safe for him to move. As long as the winter didnât close in on him first. How bad would winters get in this world? . . .
That was a long way off, he told himself. First he had to get to the damn stockade, or he wouldnât survive a night, let alone a season. He saw nothing he could use as a crutch, to take the weight off the broken leg. If he could drag himself to the forest clump close by, get hold of a fallen branch that he could lean on, hobble back . . .
Good plan , his sceptical side said as he lay there.
Focus, damn it.
The first thing he had to do was turn over, on to his back. He swung his arm and rolled.
And as his busted right leg shifted, the pain returned â worse than anything heâd experienced since those two beagles had, almost kindly, detached his hand at the wrist with their teeth, all those years ago. He was flattened by the pain, dulled, almost knocked back to unconsciousness again.
He forced his head up. At least the leg looked straight, and he could see no jutting bone. His trousers were ruined, though, the leg trampled and bloody. He slumped back.
The break could have been worse, but evidently it was bad enough. He wasnât going to be able to crawl out of here, let alone stand. What he needed was a medevac, a modern hospital, a surgeon and a team of nurses. Oh, and an anaesthetist. As it was, he didnât even know where his water was, let alone whether he could reach it.
Told you , Sister Agnes said in his ear. Youâve gotten too old. Taken one too many chances. You shouldnât have gone out there again, alone.
Bill Chambers chimed in, Ye didnât even put the fecking spacesuit- silver blanket on the fecking rock like I fecking told ye, ye great fecking eejit.
Youâre going to pay for your pride, Dad , Rod said . With your life . . .
âNot yet,â Joshua growled. âNow hereâs my plan . . . Sancho? Sancho! Sancho!â
He called until he blacked out again. His last conscious thought was a vague prayer that the troll would in fact be the first beast that responded to his cries.
Sancho tried to be gentle. In his way. He was, for his kind, as Joshua would learn, exceptionally intelligent. But he was a humanoid, the size and strength of a large orang-utan, and he had performed no action in his life more delicate than the chipping of a blade from a chunk of rock.
He picked Joshua up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of coal.
Joshua screamed. But he was unconscious even before the troll had stepped away from the bloodstained ground where heâd been lying.
14
A T PRECISELY 11.30 a.m. the Reverend William Buckland lifted into midsummer air, smoothly and silently. Below its prow, the luxurious facilities of the Twenty-Twenty tourist resort diminished: a cluster of glass-walled buildings surrounded by a sprawl of twain landing pads, and further out the brilliant-green absurdity of golf courses cut into the pine forests that dominated this footprint of southern England, here in Earth West 20,000.
Nelson Azikiwe and Sister Agnes sat side by side in front of a big observation window, watching this panorama unfold. A discreet waitress had served tea on a small table before them, with a china service, a pot and cups, a platter of biscuits, small paper napkins. Agnes was dressed in a long black skirt, sensible shoes, and a pale-pink cardigan over a white blouse. Her grey hair was cut short and neat. Nelson had never seen her wear a habit, and yet she seemed always to be in the shadow of the wimple, even now. Unconsciously Nelson touched his own throat, the open neck of his shirt.
Agnes, being Agnes, noticed this and laughed. âDonât worry, Nelson. You still look like a vicar â you probably did even before you became one â but I donât think anybody here notices, or cares, do you?â
Nelson glanced around at the other passengers. Many of them were the modern idle rich â mostly
That was a long way off, he told himself. First he had to get to the damn stockade, or he wouldnât survive a night, let alone a season. He saw nothing he could use as a crutch, to take the weight off the broken leg. If he could drag himself to the forest clump close by, get hold of a fallen branch that he could lean on, hobble back . . .
Good plan , his sceptical side said as he lay there.
Focus, damn it.
The first thing he had to do was turn over, on to his back. He swung his arm and rolled.
And as his busted right leg shifted, the pain returned â worse than anything heâd experienced since those two beagles had, almost kindly, detached his hand at the wrist with their teeth, all those years ago. He was flattened by the pain, dulled, almost knocked back to unconsciousness again.
He forced his head up. At least the leg looked straight, and he could see no jutting bone. His trousers were ruined, though, the leg trampled and bloody. He slumped back.
The break could have been worse, but evidently it was bad enough. He wasnât going to be able to crawl out of here, let alone stand. What he needed was a medevac, a modern hospital, a surgeon and a team of nurses. Oh, and an anaesthetist. As it was, he didnât even know where his water was, let alone whether he could reach it.
Told you , Sister Agnes said in his ear. Youâve gotten too old. Taken one too many chances. You shouldnât have gone out there again, alone.
Bill Chambers chimed in, Ye didnât even put the fecking spacesuit- silver blanket on the fecking rock like I fecking told ye, ye great fecking eejit.
Youâre going to pay for your pride, Dad , Rod said . With your life . . .
âNot yet,â Joshua growled. âNow hereâs my plan . . . Sancho? Sancho! Sancho!â
He called until he blacked out again. His last conscious thought was a vague prayer that the troll would in fact be the first beast that responded to his cries.
Sancho tried to be gentle. In his way. He was, for his kind, as Joshua would learn, exceptionally intelligent. But he was a humanoid, the size and strength of a large orang-utan, and he had performed no action in his life more delicate than the chipping of a blade from a chunk of rock.
He picked Joshua up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of coal.
Joshua screamed. But he was unconscious even before the troll had stepped away from the bloodstained ground where heâd been lying.
14
A T PRECISELY 11.30 a.m. the Reverend William Buckland lifted into midsummer air, smoothly and silently. Below its prow, the luxurious facilities of the Twenty-Twenty tourist resort diminished: a cluster of glass-walled buildings surrounded by a sprawl of twain landing pads, and further out the brilliant-green absurdity of golf courses cut into the pine forests that dominated this footprint of southern England, here in Earth West 20,000.
Nelson Azikiwe and Sister Agnes sat side by side in front of a big observation window, watching this panorama unfold. A discreet waitress had served tea on a small table before them, with a china service, a pot and cups, a platter of biscuits, small paper napkins. Agnes was dressed in a long black skirt, sensible shoes, and a pale-pink cardigan over a white blouse. Her grey hair was cut short and neat. Nelson had never seen her wear a habit, and yet she seemed always to be in the shadow of the wimple, even now. Unconsciously Nelson touched his own throat, the open neck of his shirt.
Agnes, being Agnes, noticed this and laughed. âDonât worry, Nelson. You still look like a vicar â you probably did even before you became one â but I donât think anybody here notices, or cares, do you?â
Nelson glanced around at the other passengers. Many of them were the modern idle rich â mostly
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