Fifteen minutes before the liftoff started, Vini’s sharp eyes spotted something on the trivid screen. “Look at that.”
Bred and Tyla followed her gaze. Thirty–five meters below, a lone figure ran amidst the sleek shapes of the ships. He was approaching the Honey B, and as he drew nearer they could see he was carrying something. He was waving and shouting, but the intercom microphones weren’t sensitive enough to let the people inside hear what he was saying.
“I don’t know who he is,” Vini continued in her sarcastic drawl, “but he’s obviously got suicidal impulses. If he’s out there when the liftoff starts, he’ll be cooked alive.”
“Looks like he’s trying to tell us something,” Bred observed. “Anyone know who he is?”
Tyla frowned and looked away. “Yes,” she said distastefully. “It’s an and
