By the time I’d reintroduced Roman and Ewan via radio, and the former had convinced the latter to not only come with us but to let someone other than himself drive Gargantua (Ewan, we were told, was blind as a bat), and Nigel had escorted the engineer to his quarters so he could retrieve some of his effects, the clock on the wall of the shop read half past one—more than enough time for the Skidders to have organized some type of counter-strike; a fact that weighed heavily on my mind as the women and I began gathering up specs and schematics and Lazaro paced the room impatiently.
“What the hell’s taking them so long? You heard Roman—carnotauruses, heading this way. Oh, I forgot. Nigel’s on Jamaican Time.”
“They have been gone awhile,” said Sam. “Maybe we should—”
“It’s no good splitting
