and making small notes in his logbook now and again. And his squinty eyes were keen enough to spot two men transporting a very heavy-looking crate in a manner that was frankly quite surreptitious.
‘Ho there!’ he cried. The men stopped, and he walked briskly over to them. They were dock workers, dressed in battered grey overalls. One was large and big-bellied, with a whiskery white moustache; the other was short, stumpy and ugly, with oversized cheeks and a small thatch of black hair perched atop a small head. They were both flushed and sweating.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, motioning at the crate. It was nine feet tall and six wide, and they’d been rolling it along on a wheeled palette towards the loading area, where a crane picked up supplies for transport to the deck of the Delirium Trigger.
‘Don’t know,’ said Malvery, with a shrug. ‘We just deliver, don’t we?’
‘Well, who’s it from?’ snapped Rilk. ‘Where are the papers? Come on!’
Malvery drew out a battered, folded-up set of papers. Rilk shook them open and checked the delivery invoice. His eyebrows raised a fraction when he read the name of the sender. Gallian Thade.
‘We weren’t expecting this,’ he said, handing back the papers with a scowl.
Malvery gave him a blank look. ‘We just deliver,’ he said again. ‘This box goes on the Delirium Trigger.’
Rilk glared at him, and then at Pinn. There was something not right about these two, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Pinn looked back at him, mutely.
‘Does he speak?’ Rilk demanded, thumbing at Pinn.
‘Not much,’ Malvery replied. At least, he’d been told to keep his trap shut, for fear he’d say something stupid and ruin their disguise. Malvery hoped he’d implied enough threat to keep the young pilot in line. ‘You want us to load this thing on, or what?’
Rilk studied the crate for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. ‘Open it up.’
Malvery groaned. ‘Aw, come on, don’t be a—’
‘Open it up!’ Rilk said, snapping his fingers again, in a rather annoying fashion that made Malvery want to break them and then stuff his mangled hand down his throat.
The doctor shrugged and looked at Pinn. ‘Open it up,’ he said.
Pinn produced a crowbar. The crate had been nailed shut, but they forced open a gap in the front side with relative ease, then pulled it the rest of the way with brute strength. It fell forward and clattered to the ground.
Rilk stared at the hulking, armoured shape inside the box. A monstrosity of metal and leather and chain mail, with a humped back and a circular grille set low between the shoulders. It was cold and silent.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Malvery pondered for a moment, studying Bess. ‘I reckon it’s one of those pressure-environment-suit-thingies.’
Rilk looked it up and down, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘What does it do?’
‘Well, you wear it when you want to work on the deck, see. Like, in arctic environments, or when your craft is really, really high in the sky.’
‘It’s cold as a zombie’s tit up there, and the air’s too thin
