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I
fastened
the
wrist
seals
of
the
stealth
suit
and
waited
.
We
completed
our
third
circuit
of
Head
in
the
Clouds
.
"
You
’
d
better
come
aboard
,
"
said
Kawahara
finally
.
"
Starboard
landing
beacon
.
Follow
it
in
,
they
’
ll
give
you
a
code
.
"
The
Lock
-
Mit
was
equipped
with
a
rear
dispatch
tube
,
a
smaller
,
civilian
variant
of
the
drop
launcher
that
on
military
models
was
intended
for
smart
bombs
or
surveillance
drones
.
The
tube
was
accessed
through
the
floor
of
the
main
cabin
and
with
a
certain
amount
of
contortion
I
fitted
inside
,
complete
with
stealth
suit
,
grav
harness
and
assorted
weaponry
.
We
’
d
practised
this
three
or
four
times
on
the
ground
,
but
now
with
the
transport
swinging
in
towards
Head
in
the
Clouds
,
it
suddenly
seemed
a
long
and
complicated
process
.
Finally
,
I
got
the
last
of
the
grav
harness
inside
and
Ortega
rapped
once
on
the
suit
’
s
helmet
before
she
slammed
the
hatch
down
and
buried
me
in
darkness
.
Three
seconds
later
the
tube
blew
open
and
spat
me
backwards
into
the
night
sky
.
The
sensation
was
a
dimly
remembered
joy
,
something
this
sleeve
did
not
recall
at
a
cellular
level
.
From
the
cramped
confines
of
the
tube
and
the
noisy
vibration
of
the
transport
’
s
engines
I
was
suddenly
blasted
into
absolute
space
and
silence
.
Not
even
the
rush
of
air
made
it
through
the
foam
padding
on
the
suit
’
s
helmet
as
I
fell
.
The
grav
harness
kicked
in
as
soon
as
I
was
clear
of
the
tube
and
braked
my
fall
before
it
got
properly
started
.
I
felt
myself
borne
up
on
its
field
,
not
quite
motionless
,
like
a
ball
bobbing
on
top
of
the
column
of
water
from
a
fountain
.
Pivoting
about
,
I
watched
the
navigation
lights
of
the
transport
shrink
inward
against
the
bulk
of
Head
in
the
Clouds
.
The
airship
hung
above
and
before
me
like
a
threatening
storm
cloud
.
Lights
glimmered
out
at
me
from
the
curving
hull
and
the
gantried
superstructure
beneath
.
Ordinarily
it
would
have
given
me
the
cringing
sensation
of
being
a
sitting
target
,
but
the
betathanatine
soothed
the
emotions
away
in
a
clean
rush
of
data
detail
.
In
the
stealth
suit
I
was
as
black
as
the
surrounding
sky
and
all
but
radar
invisible
.
The
grav
field
I
was
generating
might
theoretically
show
up
on
a
scanner
somewhere
,
but
within
the
huge
distortions
produced
by
the
airship
’
s
stabilisers
they
’
d
need
to
be
looking
for
me
,
and
looking
quite
hard
.
All
these
things
I
knew
with
an
absolute
confidence
that
had
no
room
for
doubts
,
fears
or
other
emotional
tangling
.
I
was
riding
the
Reaper
.
I
set
the
impellers
in
cautious
forward
drive
and
drifted
towards
the
massive
,
curving
wall
of
the
hull
.
Inside
the
helmet
,
simulation
graphics
awoke
on
the
surface
of
the
visor
and
I
saw
the
entry
points
Irene
Elliott
had
found
for
me
delineated
in
red
.
One
in
particular
,
the
unsealed
mouth
of
a
disused
sampling
turret
,
was
pulsing
on
and
off
next
to
fine
green
lettering
that
spelled
Prospect
One
.
I
rose
steadily
upward
to
meet
it
.
The
turret
mouth
was
about
a
metre
wide
and
scarred
around
the
edges
where
the
atmosphere
sampling
system
had
been
amputated
.
I
got
my
legs
up
in
front
of
me
—
no
mean
achievement
in
a
grav
field
—
and
hooked
myself
over
the
lip
of
the
hatch
,
then
concentrated
on
worming
myself
inside
up
to
the
waist
.
From
there
I
twisted
onto
my
front
to
clear
the
grav
harness
and
was
able
to
slide
myself
through
the
gap
and
onto
the
floor
of
the
turret
.
I
switched
the
grav
harness
off
.
Inside
,
there
was
barely
enough
crawlspace
tor
a
technician
lying
on
his
back
to
check
the
nest
of
equipment
.
At
the
back
of
the
turret
was
an
antique
airlock
,
complete
with
pressure
wheel
,
just
as
Irene
Elliott
’
s
Dipped
blueprints
had
promised
.
I
wriggled
around
until
I
could
grasp
the
wheel
with
both
hands
,
conscious
that
both
suit
and
harness
were
catching
on
the
narrow
hatchway
,
and
that
my
exertions
so
far
had
almost
totally
depleted
my
immediate
body
strength
.
