When Margo had protested the choice, Goldie explained, “We don’t want anyone blabbing our plans. The Welshman’s perfect. He needs money and he can’t talk.”
”And your Afrikaner?” The Afrikaner could, in fact, speak English, but he usually muttered to himself in his own incomprehensible Afrikaans.
Goldie grinned. “He’ll look down that Dutch Afrikaner nose of his, sniff, call you English, and do his job. I know Koot van Beek. He’s exactly what you’ll need.”
”Huh. What kind of name is Koot, anyway?” Margo had muttered, drawing laughter from her dignified partner.
Still, Koot was remarkably cooperative for a close-lipped old man who’d insisted on choosing his own rifle for the journey. He’d even insisted she bring a rifle.
”But I don’t intend to do any hunting,” she’d countered, holding up the laser-guided blowgun she’d used in training. After what she’d witnessed in the Circus Maximus, Margo wasn’t sure she wanted to hunt anything for her dinner. “The darts for these are dipped in strong anesthetic. I don’t want to kill anything down time unless I absolutely have to.”
Koot had muttered under his breath and insisted she bring a rifle, anyway. She’d stowed it away with gear she didn’t plan to use unless an emergency threatened.
Koot worked quietly in the starlight, assembling the PVC gridwork that would serve as the platform of their gondola. While Kynan finished tightening connections, Koot attached the ducted fans which would provide propulsion and steering capability. The triangular lifting wing began to swell against the restraining cables as it filled with buoyant hydrogen gas.