Renegade of Callisto

Koja did not enjoy being caught in the rain, but it made little difference to him. The chitinous armor wherewith Nature had clad his body made it unnecessary for him to wear any clothing at all (which is why only Taran’s clothes were shredded to make an extension on the mooring line, and not Koja’s too, in case you had wondered). Hence he had no clothing for the shower to soak through; the chitinous shell kept him from suffering any chill or discomfort from the drenching icy rains.

Fido, however, felt the cold wet intensely, and raised a sobbing, mournful howl to tell the world how miserable he was.

They were nearly directly above the tall trees by this time, so Koja played out his line to its last inch.

Taran sat hugging himself, his teeth chattering and his knees knocking wetly together, wondering if his ears were turning blue. As Koja played out the line, however, he peered over the side―and gasped, and bit his lip.

It didn’t reach.

Koja said nothing, as was his wont. And he didn’t bite his lip, but only because Nature had failed to equip his kind with lips.

The makeshift line was too short by at least twenty feet.

Taran groaned and began fumbling with numb wet fingers at his waist. He was trying to unfasten the knot that held his loincloth on, but Koja stopped him with a gesture.

“There is no need for that, my young friend,” said the Yathoon somberly. “Even were we to tear your clout into the very thinnest of strips, the grappling hook still would not reach the topmost branches …”

Taran was grateful for that much, at least. Wet through and too thin anyway, the loincloth, though it served to protect his modesty, afforded no real protection against the inclement weather.

Now Koja clambered out of the cockpit onto the portside pontoon. The laminated paper wherefrom the pontoon was constructed was slick with running water and slippery underfoot. A fall from this height would kill him instantly.

He lay face down on the pontoon and extended his arms beneath it, letting the mooring cable dangle to the greatest possible length, taking advantage of every inch.

It still didn’t quite reach.

If the Thanatorians were given to the worship of gods, Koja would have prayed to them then and there, or anyway he would have taken their names in vain by cursing; they were going to drift past the copse in another few minutes, and there their last chance of coming safely down would be lost. Then he heard a splashing above him, and, craning his featureless casque of a head around, he peered up over his shoulder to see what Taran was doing to make such a sound.

The boy was scooping water out of the cockpit in his hands, as you might bail out a lifeboat in a storm. For, obviously, so intense had the downpour become, the cockpit was rapidly filling up with rainwater.

Swiftly, the Yathoon turned to stare’ down again through the seething sheets of rain. Was it his imagination, or did the grappling hook now just barely brush against the uppermost leaves? And wasn’t the Lankar-jan riding just a trifle lower in the air than it had been up to now?

“Taran! Stop bailing out the water!” he clacked sternly in his cold, metallic tones.

“B-but, K-koja-ch-chan!” the boy complained through chattering teeth, “It’s nearly up to my knees in h-here-!”

“Do not remove so much as another drop of water if you can help it,” commanded Koja urgently. “Let the cockpit fill to the brim with rainwater, if it can. Hold Fido’s head up, if necessary―the mater we are taking aboard is weighing the skycraft down―another few inches and we shall be low enough in the air to permit me to snag one of the upper branches with the hook!” Inch by inch, the sluggish, wallowing craft sunk nearer to the crest of the tallest borath tree. Very little wind was blowing; so thick and heavy fell the deluge that the scoutcraft hovered almost stationary in the sky above the little wood.

The rain was slackening now as the storm clouds drifted slowly over the plains.

But, in time, the unexpected and sudden shower paid off in highly beneficial terms.

Slowly―carefully―with infinite patience, Koja at last succeeded in snagging the topmost branch of the tree. He tugged on the line once it was secure, causing the sharp metal hooks to dig deeply, until they had a firm grip on the soft, flaky bark.

Then―and only then―their perils ended for a time, the three adventurers could relax.

Koja drew the ship down, hauling it hand-overhand, taking in the slack of the mooring cable, until he was able to draw the Lankar-jan down to one of the larger branches, to which he doubly secured the craft.

Getting down from the tree presented a whole new set of problems, of course. Borath trees mostly grow their branches at the top and have smooth, straight trunks like the wooden masts of old sailing ships, which means they are not easy to climb down from.

But at last they managed it, taking the job in slow and easy stages. They fashioned a crude sling out of Taran’s loincloth, and lowered Fido (who complained vociferously every inch of the way) to the ground by this means, since the awkward othode pup could hardly have been expected to climb down voluntarily.