He wondered, in view of her long diatribe, if she’d try to stop him from leaving.
“Listen,” he began experimentally, “when I’m well enough I’d like to leave here. I have a life to get back to, myself. I’ll keep your secret, of course … I understand and ‘sympathize with you completely. How about a—?”
“I don’t have a power flitter,” she said.
“Well then, your fanship.”
She shook her head, slowly.
“Ground buggy?” Another negative shake. Cait-land’s brows drew together. Maybe she didn’t have to worry about keeping him here. “Are you trying to tell me you have no form of transportation up here whatsoever?”
“Not exactly. I have Freia, my horse, and the wagon she pulls. That’s all the transportation I need—
217
WITH FRIENDS LUCE THESE . ..
that and what’s left of my legs. Once a year an old friend airdrops me necessary supplies. He doesn’t land and he’s no botanist, so he’s unaware of the nature of this forest. A miner, simple man, good man.
“My electronic parts and such, which I code-flash to his fan on his yearly pass over, constitute most of what he brings back to me. Otherwise,” and she made an expansive gesture, “the forest supplies all my needs.’*
He tensed. “You have tridee or radio communication, for emergencies, with the—”
“No, young man, I’m completely isolated here. I like it that way.”
He was wondering just how far off course the storm had carried him. “The nearest settlement—Vaan-land?”
She nodded. That was encouraging, at least. “How far by wagon?”
“The wagon would never make it. Terrain’s too tough. Freia brought me in—and out one tune, and back again, but she’s too old now, I’d say.”