“What now?” Krysty asked him.
The gaunt man fixed her with a stare that had the lust of battle mixed with a strange glow of almost infinite contentment.
“We wait,” he said simply.
“THERE IT IS, baron. I hope you’re ready for this,” Elias Tulk said softly as he piloted the leading wag toward the outcrop, which became larger with each passing minute, the narrow entrance framed by forbidding rocks that reached to the chem-clouded sky. Tulk added, after looking up at the sky, “Yeah, I really hope you are ready, ’cause it looks like it’s headed for a sandstorm to me.”
Tad Hutter gave Tulk a sideways glance that could have chilled him on the spot. “You being funny, boy?”
“Call it that if you want,” Tulk answered, “but you just take a look up at that sky and tell me I’m wrong.”
Hutter looked up at the sky through the windshield of the wag, and could immediately see that the chem clouds had returned to the previously hazy but clear atmosphere. They were scudding across the bloated red orb of the sun, and indicated that there were conflicting air pressures and zephyrs in among them.
“Fuck it, that’s all we need,” he murmured, annoyed both at the approaching storm and at the fact that Tulk had been proved right. If there was one thing of which Hutter was certain, it was that Tulk wouldn’t live long when they returned to Summerfield.
“I figure that we’re in for a sandstorm with it,” Tulk continued, making a point of ignoring his baron’s hostility. “With those kind of winds blowing up there, all it’s gonna take is for one little sidewinder to come down and touch base, and it’s gonna be a whole lot of fun. Let’s hope we don’t get it at the rendezvous, eh?” And he allowed himself a small grin at this.
They continued in silence, the outcrop looming larger. Tulk slowed his wag, wanting to take a good look at the approaching rendezvous point. It would seem that they were the first to arrive, as the shape of the arena within the outcrop allowed him to see virtually all angles—certainly enough angles to show any wags that were attempting to hide within. The arena was clear, and the far entrance was empty. He didn’t know about the channels to the side of the arena, and a flutter of fear crossed his stomach. What if the Hellbenders hadn’t showed? How the hell would he cope with a pissed-off Hutter after the trade? He didn’t mind dying in a firefight or hand-to-hand combat, as long as Hutter bought the farm. But if he had to go back to Summerfield, he knew that his chilling would be painful and drawn out after the way he had treated the baron.
Mebbe Correll knew something he didn’t, and everything was okay. He could only hope so. He spoke again, trying to keep the sudden wave of fear from his voice.
“Looks like we’re the first here,” he said simply.
Hutter grunted. “Take it to the entrance and then stop. We’ll wait there—that way they can’t encircle us.”
“Okay,” Tulk replied simply. It seemed to him that Hutter had momentarily forgotten their little conflict in his anxiety at making the trade. Which was okay…for now.
Tulk drove to the mouth of the arena and stopped the wag. Hutter shifted in his seat. “Come on, boy, we’ve got some orders to hand out,” he muttered as he left the wag.
Tulk joined him, leaving the other sec men in the lead wag on lookout for the approach of the Charity convoy, which would be plainly visible through the opposing gap in the rocks.
Hutter moved back down the wags, ordering his men to keep alert. His basic plan was that they would begin to move into the outcrop at the same pace as the Charity convoy, beginning when Jourgensen’s men hit the far entrance, so that both convoys could keep equal pace and distance.
“We don’t move to hand anything over until I’ve spoke to Jourgensen. Then we unload our wags and place the goods in the center, between the two leading wags, while they lead the women out. When they’re both in the center, then we swap and retreat, keeping our blasters on them.”