“Who?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know,” Virginia spoke as lightly as she could. “A character out of Wuthering Heights.”
“I do, actually,” came Chip’s morose reply. “I had to read it at Company school. I guess you did, too. Shame. I didn’t realize they did that sort of thing to Shareholders as well. I thought it was torture reserved for Vats.”
“That book is part of me!” she started to protest. But she managed to choke off the words. It was part of her download, but she couldn’t explain that to him. Chip had made clear enough his suspicions of “cyber-intelligence.”
“Oh? I hated it, myself. That Cathy was such a total wet-lettuce. Five minutes of guts and there would have been no book.” He didn’t realize he was being Heathcliff to the life.
* * *
Fal stared distrustfully at the pedal. “This had better work, Connolly.”
“Trust me, Fal. There’s nothing to it.” Chip almost crossed his fingers behind his back.
“Are you sure it’s the right pedal?”
“Of course,” said Virginia indignantly. “You think Chip wouldn’t know something like that? Just be sure to stop the tractor when it gets to the hill.”
Chip held his tongue. There were three pedals. He’d worked out clutch easily enough. The other two must be brake and accelerator. Must be.
The moon was up, the charges laid, the tank trailer full, the last supper eaten and the waiting hour . . . done.
Nym had stalked off in a huff.
“A-one, a-two . . .” The tractor began to roll. Glacially, and then more easily. More easily. More easily.
It was rolling down the hill, picking up speed. Picking up speed.
Fal was not a happy rat.
“Whoreson!” he shrieked. “Why isn’t it stopping?” The rat had both feet thrust hard down on the pedal. The pedal was flush with the metal.
“Put the blade down!” shouted Chip, heels dragging as he now tried to hold the tractor back.
“HOW?” The rat frantically grabbed levers . . . Pressed pedals.
Crunch.
The wheel hit the rock that Nym had rolled in the way. The big rat had picked the biggest he could move. Even so it wasn’t a very large rock . . . she was going over . . .
Over the rock . . . and the tractor stopped. Virginia hadn’t tried to stop it by arm-strength. When the tire hit the rock she’d jumped up, and, not knowing what to push or pull, had grabbed the gear lever at the same time that Fal had jumped off.
A few gear teeth the poorer, the tractor halted.
” ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to it,’ he said.” Fal’s fangs glittered wickedly in the moonlight as he stalked closer to Chip.
“Look, rat. This is the clutch. This, on the opposite side, where I put you, is the brake,” snarled Chip. His own teeth were bared.
“Look yourself, you—you . . . tripe-visaged shogging rascal! I tried that one first. Then I tried the one next to it. Then I tried the grab or clutch . . .” He dug in his pack. Produced a clear-fluid filled half-pint bottle. “Here . . . Ginny. Do an old rat a favor. Open this screwcap for me.”
“Fine bloody lush that can’t even open his own bottle,” Chip growled.
“Methinks you’re walking on a thin edge, Connolly. I just wanted to give the lady a drink for saving my tail.” Fal’s lofty tone was betrayed by a slight shake of the paws that were holding out the bottle.
Chip snorted. “You’re going up in Fal’s estimation, Virginia. ‘Lady,’ now. Weren’t you a lusty jade earlier?”
She handed the rat his bottle, ignoring Chip studiously. And, with great ceremony, he passed it back to her. “No. You first. I insist. Have a good belt!”
* * *
She wished like hell he hadn’t insisted. That hasty mouthful made her glasses mist up. Still, it was warming . . .
Maybe that was why she was so ready to urge Chip into that saddle. In the moonlight he was dark faced, his features stern and heavy browed . . . his eyes and gathered eyebrows were ireful now . . . the book words flowed unbidden into her mind. He wasn’t Heathcliff. He was Edward Rochester. How could she have not realized it?