Read Online Five to Twelve by Edmund Cooper - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Edmund Cooper
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tilted precariously on the back of her head, held in position only by the band from her headlight.
The jet packs whistled softly behind the two of them as they slowly circled the area. They dipped their headlights so that they would not blind other guests.
“What do you think?” shouted Juno against the whistle of the jets.
“I don’t think,” returned Dion. “Thinking is bad medicine.” He glanced up. “I’ll race you to the stars.”
She laughed. “Not tonight, stripling. The Queen commands us.”
“Coward, flat-belly, sycophant,” he called. “Follow me.”He switched off his headlight and opened the vertical jet throttle wide. He fell upwards like a crazy stone.
Juno called: “Dion!” But he was already away, a hundred feet above her. She switched off her own light and followed him.
They both fell giddily, insanely towards the dancing stars.
At one thousand feet, the chill and rushing air made their faces tingle.
At two thousand feet frost formed on their eyebrows.
At three thousand feet they were level once more.
“Stabilize!” gasped Juno. “For Stopes sake, stabilize.” The words hurt as the freezing air ripped into her lungs.
But Dion would not or could not hear. On and upwards he fell, the rush of air singing louder than the straining jets.
At eight thousand feet, Juno could go no higher. The pain in her ears, the numbness in her face, the frost on her sky suit and the deeply penetrating cold that sank through the rubber into her limbs—all these told her that she could go no higher.
“Stabilize!” she mouthed vainly. “Stabilize!” But the words had no substance, the air was too thin, and Dion had already left her behind—a sad little, mad little troubadour bent on falling upwards to his fresh-frozen death at the threshold of the stars.
Juno tried to hold it at eight thousand feet. But she could not. The cold was too intense and the air was too thin. With a despairing upward glance at the shrinking speck of luminous green, she lowered slowly to five thousand feet and waited.
Dion was drunk with pain and ecstasy. His wrist altimeter showed nine thousand five hundred feet. He could hardly feel his hands; but he didn’t care. The blood that had begun to flow from his nose froze on his lips; but he didn’t care.
The stars were dancing. And the dance was such that a man might aspire to join.
He held for a while at ten thousand feet. Indeed, he had to; for the jet pack had a built-in pressure safety device and would take him no higher. In the past, too many people had jetted up to the high reaches until the atmosphere became so thin that they lost consciousness. For a decade, it had been one of the favoured forms of suicide.
So he remained poised at ten thousand feet, watching the stars dance gently as the servo-jets rhythmically trimmed his attitude to the vertical. He let the cold eat through his sky suit, probing flesh and bone until it seemed to reach the very core of his personality.
The pain—the dull dead stinging of blood and nerves that were trying hard not to freeze—pleased him. He was purging himself by cold. He was confessing to the void, receiving absolution from the stars, demanding a sacrament from the great black deeps of space.
His face became a stiff mask. White crystals proliferated all over him, building a shell of ice. But still his eyes burned, translating the starlight into reflected fire.
And presently, there came a satisfying sleepiness. He knew it was dangerous and played with the danger, skating deliciously along the edge of oblivion. Then, vaguely, with no great feeling of urgency, he remembered Juno. A dom of great sense—and nonsense. A column of warm and pliant flesh several thousand feet below. He realized that, for no reasonable reason, he wanted her. Now. In his time… If only to savour the knowledge that he had been where she dared not follow… If only to see the look in her eyes…
Poor, proud little dom. Magnificent of body but
The jet packs whistled softly behind the two of them as they slowly circled the area. They dipped their headlights so that they would not blind other guests.
“What do you think?” shouted Juno against the whistle of the jets.
“I don’t think,” returned Dion. “Thinking is bad medicine.” He glanced up. “I’ll race you to the stars.”
She laughed. “Not tonight, stripling. The Queen commands us.”
“Coward, flat-belly, sycophant,” he called. “Follow me.”He switched off his headlight and opened the vertical jet throttle wide. He fell upwards like a crazy stone.
Juno called: “Dion!” But he was already away, a hundred feet above her. She switched off her own light and followed him.
They both fell giddily, insanely towards the dancing stars.
At one thousand feet, the chill and rushing air made their faces tingle.
At two thousand feet frost formed on their eyebrows.
At three thousand feet they were level once more.
“Stabilize!” gasped Juno. “For Stopes sake, stabilize.” The words hurt as the freezing air ripped into her lungs.
But Dion would not or could not hear. On and upwards he fell, the rush of air singing louder than the straining jets.
At eight thousand feet, Juno could go no higher. The pain in her ears, the numbness in her face, the frost on her sky suit and the deeply penetrating cold that sank through the rubber into her limbs—all these told her that she could go no higher.
“Stabilize!” she mouthed vainly. “Stabilize!” But the words had no substance, the air was too thin, and Dion had already left her behind—a sad little, mad little troubadour bent on falling upwards to his fresh-frozen death at the threshold of the stars.
Juno tried to hold it at eight thousand feet. But she could not. The cold was too intense and the air was too thin. With a despairing upward glance at the shrinking speck of luminous green, she lowered slowly to five thousand feet and waited.
Dion was drunk with pain and ecstasy. His wrist altimeter showed nine thousand five hundred feet. He could hardly feel his hands; but he didn’t care. The blood that had begun to flow from his nose froze on his lips; but he didn’t care.
The stars were dancing. And the dance was such that a man might aspire to join.
He held for a while at ten thousand feet. Indeed, he had to; for the jet pack had a built-in pressure safety device and would take him no higher. In the past, too many people had jetted up to the high reaches until the atmosphere became so thin that they lost consciousness. For a decade, it had been one of the favoured forms of suicide.
So he remained poised at ten thousand feet, watching the stars dance gently as the servo-jets rhythmically trimmed his attitude to the vertical. He let the cold eat through his sky suit, probing flesh and bone until it seemed to reach the very core of his personality.
The pain—the dull dead stinging of blood and nerves that were trying hard not to freeze—pleased him. He was purging himself by cold. He was confessing to the void, receiving absolution from the stars, demanding a sacrament from the great black deeps of space.
His face became a stiff mask. White crystals proliferated all over him, building a shell of ice. But still his eyes burned, translating the starlight into reflected fire.
And presently, there came a satisfying sleepiness. He knew it was dangerous and played with the danger, skating deliciously along the edge of oblivion. Then, vaguely, with no great feeling of urgency, he remembered Juno. A dom of great sense—and nonsense. A column of warm and pliant flesh several thousand feet below. He realized that, for no reasonable reason, he wanted her. Now. In his time… If only to savour the knowledge that he had been where she dared not follow… If only to see the look in her eyes…
Poor, proud little dom. Magnificent of body but
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