Angels' Fall by Frank Herbert

Author:Frank Herbert [Herbert, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Frank Herbert, science fiction, Angels' Fall, Angels, Angels', Fall
Publisher: WordFire Press
Published: 2013-07-08T16:00:00+00:00

Eight

Jeb awoke to a wetly dripping dawn. A gauze curtain of rain blurred the drowned forest. The river was a desolate emptiness that reached everywhere into the greyness. Countless rain craters repeated themselves endlessly on the surface.

Monti still slept across Jeb’s lap. He lifted her gently to a sitting position. She opened her eyes, smiled at him with sleepy half-awareness.

Gettler shifted heavily, mumbled something in his sleep.

Jeb glanced around, and again wondered if he could grab the revolver jutting from Gettler’s belt.

But Gettler opened his eyes, muttered: “We’ve got to find a canoe.” He straightened. “Today.”

“Then go find one!” snapped Jeb.

“Watch your lip, fly-boy,” said Gettler. He turned to David. “Everything quiet in your watch?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeb opened his door, slipped down to the float, breathed deeply to swallow his anger. Moisture saturated the air. It felt warm and damp in his nostrils and against the back of his throat. He freed the grapnel from the island, lifted it aboard with its trail of dripping reeds and grass. The current pulled the plane around until its tail pointed downstream. Jeb braced himself on the float, set his cane pole into the flooded underbrush, pushed. Bushes grated under the pontoons, and the river took them. Grey shapes of trees swam into view and passed through the misting rain. Everything beyond a hundred feet appeared ghostly, without real outlines.

Gettler lowered himself onto the opposite float, pushed his hat back from his forehead, trailed his pole in the water. The jacket hung more loosely on him. Deep stains of perspiration blotched the fabric under his arms.

He never takes that coat off, thought Jeb. No matter the heat. How many more emeralds is he carrying? And he felt the gem in his own pocket. Sure as hell! That’s what caused the break-up between Gettler and Bannon.

David leaned forward against the seat above Jeb. “Day number six,” he said. “Almost a week.”

“It seems more like a lifetime,” said Monti.

“It may be all the lifetime you’ll have,” said Gettler.

“Oh, go feed yourself to the fish,” said Monti.

Jeb stared ahead through the pall of rain. A half-submerged island loomed through the greyness. Jammed logs tangled across its top, mingled with the debris of another flood.

The two men grunted at the poles, forced the plane to the left around the island. A new current caught them, rushed them headlong down a torrent between lines of overhanging trees. Pieces of the river swirled away on both sides around flooded tree trunks and submerged roots.

Jeb called across to Gettler: “We’ve got to work our way farther to the left! Hug the bank!”

Gettler stared across the cowling with red-rimmed eyes. “What’s the difference? We’ll never get out of this maze as long as we stick with your pile of tin!”

Jeb choked down an angry reply, whirled away, found bottom with the pole, began thrusting the plane toward the left bank. There was a violent rocking motion to his actions.

Gettler hesitated, then began helping.

The current slowed. Trees and drowned banks receded into the moist greyness.

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