that last one we stopped and asked when we was a little bit lost awhile back. Why, he could've passed for a scarecrow—that big bleedin' straw hat. Downright pictureskew."
"That's picterex. Picterex is the word. And I wasn't lost—you was lost, Biddies. I know right where we are."
"Yeah—we're on the mother planet." There was silence, and then: "I ain't heard her move yet back there. Think I killed her? She was a puny little thing."
"Nah. She ain't moving 'cause she's trussed tighter than a parson's gout. And she ain't puny everywhere. Saw when I tied her, and felt it when we dumped her in the barrel." Merry could hear seagulls crying, and a new sound which she knew to be the booming of surf, and a salt scent mixing with the apple smell in the barrel. "See those rocks yonder? What say you we stop and have us a little taste of that crisp little apple we got rolling around back in our barrel?"
With desperate common sense Merry forced herself not to cry. If my nose fills up, she thought, I'll suffocate.
"That's th' tenth time you've suggested that, Jack, and by God's whiskers I want to as bad as you, but we already said there might be soldiers chasin' us two miles back, or somebody lookin', or who knows what. I say let's wait until we— Watch for that pothole. Jack."
There was a lurch and a bump, and the apple barrel with Merry in it lifted and came down again woodenly. There was a moment of excruciating pain before Merry's nightmares vanished as before, into blackness.
A thick gray light burned against the whitened skin on Merry's face as she rolled once more back to consciousness. Someone had taken the lid off the barrel. There was a new voice above her, a youthful voice, with crisp, businesslike accents.
"Look, I don't have time for any of that. If you were interested in that, you should have done something about it earlier."
She recognized the answerer's voice from the wagon. "How could we, and all? With Federals maybe breathin' down our heels."
The barrel was suddenly pushed onto its side, and Merry found herself being tumbled onto a sandy beach. She felt her knees crack as she straightened them and gasped with relief under her gag. She was in the foggy open, and it was very early in the morning. She found it difficult to focus her eyes—the effort of trying to look directly at a thing made her dizzy and nauseated. It was too much like looking at two images that passed back and forth, one in front of the other, so she shut her eyes. She had seen the same round, bewhiskered face that greeted her on the ship. She wasn't sure if it was Jack or Biddies, but whoever it was picked her up from the beach.
The young, hard voice spoke again. "You're breaking my heart. If you were stupid enough to let someone take your trail, you'd better put space between yourselves and this place as quickly as you can. No, not over there. Put her in the skiff if you want your money."
Her conveyor halted, started again, halted, as if in indecision, and then turned with her. His hand under her rib cage made it difficult for her to breathe. She twisted her face and opened her eyes to look at her carrier. He was looking at someone else.
"Damn you for a cold-blooded puppy. I crave the wench. It won't take long." His voice had taken on a wheedling tone.
"Yes, I know it won't—about ten seconds by the look of you," said the younger man. "And having waited two hours already, I don't have ten seconds. You were late, and I'd given you plenty of time."
It was Biddles's turn to talk. "God's toenails, man. It was bleedin' hard sneakin' on that ship. It takes time to crack a ship as heavily guarded as that one was. And then to look for the papers, find the papers, and pack them up—and then this little baggage here that we didn't plan on. It was only our native ingenooity that got us out of that one. If I hadn't thought of the barrel, we wouldn't have got away at all."
"Put her in the skiff," the young voice ordered again, and this time he
"That's picterex. Picterex is the word. And I wasn't lost—you was lost, Biddies. I know right where we are."
"Yeah—we're on the mother planet." There was silence, and then: "I ain't heard her move yet back there. Think I killed her? She was a puny little thing."
"Nah. She ain't moving 'cause she's trussed tighter than a parson's gout. And she ain't puny everywhere. Saw when I tied her, and felt it when we dumped her in the barrel." Merry could hear seagulls crying, and a new sound which she knew to be the booming of surf, and a salt scent mixing with the apple smell in the barrel. "See those rocks yonder? What say you we stop and have us a little taste of that crisp little apple we got rolling around back in our barrel?"
With desperate common sense Merry forced herself not to cry. If my nose fills up, she thought, I'll suffocate.
"That's th' tenth time you've suggested that, Jack, and by God's whiskers I want to as bad as you, but we already said there might be soldiers chasin' us two miles back, or somebody lookin', or who knows what. I say let's wait until we— Watch for that pothole. Jack."
There was a lurch and a bump, and the apple barrel with Merry in it lifted and came down again woodenly. There was a moment of excruciating pain before Merry's nightmares vanished as before, into blackness.
A thick gray light burned against the whitened skin on Merry's face as she rolled once more back to consciousness. Someone had taken the lid off the barrel. There was a new voice above her, a youthful voice, with crisp, businesslike accents.
"Look, I don't have time for any of that. If you were interested in that, you should have done something about it earlier."
She recognized the answerer's voice from the wagon. "How could we, and all? With Federals maybe breathin' down our heels."
The barrel was suddenly pushed onto its side, and Merry found herself being tumbled onto a sandy beach. She felt her knees crack as she straightened them and gasped with relief under her gag. She was in the foggy open, and it was very early in the morning. She found it difficult to focus her eyes—the effort of trying to look directly at a thing made her dizzy and nauseated. It was too much like looking at two images that passed back and forth, one in front of the other, so she shut her eyes. She had seen the same round, bewhiskered face that greeted her on the ship. She wasn't sure if it was Jack or Biddies, but whoever it was picked her up from the beach.
The young, hard voice spoke again. "You're breaking my heart. If you were stupid enough to let someone take your trail, you'd better put space between yourselves and this place as quickly as you can. No, not over there. Put her in the skiff if you want your money."
Her conveyor halted, started again, halted, as if in indecision, and then turned with her. His hand under her rib cage made it difficult for her to breathe. She twisted her face and opened her eyes to look at her carrier. He was looking at someone else.
"Damn you for a cold-blooded puppy. I crave the wench. It won't take long." His voice had taken on a wheedling tone.
"Yes, I know it won't—about ten seconds by the look of you," said the younger man. "And having waited two hours already, I don't have ten seconds. You were late, and I'd given you plenty of time."
It was Biddles's turn to talk. "God's toenails, man. It was bleedin' hard sneakin' on that ship. It takes time to crack a ship as heavily guarded as that one was. And then to look for the papers, find the papers, and pack them up—and then this little baggage here that we didn't plan on. It was only our native ingenooity that got us out of that one. If I hadn't thought of the barrel, we wouldn't have got away at all."
"Put her in the skiff," the young voice ordered again, and this time he
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