Starman by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online

incredible photomap, and the hair blowing straight up into the air?
    What about his face? Scott’s face.
    She followed his instructions and took a right out onto the blacktop, still worried but no longer petrified with fear. She’d always considered herself a sensible woman, and none of the events of the past hour made the slightest bit of sense.
    “If this isn’t a dream,” she muttered aloud, “then I’m in big trouble.” He might have been expected to comment on that, to say something to the effect that she was right and it wasn’t a dream. But as with everything else she said he ignored it. He just sat there, holding onto the gun, staring out at the road and drinking in the scenery. Often he would turn sharply, as though he saw something in the black wall of the forest, and she had the feeling he could see just as well in the dark as he could during the day.
    The army helicopter was an S-76: big, clumsy, slow, reliable. It went thrashing along above the forest, disturbing the peaceful Wisconsin dawn and sending a flock of startled geese splashing in panic across the mirrorlike surface of the lake.
    Its pilot studied his electronic coordinator, which relieved him of personal responsibility for finding out where the hell he was, and compared the readings with what he could see of the terrain ahead. He turned to his copilot.
    “Ten minutes.”
    “What say?” The copilot was bouncing and jerking about in his seat like someone possessed by an incurable muscular disease. The pilot, who did not approve of the cause of this seated version of Saint Vitus’s dance, would have been more likely to compare it to a mental deficiency.
    He cured it by reaching across and yanking the stereo earphones off the copilot’s head. “I said, ten minutes!” He nodded toward the back of the chopper. “Better wake the cargo.”
    “Right.” The copilot set his tape player aside, along with more official sound equipment, and headed toward the back of the helicopter.
    In the communications compartment the radioman was seated at his position, listening to KWFJ out of Milwaukee and wishing he had enough range to pick up Detroit. But it was better than that station they’d hit on earlier, the one that played polka music twenty-four hours ’round the clock. The radioman would rather listen to the music of the Gulag, and unlike Gamble, he didn’t pull enough rank to rate bringing his personal music box on board.
    “What’s up?” he asked the copilot.
    “We’re getting close. Time for all good passengers to start earning their keep, I guess. Or whatever it is this dude’s supposed to do out here.” He nodded toward the rumpled figure sprawled out on the nearby cot. “Wonder who he is to rate this kind of service?”
    The radioman shrugged. “Beats me, man.” He returned to his monitoring.
    The copilot moved past him, put a hand on the sleeper’s shoulder and shook firmly. He didn’t know much about their passenger and sole cargo, but he was willing to give anyone who could climb aboard an S-76 and instantly fall asleep the benefit of the doubt.
    “About that time, Mister Shermin.” When no response was forthcoming he gave the shoulder another nudge.
    Mark Shermin blinked, rubbed at his eyes as he sat up. “Oh. Okay.” He tried to see past the radioman and out the side window. “We there already?”
    “Already? We’ve been in the air for almost an hour, Mister Shermin.” The radioman felt a twinge of sympathy for the civilian. Poor guy. No telling when was the last chance he had to sleep in his own bed. “My name’s Lemon.” He reached down and picked up a thermos, scrounged until he’d located an almost clean cup. “Coffee?”
    “Thanks,” said Gamble, reaching for it.
    “Not you, disco-brain. Get back forward where you belong.” The copilot grinned at him and made his way back to the forward compartment.
    “Thanks.” Shermin accepted thermos and cup and poured himself six ounces of black liquid. A couple