“‘Tis not a bat,” gruffed Eamon, as he tensioned the wire.
O’Niel gave a mournful sniff. “I know. But it was a fine and a gallant companion.”
Eamon shook his head. “‘Tis a machine, O’Niel. But she’ll go out wi’ glory. A fine fiery send-off, fitting of a bat. And a number of her enemies with her. Now lend me a foot.”
The Crotchet was down, and Chip and Ginny came to help carry the heavy stuff. One of the few things the humans could do better than anyone else was porter. They carried fertilizer bags and turfed them over the edge twenty yards from the rats’ abseil-point.
On his second trip, Chip noticed that Nym was sitting quite still, pouring brandy down the air intake while patting the little tractor awkwardly. Snuffling all the while. Chip took his grappling iron in one hand and the rat in the other along to where the others were abseiling. Cursing all the while.
“They’re on their way. GO, go, go!” shouted Bronstein, from higher up the ramp.
Chip realized with horror that he was going to have to abseil again. And worse, Ginny had no homemade harness, or any idea what to do.
He took a deep breath. “You’ll have to get onto my back,” he said, hoping he sounded calm to her. Trying to ignore the small booms of the expedient mines higher up the ramp, he rigged himself. He knew he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes now, or they’d both fall and die. On the other hand, if he didn’t move fast they’d be blown to glory along with the tractor and trailer.
She walked up close. “How do you want me to hold?” she asked with perfect faith.
Chip found that hard to deal with. “Tight. And you, Fluff, go down that rope. Chop-chop. Send it.”
As calmly as possible, he lowered the two of them over the edge. Her body was warm against his. Very warm, very firm, very soft, very—very—
He forced himself to concentrate on the rope.
At least abseiling with double the weight was easier. But he’d swear he didn’t even hear the vineyard tractors’s last blast.
He did notice pieces of Maggot and masonry falling past. And then, they were falling too. Something had severed the rope. Fortunately a five-foot fall onto a pile of fertilizer granules wasn’t going to kill them. And he managed, somehow, to spin them so that Ginny landed on him rather than vice versa.
* * *
The plump rat regarded them with a wry rat-smile. “Methinks that was definitely virgin on the ridiculous.”
“Oh shut up, Fal,” muttered Chip.
Fal chuckled. “Only if you’ll tell me how you get it right in that position. Or is that the explanation for the virgin part, eh, Ginny?”
Just in time she realized he was teasing. She had been about to start on an impetuous tirade against Melene not being able to keep a secret. But he really didn’t know. And, with a sudden shock, she also realized he wasn’t really trying to be nasty. He was just . . . being Falstaff.
“Fal, you are ugly and your mother dresses you funny,” she said sternly.
He grinned. “That’s the spirit, girl. You’ll make a proper rattess yet. Now get off the muck heap.”
“What do you mean ‘muck heap’?” grumbled Chip.
Ginny laughed. “Fertilizer. That’s the way soft-cyber logic works.”
Chip grinned. “You understand it better than I do. Anyway, Fal, I’m sore, and bruised, and I’m tired. Why shouldn’t I lie in the muck if I want to? Got nice company.” Despite the words, he was trying to stand up.
Not fast enough to suit Fal. “Up, up!” he shouted. “I’m supposed to be collecting the muck into these bags while the rest of the thinner rats are off laying charges with the bats. Even your galago has gone along . . . with Doll, I think. Bronstein says that this brood-heart bit isn’t likely to be unguarded, and we might want to blow it up. Besides, we need something for you humans to carry. To keep your feet on the ground, and your minds from wicked thoughts.”
Pistol scampered up. “They can always carry us,” he proclaimed. “I mean, when a human’s in debt to the tune of fifty cases of whiskey, the least he could do would be to provide transport.”