They’d brought eight dolphins with them to the reservoir .~ to help harvest their water-fruit. The dolphins’ long, powerful ~ snouts could snip clean through a water-fruit’s ropy root. All of them were ex-Navy fish, their biochemistry subtly adjusted, ~ enabling them to live comfortably in fresh water as well as salt. Greg said that was so they could be sent on missions up rivers. But whatever Rusty had been made to do back then hadn’t affected his personality; he could be a mischievous devil when he wanted to be. Like now. She suddenly found herself flipped upside-down, whirl currents from his thrashing tail tumbling her further. The remains of Middle Hambleton spun past her eyes. Shady rectangular outlines of razed buildings rising from the dark grey-green alluvial muck. One day she was determined she’d explore those sad ruins properly. She stretched her arms out, slowing herself, then bent her legs, altering her centre of gravity, righting herself. A shadow passed over her, Rusty streaking away, beyond retribution. She let herself float upwards. At the back of her mind she was marvelling at her own enjoyment. She, a girl who couldn’t even swim six weeks ago, even though the kibbutz at Egleton was right beside the reservoir. The marine-adepts had thought that hilarious, For the first few weeks after she’d moved into Greg’s chalet she’d had a sense of being divorced from selected sections of his life. Apart from the Edith Weston villagers everyone he knew was ex-miitary; the marine-adepts, Gabriel, that mysterious bunch of people in Peterborough he’d referred to obliquely a couple of times, even the dolphins. They were a hard-shelled clique, one that’d formed out of shared combat experiences. She could never possibly be admitted to that. And the marine-adepis were naturally reticent around other people; it wasn’t quite a racial thing, but they did look unusual until you were used to them. The only time they left the reservoir was to drive their water-fruit crop to Oakham’s railway station. Breaking through their mistrust had been hard going. The UINDSTAR RISING 159 turning point had come when Nicole had finally taken over her swimming lessons, more out of exasperation than kindness, she’d thought at the time. But a bond had formed once she realized how keen Eleanor was, and the rest of the floating village’s residents had gradually come to accept her. A triumph she considered equal to walking out on the kibbutz in the first place. She could never hope to match the marine-adepts in the water. They had webbed feet which enabled them to move through the water with a grace rivalling the dolphins, and their boosted haemoglobin allowed them to stay submerged for up to a quarter of an hour at a time. But with ffippers and a bioware mirror-lung recycling her breath she was quite capable of helping them in the laborious nurturing of the water-fruit. Planting the kernels deep in the silt, watching out for fungal decay in the young shoots, clearing away tendrils of the reservoir’s ubiquitous fibrous weed which could choke the mushy pumpkin-like globes. The marine-adepts had staked out eight separate fields in the reservoir, and earned quite a decent living from them. Her only real failure among Greg’s friends had been Gabriel Thompson. The woman was so stuck-up and short-tempered Eleanor had wound up simply ignoring her. She suspected Gabriel had a jealousy problem. Always mothering Greg. She broke surface five hundred metres off shore, about a kilometre away from the Berrybut time-share estate. The sun was low in the sky, and she could see flames rising from the estate’s bonfire. Rusty’s chitter tore the air ten metres behind her. She slapped the water three times and he vanished again. Some Navy dolphins had been fitted with bioware processor nodes to make them totally obedient to human orders. But Nicole said the Navy had left Rusty’s brain alone. The marine-adepts used a hand-signal language to talk with the reservoir dolphins. Eleanor had mastered most of it, and Rusty nearly always did as she asked. That little edge of irrepressible uncertainty in his behaviour was what made him such fun. She felt the change in water pressure as he rose underneath 160 PETER F. HAMILTON her, then she was straddling him, clutching desperately at his dorsal fin as he began to surge forwards. Homeward-bound fishermen in their white hireboats stared with open-mouthed astonishment as she sped past, slicing out an arc of creamy foam in her wake. Rusty let her off fifteen metres from the shore, where the bottom started to shelve. A flock of panicky flamingos took flight, pumping wings creaking the air above her. She gave her steed an affectionate slap and waded ashore, arms aching from hanging on against the buffeting water. The famillar claimed her as she walked up the slope to chalet six. Meat roasting on the bonfire, pork by the smell of it. Dusty whirlwind of the football game, rampaging along the side of the spinney. Swapping easy greetings with the few adults milling about. Dogs underfoot, Labradors, who made the best rabbiters. A couple of wolf-whistles following her progress. She smiled at that. Something else she wouldn’t have been able to cope with before. She wore a one-piece costume whenever she went into the water now. The polka-dot bikini which Greg had bought her was far too skimpy for any serious diving – typical lecherous male. Not that she wanted to change him. Night time with Greg was one continuous orgy, hot, strenuous, sweaty, and tremendously exciting; another fruit forbidden to her at the kibbutz. The Duo was parked in its usual spot. She was looking forward to hearing what he’d been called away to, the message he’d left on the terminal had been oddly brief. She shrugged out of the mirror-lung, and plugged its nutrient coupling into the support gear on the veranda. Greg was inside, dressed in an old purple sweatshirt and shorts, fooling around with the kitchen gear. Whatever he was cooking smelt good. ‘My saviour.’ She gave him a radiant smile. ‘After your message I wasn’t sure if you’d be back, and I haven’t got the energy left to cook.’ He slurped a spoonful of the sauce he was simmering. ‘Bйarnaise, it’s nice, try some.’ He held up the spoon. MINOSTAR RISING 161 She took a sip as his other arm slipped around her waist, hand coming to rest on her buttock. ‘You’re right, not bad.’ For a moment she thought he was going to dump the meal and urge her into the bedroom. He always got turned on by the sight of her in a wet swimming costume. And there was plenty of time before she was due behind the bar at the Wheat-sheaf. But then she looked closely at his face, and wrinkled her nose up. ‘God, you look awful.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Sorry. . . but, what have you been up to?’ ‘Do me one favour,’ he implored. ‘What?’ ‘Just don’t tell me I look like I’ve seen a ghost.’