no particular order. They were piled high with crates of food and weapons—and the amber ale—and were all swaying from side to side with their mountainous backs threatening to send their cargo flying at any moment with an extra-hard shift of weight. Their riders whipped at them with short sticks and screamed out bloody murder, using every curse that thirty Australians had picked up over their combined nine hundred and thirty seven years of life. It was as if a continuous argument was going on between human and animal about just who was running the show, each trying to outshout the other. Why anyone would want to ride the foul-smelling awkward creatures in the first place was beyond Rockson.
“Give me an old flea-bitten hybrid any day of the week,” he grinned at Detroit, who was staring straight ahead, his warrior eyes taking in every shadow, every dropping quill.
“Amen,” the sweating black Freefighter replied, not shifting his head. “But what the hell are you going to do about the Aussies? They could attract attention—all that noise and everything. I know they’re well-meaning and all, but . . .”
“I know,” Rockson said. “It was a noble gesture. I’m praying that their camels just won’t be able to keep
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